***
Benched. I couldn’t even remember the last time I sat out in a game for more than a quick breather, let alone for an entire game. It was an odd feeling, at the end of that week, watching our rival game played from a seated position.
Leading up to the game, the team had been on edge. I could feel it every practice as they prepped for Friday’s home game. Even if the principal and athletics director hadn’t forced Coach Robbins to bench me, my twisted ankle would have prevented me from playing anyway. Regardless of the reason, my absence amplified Coach’s foul mood. I came to each practice to support my team, but I could feel (and hear) Coach’s frustration at having to readjust the lineup and focus on set plays, rather than allow the familiar improvisation between my sisters, the other starters, and me.
During the first half of the game, as I watched my teammates from my seated position, I waited for the moment of envy to arrive. I expected to feel antsy and eager to get back on the court. However, as I watched the points bounce back and forth, evenly climbing the scoreboard, those feelings didn’t come. I observed the game with the interest of a spectator, cheering extra loud for my sisters and feeling proud of the way they could soundlessly read each other’s moves, and I joined the chorus of “boos” from the audience when a member of the rival team executed a cheap shot at one of our players.
Still, from my spot on the bench, I soon found myself watching the game as if through glass. At times, the game seemed muted in my head. I watched Coach’s aggravated yells when one of my teammates screwed up a play (comical really, like an adult having a tantrum with the way his face flushed red, and how he stomped his large, heavy foot), and I noted the dejected expression on the player’s face when she was benched as penance. The “swoosh” of the basketball through the net seemed hushed and lacking the charged excitement that normally accompanied each score. Granted, I wasn’t the one making the shot. Still, something inside me felt different tonight. The feeling followed me through the conclusion of the game.
“That was the sweetest win ever!” Tara cheered, sweeping her mess of curls out of her face and tightening her ponytail.
“Congrats,” I said, offering a high-five. Her hand made contact with mine. Then she leaned in, gripping my shoulder and whispered, “You’re a freakin’ rockstar for not giving up our names to Principal Hayden. Love you for that! I totally owe you one. We all do.”
I simply nodded, stepping away when Austin found her and scooped her into his arms. The rest of the gym bustled with teammates jumping up and down, recounting unforgettable plays of the night and smiling in satisfaction as our rivals exited the gym in one glum mass. Proud parents swept their daughters into their arms for a hug and a photo—Mom included.
“Girls, you were fantastic out there!” She embraced Leah and Taylor, ignoring their sweat brushing against her skin like she always did. The fatigue on their face from moments ago washed away with pride. “Allie,” Mom said, putting a hand on my arm. “You’ll be out there again soon enough.” Her eyes suddenly roamed the gym with a frown. No doubt she was still peeved at the principal and athletics’ director for enforcing tonight’s game suspension. I could hear her grumbling disbelief again at their unfair and impulsive decision.
Mom might be hot tempered and unforgiving, but no one could fault her devotion to her daughters—especially when it came to watching our basketball games all these years with Dad so far away. Even as a working, single mom, she rarely missed a game. When I was benched, she intended to turn in Shane and Tara herself, but I begged her not to, explaining that she’d be subjecting me to the status of a social pariah. That was far worse than suspension from one game, even a rival game.
I rotated my gaze, watching the gym unravel… but for the first time, I wasn’t a part of the buzz—the excitement. Tara’s heated words from that night at the hot tub came back to me. “Where’s that fire and drive you used to have? Did that part of you drown with your cousin?” Her words hit me hard. I swallowed.
“I think I’m done.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Mom said to me. “The suspension was for one game, I assure you. If they try to push anything else—”
“No, Mom, I mean… I’m done with basketball.”
My words caught Leah and Taylor’s attention, and then Tara’s. She stepped away from Austin. All three teammates zeroed in on me, a chorus of confusion and questioning.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on, Allie, you’re just mad. You can’t mean that!”
“Don’t do this, Allie.”
The last sentence came from Tara, her breathing picking up in pace as she anticipated what I was about to do. “I didn’t mean what I said that night at the hot tub. You’ve still got game. We need you!”
“Allie, honey, what’s the matter?” Mom asked, touching my cheek to draw my focus. She seemed to search my eyes for tears and my face for emotions… as if trying to read where all this was coming from.
This time, I knew she wouldn’t find the tears or emotions. Basketball—what I once lived and breathed for—no longer carried weight in my eyes after what I had survived. The burden of grief and guilt over Maddie’s death had slowly but surely eased its way into a dominate part of my heart, sitting heavy and immovable. Basketball seemed a trivial concern in comparison.
I’d felt it the day I tried to quit at the beginning of the season. I’d pretended otherwise, but I still felt it now. Without another word, I pushed my way past my jovial teammates, making my way to the man who hadn’t listened to me before, but who would hear me now.
“Coach Robbins,” I interrupted, cutting him off from debriefing with his assistant.
He paused with a look of slight annoyance, though he acknowledged me. “Collins, what do you need?”
“Nothing at all, Coach. I just wanted to return something.” I stripped my jersey off, leaving my green tank top underneath. Folding it in half, I handed it to him. “I won’t need this anymore.”
His mouth opened, and then his expression altered from surprise to his usual grimace. “Oh, for crying out loud. I don’t have time for this, Collins.” Coach Robbins pointed to the exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And your ankle better be fixed by next Friday’s game.” He returned his attention to Jenkins.
He was making this easier than I thought. Why had I put up with him for so long?
“You don’t seem to be hearing me, so I’ll say it one last time,” I said, aware that a crowd of curious teammates were creating a semi-circle around us. “I. Quit.” My fingers released my jersey and it flopped onto the court, a crumpled pile with no shape or form—merely the shell of an athlete.
I heard an encore of gasps and protests from my teammates. I saw the silent glare from my coach—but, more than anything, I felt torrential disappointment from them all.
I could have stayed and presented my case, defending my resign. I could have tried to explain how there was no room in my broken heart for basketball, but as athletes, they wouldn’t be able to understand how superficial and trivial a win or loss seemed to me now. Instead, I let the stunned whispers behind me grow as I walked across the court, one last time, letting the double doors swing shut behind me.