Welcome to Gaia! ::

It's true. I haven't written anything in like forever, but now I did, and I'm making you all read it. All 8 pages in Word.

Also, I know that some of you read this before; however, it is better now. It has *gasp* an ending.

***********

The water from the fountain was warm, as always. It dribbled down my chin as I drank; I wanted more, but knew that too much would make me bloat and give me a stomachache. Other girls were waiting for the fountain, anyway.

I grabbed a rough, brown paper towel - the school was too cheap for nice ones - and wiped off my chin. Passing the mirror on my way back to practice, I wiped the sweat off of my face, then scrubbed my short hair as well as I could. The paper towel came back considerably wetter.

As always during breaks, the face in the mirror was bright red staring back at me. I never felt that hot, but my face would turn bright red; my mother called me her little lobster, but my teammates would often use the opportunity to make a crass joke and then claim that I was merely blushing.

I returned to the room, throwing out the paper towel on my way, and felt the familiar give of the mat underneath my feet. It was comforting and familiar.

"Circle up!"

We all scrambled to the center of the mat, centered on the coach. He selected a boy, mid-weight, to help him demonstrate. Never me - girls are never used for demonstrations. Not here. As much as we try to ignore the prejudices in the system, they show through in the little things. The rest of practice was fine, but during the circles, I always felt a little bit out of place.

Throws have always been favorite of mine, and I watched as the coach demonstrated the head-and-arm, a twisting move that brought the opponent around oneself and over the hips. Contrary to popular opinion, the execution of throws does not rely on brute strength, so it is one area in which girls can excel. A killer throw is all about the mastery of leverage and using one's bone-strength. Having gigantic legs like mine doesn't hurt, either.

We split into groups, and, as usual, I was in a group of three with Z and Doran. We were the resident lightweights; in a week, I was going to compete against Doran to challenge his Varsity spot, just in time for the sectional qualifier.

Groups started practicing; the familiar sound of backs thwacking the mat started slow, but began to crescendo until it was hard to tell where one hit stopped and the next began.

Z, Doran, and I were all lighthearted about the situation; having been partners for such a long time, we trusted each other completely with our bodies. Some people underestimate the power of trust on a team. We never did. I knew that I could trust these boys with my life, even if I couldn't with my food - wrestlers are notorious food-snitchers.

We began chatting while working.
"How was your weekend?" I asked Z as I adjusted my grips - right hand on his neck, left holding his bicep - aiming my thumbs into pressure points.

He snorted. "Huge math project." Z hated math. I put my right foot forward, then twisted my body around, bringing him over my hips and landing his back squarely on the mat.

Thud.

"How about you?" he asked as he stood up.

"I bought my prom dress this weekend."

"It's only January," Doran said.

"What's it look like?"

Z slammed Doran into the mat.

Thud.

"It's this tight black sparkly material," I said as Doran prepared to throw me. "Makes my boobs look great."

"That's all that matters."

Thud.

"Do you even have a date?"

The conversation continued; I explained the dress in detail, much to the chagrin of the boys. They stopped listening once I tried to clarify the difference between an empire waist and a princess waist.

It was just like any other practice.

So when it happened, I was shocked. I felt my body going the wrong way - something wasn't right - and I screamed before I even knew what it was. When I came down on my back, I saw - my knee was still in the air. My foot was turned backwards at an impossible angle. Doran tried to catch himself before landing and took some of his weight on his arms at my sides, but I could not twist my foot into a more practical position before his chest came crashing into mine, momentarily pinning me to the floor.

He scrambled off as quickly as he could. I tried to unbend my leg, but I couldn't make it work. The tears were starting, and already I was short of breath, hyperventilating. A few boys - the ones closest to me - came over, but the coaches cleared them away.

Still unable to unbend my leg on its own, I used what strength I had left in my arms to shove my calf away, letting my knee fall to the ground. I almost screamed a third time - or fourth or fifth, I had no idea by then how many times it had already happened.

I remember my teeth chattering, and I couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the ice being held on my knee that made me feel cold - everywhere - down to the bone.

Even with all of my concentration, I couldn't get my teeth to stop.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I was convinced that my career was over.

***

I saw the lunch lady slip an extra pickle spear onto my tray before handing it to Doran. He dutifully carried it. I felt bad for him. With sectionals coming up, he's not really allowed to eat. Fortunately, school food is not the most persuasive of temptresses.

I gimped along after him, maneuvering my crutches around the ankles in the way.

I paid for my lunch and we returned to our usual table in the cafeteria. Z and Nick were already there.

