Ginger's Dream

My heart was in my mouth as I approached the bulletin board, my eyes straining to see the writing on the pink piece of paper tacked there that would decide my fate. So much was riding on this: acceptance at my new school, my chance to spend some more quality time with my old friend whom I was hoping to get close to again, and most of all a reward for the hours of exhausting work I had been putting in every afternoon for the last six years. I had always dreamed of being on the high school basket ball team, ever since I was just seven years old watching my older sister pounding the ball up the court, screaming encouragement from the bleachers. I had gazed at her many trophies in the glass case in her room, and closed my eyes to imagine myself dribbling the ball to the basket, dogging the defender magnificently, and flipping the ball effortlessly into it to score the winning point….

But all these dreams had collapsed with a bang after the fire.

My sister had been secretly smoking in her room, when the phone rang and she stupidly put the still burning cigarette down on her desk. Before we knew it, the house was in flames. I was only nine years old; I didn’t know any better, and I before anyone could stop me, I dashed into my bedroom, the only thought on my mind to save my yelping little dog, Henry, from a fiery death. I didn’t stop to think as I coughed my way through the smoke, searching desperately for the source of the barks, and before I knew what was happening I began to feel the white hot flames licking my skin. My mother ran after me, and managed to grab the dog in one hand and me in the other, but not before my left arm had been severely burned. We were all extremely relieved that nothing worse had happened, but when it finally healed, my arm was horribly disfigured, and it became clear that my basketball aspirations were not going to happen. How could I play highly competitive high school basketball with only one functional arm? My left arm remained scrunched at my side, as useless as a rag stuffed into a sleeve.

But I wasn’t about to admit defeat. I refused to believe that I could never get on the team, and I became almost obsessive about practicing. My guilty sister helped me, drilling me endlessly until I could beat her four out of five times whenever we played one on one together. I was very proud of myself; it had taken me nearly six years to do it, but I really believed that I had done what I had set out to accomplish: I was as good, if not better than, the most skilled girls who had tried out for the high school team. I just knew I had made it. I had to have made it.

I took a deep breath, and willed myself to raise my eyes from my tennis shoes to look at the pink paper that was all that I had been working for, for so long. I tried to read the names slowly, but my eyes raced down the page, skimming the names faster than I could take them in, a second time, a third….

I felt my world crash around me as I realized that the most important name was missing. It wasn’t there! I couldn’t believe it. How could it not be there? I turned to the list again, desperately checking it a fourth time, searching for it even though I knew that it wasn’t there. Elizabeth Smith? But she had been terrible! I clearly remembered stealing the ball from her at least three times! How could she have gotten on the team and not me?

I clenched my teeth together in fierce determination. I would not let this happen. I marched directly to the gym, not worrying about my classes, and as I had hoped I spotted the coach preparing for his next class. I walked purposely toward him, my good hand balling into a fist. I would get to the bottom of this.

“Hello, Ginger,” the coach said casually, as if he hadn’t just destroyed all my dreams and hopes with a single stroke of his pen. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “but I wanted to talk to you about why I didn’t get on the team.” I glared at him. “I’d like an explanation, please. Quite honestly, I thought I was one of the best players who showed up. Don’t you remember I beat Elizabeth Smith three times?”

The coach sighed, and rested his hand on my shoulder in what was supposed to be an endearing gesture. I shrugged away from him, and his look saddened. “Yes, you were excellent,” he said kindly. “Quite remarkable, actually. But I’m very sorry, Ginger, I’m just not sure if there’s a place for you on the team. Basketball is a very competitive sport, and I need all my players to be in top form at all times. For someone—special, like you….”

I felt my face redden in fury. “But you said I was good! Do you think I was any worse than Elizabeth?”

“No, of course not,” he said, frowning. “I told you, you were remarkable. All the same, though, I just don’t think I can allow you to play. Normal basketball requires full use of both arms, and the school doesn’t have the capacity for a special needs team. And we have too many players anyway. You wouldn’t get to play much, even if you were on the team….” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“But—”I began, “I don’t care if I don’t get to play much! I don’t need a special needs team! If I got to play in just one game this season I would be happy—”

“I’m afraid that is my final answer,” the coach said, turning his back on me and gathering up his newly refilled basket balls. “Sorry.”

“Please,” I called after him, watching desperately as he left the room. “Please! I won’t ask to play much—!” But my voice echoed in an empty gym. He was oblivious to my pleas, oblivious to the fact that he was ruining my life. All that I had worked for, all that I had dreamed of, all that had kept me going through the hardest times in adjusting to my injury was over.

I sank to the floor, waves of depression crashing over me. There was no one there to see. No one cared. But I vowed I would make them care. I would take this to the principal; I would refuse to let this be the end. I had worked too hard for this to be the end. If it was the last thing I did, I would get on that team. Whatever it took.