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"Bang!"
Cheers and claps, applauding the display of athleticism, filled the air.
"No! No!" I screamed.
Silence. Silence so loud filled the gym.
I lay on the wooden floor, banging it harder than my fall. The coach instructed the rest of the team to shoot on the opposite side of the court and give me privacy. Privacy to hate myself for playing hard. Privacy to question God. Privacy to drag my foot. Privacy to jumpstart my injury trauma journey. Privacy to know that my season ended there!
It was a Saturday morning, the first weekend after New Year 2024; we scrimmaged in the Arthur Johnson Gymnasium. We had just returned from the Christmas Break and had a journey mapped out for the conference games. Over the break, I watched the pre-season games we played and devised goals for the following games. I had barely received playing time, but I was determined to change that course with the return from the break.
We divided into teams and played. Watching my teammates pant after the two weeks' rest was interesting. The two weeks had been nothing but more grind for me. I was preparing for the big stage. We played 5*5 running time games, and we were shuffled in each quarter. Everything was happening flawlessly, and I could feel a new wave of freshness and growth as I went strong on my left hand, an area of growth I proudly brag about.
The fourth and last quarter came with the last seconds I would run for the next seven months. While on offense, I passed the ball to a teammate who scored, placing us in the lead by two points. I vividly recall the score. It was 34:32 in favor of my team. The clock was ticking with just 4 seconds. Any athlete or sports fan understands how even one second can change the course of the entire game. Those last seconds have all kinds of names pointing to the amount of pressure. I bet you have heard the saying, "Time passes so fast…except if you are in a plank." I would argue that time passes so fast unless your team is leading by just two, and the opponents could potentially cover that.
The ball was rebounded to my opponent, who rushed down the lane for a layup to tie up the game. She was two steps ahead of me. As she leaped up to tie the game, I had the best block in my short-lived college career. I crashed the ball on the board, and if we had been playing in the early basketball days, the glass would have smashed into pieces. My teammates all clapped for the heroic act. On the other hand, I landed like a sack of potatoes thrust off a truck to the ground.
"Why were you clapping?" I asked a teammate days after I watched the clip.
"You had blocked her." She answered.
"But I was on the ground screaming," I responded.
"You fell and were silent for a second, so we thought all was good." She said.
I had come crashing down from the board, landing on my left foot. My father usually drove to Lake Bunyonyi Market days to purchase the succulent lakeside sugarcane stalks. The trader would hold the five-foot-long stalk horizontally at a distance and crash it steadily at his knee. The once straight stalk would immediately bend. When I landed on my left foot, it was like a stalk had just been crashed into two. My thigh went outward, and everything below my knee went in the opposite direction.
Imagine walking into a room for surgery, and the lead surgeon has no arms, hiring a sign language translator who does not hear, or throwing an exciting news article at a blind person's lap. I felt like I was an athlete with diminished worth. I hated to hear the word ACL. I started therapy as soon as possible; it had been confirmed that I had torn the ACL and required surgery.
One day, I was leaping high; the next morning, I was weeping on the ground.
I have feared injections all my life, but while in the waiting room for the surgery, as the doctor put the intravenous (IV) on my wrist, I requested an injection to numb my hand. For once, I looked at receiving an injection as the least painful thing that could happen to a human body. I was hours away from having medical knives, blades, screwdrivers, wires, pins, drills, cameras, and many other items dancing in my knee as they pulled muscles and tendons to restore the ligament.
It has been three months since the occurrence of the injury and two months since the surgery. I wish I could say it is an easy journey. I smile every day, but within, I have fought wars greater than any historically recorded wars. I am on the journey of recovery and waiting for that return to the court.
I have repeatedly been reminded of something, which makes me wonder why we should even have such a reminder.
"At least you were in America!"
"Ha! Just imagine this had happened while in Uganda."
"Thank God you were in America."
It is sad, yet it is the reality of life. The medical costs and the health care that come with this injury can be overwhelming for a commoner in Uganda. Sadly, most of our athletes are well categorized as omuntu wa’wansi (the commoner/low-income earners). A wise person once said, "Most Ugandans are one pay hospital bill away from extreme poverty." I will take a bullet for the person that said that. Most clubs in our local leagues pay $3 per team training session and, at most, $6 per game played. A few, by a few, 1 out of 10 athletes earn anything beyond $100 from their clubs per month. The contracts signed are as significant as runaway fathers in their children's lives. Athletes are as important as their health can be, but their dismal will be prepared at the nearest exit door in case of an alarm.
On Tuesday morning, I saw a poster seeking donations for Mutyaba Trevor. I honestly did not want even to imagine what it feels like to have a torn ACL, beg for funds, and balance your mental health. It is already mentally draining to wake up every morning and remember to grab your crutches or walk as fast as a snail, and, worst of all, your identity as an athlete is stripped momentarily. It is daunting to the mind.
Join me in supporting Mutyaba Trevor of Our Savior Basketball Club as we collect UGX 10 million for his reconstruction of the ACL. My primary English teacher used to say, "One by one …" and would wait for us, the students, to complete the phrase. We would scream at the top of our lungs, "Makes a bando!" Forgive our mother tongue's influence; we meant to say "makes a bundle." Dear contributor, every coin and shilling matters, and you are appreciated. You can contribute towards the surgery for Mutyaba Trevor through Mobile Money (+256 762067193) or Equity Bank (1001102734825).
Let's restore hope in Mutyaba Trevor.
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