"Hey. How's the knee?" Nick asked as I sat down. He had taken me to his house the previous night, since my parents weren't home and the school wouldn't release me to a house without an adult. His two German Shepherds had tried to cheer me up as best they could. Unfortunately, climbing in my lap did more harm than good, so Radar had tried to catch her shadow on the floor to keep me entertained.

"Getting better," I said, shoving my crutches under the table. I snuck some ibuprofen from my purse and downed it with my milk.

"Have you decided whether to see a doctor yet?"

"They can't do anything until the swelling goes down, anyway, so I might as well wait."

He stole a few chips from my plate.

"What do they think happened, anyway?" Z asked.

"No clue. Probably just a sprain."

"You screamed like it was broken," Nick said.

"You screamed like a girl," Z joked.

"You still sound more like a girl than I do, Z." We laughed. "I can't even imagine you with a man-voice."

"You have to admit it, Z," Doran said. "She's more man than you."

"Not when she talks about dresses," Z said.

"I don't know," Doran said. "You seemed pretty interested."

The previous year, when he was in middle school, Z had borrowed some of my clothes for a project at school. Although he didn't have to, he went in drag all day. Doran and Nick knew this.

"How many times have I heard you guys discuss underwear brands and ball support? You could at least listen when I talk about dresses."

"What's it look like?" Nick asked. He and I had gone to his junior prom the previous year as friends. I had made it fairly clear to all of the boys that I would not date teammates.

"Well, it's black-"

"It makes her boobs look great."

"Yeah," I said. "It's a halter top. Great for cleavage."

"So it's not sea-foam green?" Nick asked.

"Hey, I really liked that dress. Besides, it was spring green. And vintage." Doran cocked an eyebrow. "And I looked amazing."

"Enough with the lover's quarrel," Z said.

"Yeah. You guys sound like an old married couple."

"Too bad you're not a lady. This one, on the other hand," I said, resting my elbow on Z's shoulder.

"Hey!" he protested, laughing.

"Don't tell me you're a *****, now," Nick said.

We took a few minutes to eat. I felt guilty eating, since the boys were all cutting; Doran was slowly breaking apart his protein bar and eating it in pieces while Z got out a fruit cup from his bag. Nick, being a senior, was on his second lunch of the day and so only stole chips from my plate.

"Hey! You got two pickles!" Z said, reaching for one. I slapped his hand.

"If I can eat, I'm gonna!"

"How long are you off, anyway?" Nick asked.

"Trainer thinks two, three weeks," I said. "Can't tell for sure yet, though."

"Don't get fat while you're injured," Doran warned.

"Thanks, you're so supportive."

***
"No wrestling until you can straighten that knee out. The x-ray came up normal, but we'll have you go in for an MRI to check for cartilage tears."

***

"The MRI came back normal. I don't understand why this is taking you so long. You need to get off those crutches so you don't lose your strength."

***

"I can't believe they took you off crutches! You can't even straighten it out, how are you supposed to put weight on it?"

***

"This has gone on way too long. We need to try to force it straight."

***

"So it looks like you're out for the rest of the season."

***

"So let me get this right. He tried to force your joint straight when it wouldn't heal? Who taught this man medicine?"

***

"There's a pre-existing injury in your hip. I can't believe no one checked for it before. That's probably why it took so long to heal."

***

"The bottom line is that any injury to either of your knees has a slim to zero chance of healing. If you reinjure yourself, chances are you'll never walk again. You're lucky this one healed up okay, with the therapy the school gave you."

***

And that was it. Three years of working until exhaustion nearly every day, of practically starving myself for the good of the team. It was all gone because of one accident - one moment in which my body failed me.
I boxed up my singlets, putting the New York National Team singlets on top. The blue-and-orange shoes were thrown to the back of my closet, to be covered by countless more sensible pairs. The headgear was lent to a friend and lost. The bloodcloths - handkerchiefs embroidered with a garnet "P" - were folded neatly, initial out, and tucked into a drawer. Medals were boxed and put into the attic.

And there it was; what was once an obsession was shut out from my life. All the girls' magazines say that that's the only way to deal with a really bad breakup. You just have to erase it from your life, or you soon find yourself tempted, wanting to go back and risk it all over again.

Yeah, I wasn't sure how to do that. I wanted to include the radically different medical opinions, but didn't know how else to without making the story mad long.

Because that ""***""***"" part is like... over the course of a year. And that's kind of a long time.

Yay! Ego +1!

There aren't enough good stories about wrestling.

Probably because most wrestlers are a bit on the not-bright side. And the ones who are smart are like Physics students.

It happened three years ago, but some of the diagnoses didn't come until a year later.

As it was all happening, I kept thinking "What details do I have to remember in case I ever write this?" I observed my reactions as I went into shock, because I felt it was important to know for writing (in general, not just for writing that incident).