*This article was featured in the November 2024 edition of barefootWriter magazine.
Break It And Make It Time
I don’t remember much about the hospital, just that I felt like I wanted to vomit the entire ride there, and that I nearly passed out when the doctor set my visibly askew ulna to its more desirable, aligned position. For a basketball-obsessed eighth grader, breaking an arm playing soccer two months before the start of the hoops season spelled certain disaster.
Life does (sometimes) have a funny way of working out, however. Breaking my left arm, not my right, turned out to be the best and most lucrative accident of my life.
Once I received my hard cast, the doctor said I was free to continue sports activities that would not jeopardize the healing of my arm. I took that to mean I should avoid team sport activities where I might fall or get knocked down again.
To pass the time, I started shooting baskets on my own with my one good arm. At first it was hard to balance the ball on one hand. It was frustrating. The ball would roll off; I would have to go chase it. Or if I could balance it, the result was often an air ball landing nowhere near the hoop.
I almost gave up.
But after a week of fumbling around, I was starting to get it. Cock my wrist. Balance the ball. Aim for the hoop. Shoot the ball. Snap my wrist. Hold my release. Swish. Cock. Balance. Aim. Shoot. Snap. Hold. Swish. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Soon, I was shooting off the dribble with one hand. I was surprised to find I was getting the ball into my shooting pocket faster than when I’d had two good arms. Dribble, dribble, dribble. Cock. Balance. Aim. Shoot. Snap. Hold. Swish.
After one month I had become a better shooter than before I broke my arm. During lunch one day, the assistant principal and coach of the girls’ basketball team saw me practicing. He asked if I could demonstrate my “beautiful form shooting technique” at their practice that afternoon. He then made me the team manager for the season, which consisted of sweeping the court before practice, then shooting for the rest of the afternoon. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Eight years after breaking my arm, I had somehow become a high school state three-point champion, first-team all-state player, and two-time captain of a Division I college basketball team — which included a full athletic scholarship covering tuition and room and board for four years. I’m not tall or fast; shooting was my superpower.
Parents often ask me how their kid can become a better shooter. A lot of practice, I tell them. Then I add, “Try not to let them break their arm, but if they must, make sure it’s their non-dominant one. It might turn out to be the best thing to ever happen to them!”