Lying to Myself

    I remember the first time my dad watched me play varsity basketball. The bleachers that lined the walls towered over me like a monstrous being ready to annihilate its prey, a constant reminder of the devouring eyes that were watching my every move from the sides. The fresh wax on the court, with its sickly-sweet smell of vomit, was like a thin membrane between me and the room, just barely keeping the digestive juices of the audience at bay. My dad’s face was glowing with pride, but I was being eaten alive. 

    It only took two months for me to realize that I hated basketball— despised it, really. But my dad loved to see me play, and when I thought of quitting, the sight of his down-trodden face would float before my eyes and my throat would involuntarily tighten. I began to pray for something— anything— that would make it so I couldn’t play anymore.

    One day while dribbling through the court, my wish came true. Pain— sharp, fresh, alive— blossomed in my legs, stopping me in place. When Coach asked me what was wrong, I feigned a look of sheepish disappointment.

    Her response was the last thing I expected— oh, just shin splints, play through the pain and you’ll be fine. But as the days progressed, it became clear that my performance was suffering. The athletic trainer recommended insoles for my basketball shoes: they didn’t work. Then he advised me to wear a compression sleeve. It felt like needles were digging into my bones. I could barely walk up the stairs, and everything began settling into a dull, hopeless gray. I deserved all of this, I would think, for wishing physical pain upon myself.

    I finally got referred to a doctor, and learned that I had a stress fracture in each leg. I began crying, and my mom stretched her hand out to comfort me. Little did she know my tears were those of relief. Everyone felt terrible for me, but I didn’t deserve their pity— I had wanted this. Though I had an excuse to rest, I would still go to every practice and every game, my own twisted penance, hoping that if I tried hard enough I could fall in love with the sport that had caused me so much pain.

    During practice, rather than glumly watch my teammates dribble down court, I would be sent to the gym. One day, about two weeks into my new training routine, I noticed for the first time that the entire room was lined with windows, beams of sunlight forming little halos on the faces of the lifting team as they went through the same routines I had somehow never paid attention to. Their liveliness radiated off of them in waves, and it was quite obvious that they wanted to be there. After so many months of dim after-school practice in the dank, windowless court, the sight was suddenly intoxicating, and I felt giddy.

    I walked over to the bench and just started to do what I knew. But now, I noticed, everyone's eyes were on me as I pushed my weights around. I heard someone approaching and re-racked the bar. “Hey, Miriam, I know you play basketball, but your form is really good, and we need more girls on the team.” I didn’t know what to say. Every broken bone in my body ached to be there, one of them. I told her I would think about it.

    On the walk home that afternoon, my mind was a blur. I knew what I had to do and I knew it would disappoint my dad. I could already hear him, angry fists on the dinner table: “this isn’t something a young girl should do. You’ll injure yourself again.” But I didn’t care. I knew what I wanted now, and no one could stop me.