As I stood at the three point line, the ball seemed to be in slow

motion. Screams from the crowd came as the ball dropped through the

net. Not only did this shot go in but it dropped through the net with

such force that it made a sound that was heard throughout the gym. The

gym was packed and the fans were on their feet, I had just hit my first

three pointer of my varsity basketball career. As our team set up the

press, sweat dripped from my face. I was close enough to kiss my

opponent, there was no way he was going to get the ball. He shoved me

backward and he planted his foot on mine, he then pushed off and ran for

the inbounder. I fell back a few feet and sprinted towards my man. As

the inbounder released the ball with a firm push I stuck my hand out in

hopes for a steal, SNAP! As the ball was deflected towards the right my

man ran and picked it up. I quickly looked down at my finger and with

fear and I pain walked over to my bench. My pinkie-finger on my right

hand was at a ninety degree ankle, as sweat dripped down may face I

could feel myself getting hot. My stomach seemed to drop and I was

feeling as if I was on a roller coaster. The game had been stopped and

I was brought into the coach\'s room. My assistant coach led me into the

room and sat me down on a wooden chair. I began to feel very cold, and

my finger began to have a shooting pain. This pain was not present

before and was not making itself known that there was something wrong

with.

My parents entered the room, my mother carrying a face that I never had

seen before. My father with a calm collective look to him. The

assistant then began to explain that there was to deal with this, either

go to the hospital and miss the game or deal with it right in the room.

My mother stared over at my coach when he relayed this message to me and

my father seem to agree with my coach. I looked at my coach with eyes

of trust and horror, and then laid my hand in his. He then took his

hand and placed it over my pinkie. Which by now was swelling and

extremely painful. Soon he got a firm grip and with one quick tug my

finger was now vertically correct. My coach then looked at me with

bulging eyes and asked how it felt. Being the starting point guard on

my schools varsity team there was no way I was going to say that I

needed to leave the game. With a convincing nod and a energetic

response I was on my way back onto the court. I reentered the game and

the crowd began to applaud, I was so nervous. It was like the first

time I had ever played basketball in front of a crowd. The game resumed

and I ran down the court, my finger throbbed and I could not help but

think of it. My teammates snapped the ball quickly over to me and I

caught it. I felt like dropping the ball and running to the sideline

but instead I got rid of the ball as soon as I could. I then proceeded

to run over to the sideline and with a look of pain in my eyes I let my

coach know that I needed to come out of the game. As I sat there and

watched my team lose the game I could not decide if I was hurting more

from my finger or from the fact that I was not in there helping my team.

As the coach was screaming and yelling in the locker room I could not

help but think about my finger, the pain was no shooting down my arm and

I was praying that I did not break it. I showered and proceeded to get

dressed. Each time I buttoned a button on my shirt I would get a

shooting