The violin music began. I swept my arm over my head and grinned at the judges, fully aware that my dramatic music didn’t merit cheesiness. I’d place in the top of my age group, wow Coach Englehardt – who was sitting right up front – and go onto Nationals, where even more college coaches would be watching.
I sprinted for my second tumbling pass. Hands to the floor and off again out of the roundoff. I launched into the air and pulled my fists to my left shoulder. Twisted so fast that I couldn’t see the floor or the lights or anything, had no idea how much I’d spun until my feet struck the floor and everything in my right leg shattered.
I screamed.
Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. The burn ripped up and down my leg and into my lungs, and as I’d lain there clutching my knee to my chest, the music played on until someone shut it off.
Strangers had rushed over with ice packs and checked the color of my fingernails and asked inane questions like, “Does it hurt?” and “Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten,” while Matt was above me saying, “Don’t shut your eyes, Savannah. Squeeze my hand if you need to, okay?”
The crowd had applauded as I was carried out. I’d mustered a smile.
I’d wanted to die.
“The good news is that you almost threw a triple full,” Dad had said in the emergency room waiting area. “When did you get that?”
“Are you serious? Cass, did you get that on film?” My knee already felt better, although I couldn’t really move it. I’d placed my foot on the chair next to mine and let the back of my knee extend. A little swollen, sure, but nothing unreasonable.
By the time we’d made it into the examining room, I could walk gingerly. The pain of impact was already fading. Hopefully Matt would be able to petition me into Nationals, wow them with a sob story.
The doctor had nodded politely as I glossed over describing the incident and told him that I felt recovered already. He’d placed one hand above my knee and one under, lifted the lower half of my leg up, then down, and wiggled it from side to side. I had to bite my lips. Not excruciating, though. Not like earlier.
“I have like a billion Ace bandages at home,” I’d said. “I’ll wrap it up and ice it.”
He’d performed the same motions on my left leg.
“Lots of ice,” I’d added, hoping that if I spoke loudly enough, it would drive away whatever he was looking for.
“I’ll write you a prescription for an MRI,” he’d said to me, looking at my parents. “I’m highly suspicious of an anterior cruciate ligament tear.”
No.
“That’s super serious,” I’d said, panic bubbling up my throat. “My knee doesn’t hurt that much.”
The doctor had sat down on a wheely stool and scooted over to the counter, where he wrote on a pad. “It’s most common in activities that involve jumping and twisting. Some patients experience a high degree of pain. Others feel a popping sensation and minor pain, and they can walk after.”
A popping sensation, like champagne uncorked. Nothing like the rip through my entire body.
“I need to go to Nationals.” My lips had trembled.
“Next season,” he’d said.
He’d taken my good leg in his hands and performed the same trick. “This is the Lachman test,” he said. Then he moved to the other leg. “See how this leg feels looser? There’s a good chance that your ACL is no longer attached.”
I hated him. Hated Lachman, too. And my body, which didn’t let me have any say in this. And that my parents were sitting right there and didn’t say anything. Didn’t question the doctor and demand that we see a real one on the spot, not this kid who was barely out of med school and probably quoting WebMD. That the first thing my father had said was not a question, but a statement: “She’ll need surgery.”
In the waiting room, Cassie had put her arm around me. I’d buried my face in her shoulder so that nobody would see me cry.
THE UNEVEN BARS creak as my teammates swing up and over, again and again. The high bar rattles as Nicola releases it and swings toward the low bar. Her hips rise above her head as she twists, catching the low bar in a handstand.
“Awesome, Nic.” I’m genuinely impressed. She was nowhere near that skill in the spring.
“Are you all right, Savannah?” Matt turns to me. “Do you need a spot?”
“No, no. I got this.”
With the steadiness of a toddler, I crawl up on the low bar and push myself so that I’m standing. I teeter back and forth before jumping to the high bar. Chalk flies into my eyes and I blink it out as quickly as I can, eyes tearing up.
Swing forward. Swing back. This is a rhythm I know well: give and take. Out of my periphery, Matt and the girls have paused to watch.
This won’t be pretty.
I let my toes rise in front of me, let go, close my eyes and pray, and flip over to land on my feet. A burst of stars in my eyes, but no pain.
“Savannah, you’re amazing!” Tiana shouts from across the gym, and everyone giggles at her exuberance.
Amazing, no. The flyaway, though, is safe. A second flyaway, stretched out this time–also safe. Excitement rises in my chest like a giggle. I’m upside down again and living to tell the tale. As long as my feet hit the ground first and don’t budge, I am all right.
ON NIGHTS LIKE tonight, after a practice that felt good, I feel like I’m in the process of surviving something. Nothing dramatic, mind you. Not like near-death. Still, a story that’s becoming my own. Depending how this Golden Leaf fiasco goes, one I might be proud of someday.
When you climb into Level 8, 9, 10, you still have the small perky girls scampering up the podium. At the same time, you see the taller girls, a little heavier, moving more slowly. They have braces around their wrists and ankles. The bars bend under their weight. They’re here because they’ve survived. Not everyone can handle the transition from cute and light to awkward and not so light. In the beginning, you burn to run around the gym and flip until your head is dizzier than your tired legs. Then the burning settles into ankles and shoulders and your coach saying, “No, no, that’s not right.” For most girls, it turns to smoke. Carried away by a gust of boyfriends or other sports or the promise of free time.