Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

mothers know a thing or two.
    Like most mothers, I’ll never forget the most significant of my daughter’s brushes with lucidity. It’s one of those “it doesn’t happen often, so I’ll never forget it” moments. She’d been sitting at the computer for a few hours, working on an essay for a college application, when she invited me into the room. As is our usual practice, she asked me to proofread what she had written. I was eager to do so, as usual, but I did notice that somehow this time was different. She had a curious expression on her face—softer, more gentle. And although I couldn’t put my finger on when she asked, I knew immediately after I completed the reading. Here’s what she wrote. And, oh yeah, check out that “with all of her wisdom” line. It’s my favorite!
    I have always loved the game of basketball. I used to eat, breathe and LIVE the game. I’d go to school, go to practice, do my homework and then go to bed. My goal was to play basketball at a Division I college on an athletic scholarship—and no one would stop me.
    During my junior year, I really took off. I was the top guard in my area, a key member of the All-Conference team, All-State Honorable Mention and the captain of my high school team.
    I worked hard the entire summer leading into my senior year. Everyone knew that this was my year—and I was ready. Sports reporters predicted I would lead my team to a league championship—and further. And as the team’s captain and only four-year varsity starter, I was eager to deliver.
    The season started well. I was averaging fifteen points per game and frustrating my opponents to no end. And then came the unimaginable. During the first three minutes of the fourth game of my senior year, I took the hardest fall I have ever taken. I came down on my knee and tore a ligament—every athlete’s worst nightmare.
    It was surreal. As I lay screaming on the hardwood floor, I saw all my dreams for attending college on a Division I basketball scholarship spiral down the drain.
    I don’t know if the tears and blood-curdling shrieks were more about what I knew was a serious injury—or the most cruel pain I have ever felt travel through my body at any one time. But it didn’t matter anyway. What I did know was that my life’s dream was over. My injury would require major surgery, and my high school basketball career was over. Not in a million years could I even begin to describe the kind of despair that comes along with the decimation of a dream so real, so longstanding, so wanted and so close.
    What was I supposed to do? The scholarship offers disappeared and that was the only real plan I had for college. All my hopes and dreams were gone, and I had nothing to fall back upon—or so I thought.
    But thank God for mothers. All along, I had counted on basketball for my future. But my mother, with all of her wisdom, had prepared an alternative plan—and I hadn’t even known it. For while I was spending so much time over the years practicing my jump shot and ball handling skills, she had encouraged—no demanded—that I spend an equal amount of time on academics. She had always disregarded my school’s eligibility requirements and instituted her own: honors courses, National Honor Society membership, volunteer efforts, four years of high school Spanish, and a minimum 3.5 grade point average.
    Without fulfilling these, there would be no basketball.
    So when I blew my knee, she was there to wipe my tears and remind me that everyone has options. I could still achieve my goal of becoming an orthodontist—on an academic scholarship. All I needed was a high ACT score. She also reminded me that over the years, I had always performed better under pressure and responded positively to adversity. All we needed, she said, was a steady plan to rehabilitate my knee, and I would be back on the hard court in no time.