Hoops & Heartstrings

Chapter 2

Everything I knew about Boston I'd learned from the movies. Harvard. Fenway Park. The Marathon. Italians and the Irish. Ben Affleck and Matt Damon. How about them apples?

I'd had the opportunity to travel during college, but that had largely been to other midwestern cities for conference play. The end-of-season tournament had brought me beyond the Midwest bubble, but mid-sized cities tended to host our tournament. Portland. Albany. Cleveland.

I packed light. I wasn't a minimalist, but I'd never had much to begin with. Plus, it didn't make sense to haul my entire life across the country if I wasn't going to make the team. Despite being drafted, I had my doubts—serious ones. Who would waste a roster spot on a point guard with a broken wrist?

I was weeks away, if not months, from ditching my brace. And after that, who knew how much physical therapy would be required before I was healthy enough to be back on the court. Why on earth would the Boston Shamrocks waste a coveted roster space on me? Even without my lingering injury, the women's league was notoriously the hardest professional league to make. Up to twenty players might be invited to training camp, but final rosters were limited to twelve players each. Many teams only carried eleven women because of the salary cap.

Rather than dwell too much on the General Manager's dubious decision making, I'd shifted my recovery into overdrive. Without basketball, I wouldn't have been on an accelerated timeline to heal. The cast would have itched and would have started to smell, but other than the olfactory considerations, there would have been little reason to speed up my recovery. My orthopedic surgeon had warned that it could take several months for my wrist to fully heal, and that I might experience stiffness even a few years removed from the surgery. But I didn't have the luxury of time. I had a deadline to get right.

Training camp began nearly as soon as the draft was complete. I'd only had a little over a week to get my life in order before arriving in Boston. Teams had three weeks to prepare players for the upcoming season and to determine which women would make the cut. My recovery window was tight.

Preseason games would start in early May to give coaching staffs the opportunity to really evaluate their talent before final roster decisions were made and the regular season began. The accelerated timeline benefitted rookies who'd just wrapped up their college playing careers, but for me—injured during the final game of the college season—the quick turnaround had the potential to give me an ulcer.

I arrived in Boston to little to no fanfare. I'd seen on social media some of the ways other franchises had welcomed their first-round draft picks. Pep bands met them at the airport and press conferences had been arranged. Fans were ready to give their teams' newest additions the keys to their respective cities. I was only a third-round draft pick, however. Until I made the final roster, there was no use paying me any attention.

Someone representing my new team had emailed me the address of the apartments the team had arranged for us. The apartment building was conveniently located within walking distance to our practice facilities. I thought it was a nice detail that they were providing housing; Boston's real estate market was overpriced and competitive, and rookie contracts were notoriously low. It would be hard enough learning new plays and building team chemistry without also worrying about finding a decent place to live.

Upon landing at Logan International and retrieving my oversized duffle bag, I navigated to the rideshare area and had my driver take me directly to my new apartment. There would be time later—maybe—to explore my new city.

I texted my mom during the ride from the airport that I'd arrived safely in Boston. My parents had offered to drive me cross country like when they'd first dropped me off at college. Help get me settled. Fill the refrigerator with food. Take me out for one last dinner. But I needed to do this on my own. This wasn't college anymore. I was supposed to be a professional athlete. Pro-athletes didn't still have their moms doing their laundry, right?