A few weeks ago I agreed to assist my husband with some games for our Sunday night youth group. Simple enough – or so I thought. A quick search on the Internet, and I found myself sifting through list after list of game ideas. Soon I was making notes, gathering props, and getting more excited than the children themselves.
When Sunday rolled around, off I went, armed with enough activities for hours and hours of good clean fun. I only needed to keep the kids engaged for an hour until my husband would arrive and take over – and that included a snack break! Easy-peasy!
Near the end of my hour, without enough time to play another round of whatever we had played, I grabbed a basketball and started a little 2 on 2 with my daughter and I against one of her friends and a younger boy. Although the kids are all good ball handlers, I thought my height would compensate for my advanced years and complete lack of basketball skills. Obviously, I was too pumped about the success of my previous game choices, and suddenly became a weird combination of Michael and Shaq tearing up the court.
In reality, I was still a 50 year old woman who is in a league of her own – when it comes to being accident prone. I should have known better. I chose to challenge the other pre-teen girl a bit. Barely 5 feet tall and maybe 70 pounds, I thought I would make her work a bit. I’ve watched this young lady play basketball since she was 5 – and even coached her a couple of seasons during our Upward program. I thought I knew every move she had. No matter what happened on the court, for 8 years I’ve watched her shoot from the right side. Always.
So, that night, when I picked her up and was driving her to the left side, I thought I had her. But, she faked me out at the last second, changed directions, and went up for 2 from the right as I toppled to the concrete floor on the left, my basketball dreams shattered, along with any pride that may have been creeping up on me.
Having to go to the ER where I work with yet another injury was a bit embarrassing to say the least. My coworkers, amazed by my ability to walk in 6 inch heels without a bobble, were not at all surprised that I fell on a smooth, flat surface wearing ballerina flats. Several x-rays and a bit of pain meds later, the PA was fairly confident there were no breaks, although she wasn’t willing to rule out a crack along the long bones of my forearm. So here I sit, 3 weeks later, elbow wrapped securely, trying to type with one hand. My basketball days are shelved, along with most other activities requiring 2 hands, at least temporarily. Maybe next time, we will play charades.