My dream was being chosen onto the good basketball team. My Dream-Team won every single time in the world famous 5th grade lunch recess games at wonderful Elementary school. My jaw-dropping talent would be seen. Yet I had no idea a tragic event would take place as my greatness was being shown, or that it would leave me on the swings for six weeks.

My heart skipped a beat when the team captain glumly said, “Fine we’ll take you.” My head raced with all the crazy things that I was going to do. I could see myself stealing that ball and sprinting down the court and shooting the fade-away three-pointer and the buzzer wailing in the distance just as the ball is taking off from my finger tips. A faint swish can be heard as the fans go wild screaming my name.

Suddenly I am pulled back into reality as a team mate passes me the ball and yells, “think fast.” The game started off a little short of what I thought it would be. I had stolen the ball, but the lay-up shot collided with the rim and was sent air mail to my face. But I dodged it.
Fortunately, things changed a short time later. The man I was guarding threw up a three-pointer and I stuffed it back into his face. My team grabbed the ball, ran the floor, and made an easy jump-shot. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as the other team brought the ball down the floor. Things were finally going my way. I was going to show them all.
As they nonchalantly passed it along the three point arch, I planned my move. Finally a player grabbed the ball and drove to the basket full force. I was ready. This was the moment. I sprinted for him. Sweat dripped off my head and my hands were outstretched, waiting to make contact with that hard, orange ball. I was ready to send that ball straight back into the shooter’s face, or spike it into the first row like an outside hitter in Volleyball. I jumped. He ducked. I rolled over him like a tire on the freeway. I was hurtling towards the pavement. I hit full force and the air was knocked out of my lungs. I was just able to get hands underneath me. Once I hit, I rolled a couple feet on the unforgiving surface. I got up trying to be tough and shake it off. I thought that I had jammed a couple fingers and got back in the game.
The game ended uneventfully, our team destroying the other. As I came back from recess, I sat back down and picked up my pencil. Just as I did a sharp pain darted up my hand and wrist. I would later find out that the little jammed finger was actually a fractured wrist. My basketball career was sidelined for a long six weeks. My wrist went from being in a cast, to being wrapped, then to a brace. As I waited for my wrist to heal, I was forced to practice my swinging skills along with the others who had fallen victim to the adventurous 5th grade lunch recess.