Torn
|
2006
July Abandoning my spot at centre midfield, I race down the field with the ball. My wet ponytail slaps the spot just above the #14 on my back, the rain refreshing against my warm skin. A nervous energy propels me toward the goal, the keeper an insignificant speck amid the orange web that she protects. It comes out of nowhere. The dull impact of the cleat propels into my feet, a slide-tackle made all the more effective by the damp conditions. My ankle overextends sideways, as if the base of my foot craves a glimpse at the sky. The game stops. My coach drops his clipboard and rushes out onto the field. My dad bolts from the sidelines, meeting him where I lay. A strange and intense pain concentrates in my right ankle. The two men lift my limp body onto the first-aid golf cart that has driven onto the field. “Make sure you keep that ankle elevated,” someone says, but I can’t focus on the words. I guess the game went on. Dad sits beside me, staring straight ahead, saying nothing but gripping my hand tightly as we’re driven off the field. His silence is strangely comforting, but I can sense his frustration. Of course, we’re on the field farthest from the parking lot. Four other fields lay between us and dad’s black Lexus. When we finally reach it, the men slowly slide me into the back seat like a package marked “fragile.” For the forty minutes between Hamilton and my home in Mississauga, I lay in silent agony. Dad rants from the front seat. “What was that girl thinking? Oh and that coach! Do you know what he said? He was yelling at you to get up, saying you were faking it! What an asshole. Unbelievable.” August I swing myself down the hill to Mississauga’s Brickyard Soccer Field, where my team is playing. Former team. Every time I remind myself, my heart sinks. After relying on crutches for two weeks, I’m used to them; what I’m still not used to is being on the sidelines. As I approach the field and catch sight of the familiar bright blue jerseys and white shorts, the corners of my eyes grow hot. They would be promoted to the OYSL division next summer. The highest level of competitive play we could reach at sixteen, torn away from me with one swift blow. Walking through the opening where the gates enclose the soccer pitch is like walking onto a stage as I try to compose myself; I refuse to cry in front of them. I approach the bleachers where the parents of my teammates watch the game intently. Former teammates. Spotting me, they refocus their attention from the game to me. “Ali! How are you, sweetie?” “Oh it’s so good of you to come. We’re up 3-1.” “How’s your ankle doing? When can you come back?” “I’m alright,” I respond reluctantly. “The ligaments are completely torn. My doctor said it would have been better if I broke it- easier to fix.” I say this lightly, but my doctor’s words return to my mind: you’ll never play soccer again, that’s for sure. I shake my head, trying to suppress the sense of loss that wells within me. I distract myself by pushing the tightly-wrapped tensor up to show off my inflated, colourful ankle. 2009 May “Pretty, isn’t it?” Sarcasm; my other crutch. We’re sitting on the back deck enjoying the newly warm weather when my mum asks thequestion. “Ali, what did you like better, hockey or soccer?” I’m caught off guard, reminded of the battle between my two beloved sports every April and September as they contended for my attention. Gruelling soccer practices featuring hour- long runs up hills, through ladders and around pylons fill my mind, though I haven’t played since that day. Now I can’t even run for five minutes without that same wrenching pain returning. Skating was easier, safer; I thrived on the ice. After dedicating countless hours to the rink for the past seven years, my response should be easy. But I’m surprised by my answer. “Soccer.” 2010 August I’m drunk. That pour-your-heart-out-to-whoever-walks-by kind of wasted. My friend Katie is the lucky recipient of my rambling woes as we stumble across Applewood bridge on our way home. “He just makes me crazy,” she slurs, “I think he still loves me... maybe he’s just fucking around...” “Yeah. Maybe.” My response is hollow and insincere, my mind fixated on my own lost love. “Man, I miss soccer.” My drunken vulnerability summons a couple tears. “It was such a huge part of my life... fucking ankle... what was wrong with that chick? I hate this... I don’t know...” Katie stares at me blankly. Not exactly the reassurance I’d wanted after twelve years of playing. Frustrated, I stupidly kick at a pebble. That dull, familiar pain reverberates through the weak ligaments holding my ankle intact. “Shit!” 2012 August It’s weird being behind the bench, especially after avoiding soccer fields for so long. After saying I would all summer, I’ve finally come to watch the team my boyfriend coaches. During their pre-game warm-up, a player kicks the ball over the net and I run to retrieve it. I send the ball soaring back to meet his feet. “Woah, Coach, she’s actually kind of good.” My ankle feels limp, flaccid, the pain muted slightly by the years past. But validation of my remaining skill from a twelve-year-old is strangely worth it. 2012 September The plastic examination table adheres to my warm skin unpleasantly. My new trainer grips my left ankle, pressing and rotating it to test its strength. He performs the same routine on my right, noting its limp deficiencies in comparison. “Yeah, I can definitely feel the difference. Wow.” He presses my right ankle into his palm, acknowledging its failure to resist before setting it down. “Okay, here’s the deal. I see this kind of stuff a lot. People have sports injuries, get crappy treatment, and never really heal properly. We’ll get you fitted for a brace today.” Apparently the two years I spent in physiotherapy after the accident had been useless. “But how bad is it still? It’s been a while since I did this...” I don’t know why it’s taken so long. I guess it just became normal to me. He pulls out what looks like a boot meant for a club foot and shows me how to do up the intricate pattern of laces and fasteners. “But only wear it when you’re running; hockey should be fine because the skate straps you in. Just don’t wear it all the time; you’ll want to, but you’ll grow dependent on it.” I stand to test it out and instantly see what he means. Damn, that feels good. --- It would be my first real run in six years. I struggle to stuff my foot into my running shoe, the brace adding some extra bulk to my right side. Stepping out into the clean fall air, I’m nervous. Transfixed by the ground in front of me, I barely look up. Every twig, every irregularity in the sidewalk sparks a fear that my ankle will turn, despite the protective embrace of my new support. My self-consciousness grows with each car, each pedestrian who passes as I desperately gasp for air, embarrassed by the pain in my chest; I don’t want them to see me failing. I used to do this all the time. I’ll get there. |
Alison Knight is graduating with an Honours BA, an Honours Specialization in Media, Information and Technoculture, and a Certificate in Writing from Western University. She has written pieces for the Gazette, album reviews for Kerr Village Productions music, blogs for EcoLiving London, and articles for the charitable organization Cause Canada. This is her first literary publication.
