Just A Teasing Book

Part 1: Everyone makes mistakes.

Around February 10, 2016

(I don't remember exact dates, okay? My memory is seriously horrible. I don't even remember what I had for dinner most mornings!

Wait, what did I have for dinner last night? Oh yeah! Disgusting hamburgers... Blech.)

I stare across the net at the other team in their blue jerseys, who start to set up my hit. The pass goes to the setter. I read the position of her hands, how bent her elbows are, and start shuffling toward the outside.

The setter sets the outside, just like I thought she would. It's a bad set, so their outside hitter puts her hand up to tip it.

"Tip!" I shout, warning my team, so they can get into the correct defensive formation.

Our right side hitter and I go up to block it. The ball grazes my finger tips but keeps going toward the back row.

When I come down from my jump, it's not an even landing on the ground. I feel something else under my right foot that should not be there. My ankle bends way more than it should at that angle. Dropping to the gym floor, I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

I hold the middle of my shin. In the midst of the seething pain, I am smart enough to know not to touch the injured ankle. I roll around trying to stop the pain, without even knowing where on my ankle it's coming from. Amazingly, rolling around on the ground isn't the cure for an injured ankle.

Shocker.

I eventually roll onto my stomach, my forehead resting on my stacked forearms. Tears roll down my face. This isn't like my usual falls from my klutziness. This fall, wasn't my fault.

I bend my right knee to keep the ankle in the air. It's as if when my ankle touches the floor, it'll disintegrate. And I just can't have that happen. I have a volleyball career to possibly go on with here!

The eighth grade volleyball coach, the head coach of the varsity team, walks over. He isn't my coach this year, but I believe he knows more about injuries than my coach, the seventh grade coach, also the coach of the junior varsity team.

"Where did you hurt yourself?" He asks, serious as a heart attack. I move my leg a little bit to indicate my ankle. I don't want the crowd to see my tear-soaked face.

Emotion should not be shown in front of them, ever. Excitement is one thing, but crying is a big no for me. I keep my face hidden as I lay on my stomach, my head resting on my arms still.

Tears fall from my cheeks to the dusty, gymnasium floor. Coach Mills asks me if I want to roll over into my back. I reluctantly oblige, turning over like he said, slightly keeping my right leg up in the air.

I rest my arm on my forehead, still trying to hide the tears still rolling down my face. The crowd obviously knows I'm not all smiley faces and rainbows, but it makes me feel much better knowing they don't see exactly how badly I'm feeling at this moment.

Coach Mills doesn't touch my ankle. Instead, our Athletic Director helps him hoist me and my 145 pound body up in the air. They have to hold me up high to keep both my feet from dragging on the ground. I'm at least 5' 9" after all.

The crowd claps as the men carry me to the end of the bench, or really the end of the line of comfortable chairs we call our bench. The applause isn't because I blocked a hit or got a kill. That applause, I'd be proud of.

No, this applause is the crowd telling me I'm "tough" and I "need sympathy." This applause, is an applause that makes me angry, mostly at myself and somewhat at the other team. I have never wanted to get injured. Ever.