Damn Basketball, I Hate You!

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I’m lying in the noisy tunnel of an MRI, again.

Agonizing. I’m not claustrophobic. But it’s cold, I have to keep my leg firm and It hurts, I want to move it.


These headphones don’t isolate a fucking sound.

In Grey’s Anatomy, Derek would enter the door and hold my hand.

What if I also broke the last ligament I’ve got left? What if I cannot walk anymore? What if I have to put on a knee prosthesis? Fuck I am just 41.

Damn Basketball I hate you.


Can I have some music here??

 If I’ve broken also the collateral ligament, it is the end. Maybe is just the meniscus. Hopefully it’s just the meniscus … I do not want to have a surgery in Shanghai, I’m afraid.

Damn Basketball I hate you.


But how much fucking time is missing to the end?

“We are done, you can come out now. The films are very clear.”

Perfect. Very clear. We are done.

We are done.


A nice Chinese Orthopedic tries to explain that there is nothing broken, but the cartilage is compromised, I chipped a piece of bone and I have extra synovial liquid.

He gives me an intramuscular injection of something yellowish that should kill the pain. I do not ask what is it.

Please Chinese miracle-medicine, destroy my pancreas but kill this fucking pain.

Damn Basketball I hate you.

He looks at my knees devastated by scars He sighs and makes a paternal wondering why a beautiful girl like me has bothered her beautiful and long legs and her life for basketball. How did it come to my mind, after three surgeries, to keep playing?

I’m speechless. It’s so obvious to me, how does he not understand…

I smile. For the first time in two days I almost laugh. I burst into laughing in fact. I cry out laughing. Is it the yellow liquid effect yet? It burns my ass. I wake my tears.

“For love, what else?” I answer.

He smiles at me, pats me on my shoulder, gives me knee pads, killer pain pills, shakes his head and goes out.

Damn Basketball I hate you.

If I knew it before.

If I knew it before that I would never have started running after the orange ball. Because when you start, there is no way you can stop.

Adrenaline, lactic acid, the smell of the ball leather, squeaking shoes on the wooden floor, sweat, mentholated oil, taping, laughter, fatigue, obsessive rituals to win, the bag to prepare, long away games, team. The quarrels in the locker room because we are women and we argue all the time. The high five in the court and those glances between teammate who say: “we are so close, we can do it, we’re one.”

The last shot. Fuck the last shot.

“I cannot come out tonight, I play tomorrow.”

“But it’s Saturday night, we all go!”

“Not me.”


NOT ME, I have practice, NOT ME, I have to go to the gym to do weights otherwise my knee does not do it, NOT ME, I don’t drink from Thursday to Sunday, NOT ME, I’m going to do two shots at the playground, NOT ME, I come out in gym clothes so I can put ice on my knees, NOT ME, I don’t feel any pain I want to play, I can play, I have to play. I have to take the Advil, holy Advil.

Damn Basketball I hate you.


I don’t hate you, I wouldn’t renounce at any defeat, not even a wrong shot, not even a single cut-down nets, not even one of my teammates for a gram of cartilage more.

I just hope that when I’ll become old and I will not be able to walk anymore someone will be so gentle to give me some drops of Chinese yellowish miracle medicine, because right now the pain is gone and the house has become a basketball court, the pillow has LeBron’s face, my dog is fast like Russell and the plant looks like MJ. And of course I scored the last shot. Buzzer Beater.

Oh my God, the last shot.



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    ɑs a result of hе has them round alll thee time. Posѕibly he and
    tһe angeⅼs play fɑmily games like
    we do sometimes. Maybe thery play Monopoly.? This made Mommy laugh actᥙally hɑrd.

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