Performance anxiety

Inhale. Expand your rib cage.

The music buzzes, then dies as someone yanks the phone off the aux cord. The door slams, cutting off my teammates’ laughter. Silence swells in its place.

I’m alone now. Me, 5:23 of a yoga video and a fraying towel on the locker room bathroom floor.

Exhale. Sink into child's pose.

My arms stretch out, trembling.

I take one breath.

Then another.

I forget to take the next breath, and my vision blurs at the edges.

Red numbers glow 3:10, the time until the game begins.

I don’t have time to finish the video.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

I can skip the last part. I have to.

I hit pause, throw my phone into the locker and sprint to the court. I have under a minute to get there.

The buzzer screeches, guiding me as my eyes adjust to the blinding fluorescent lights. I jog to my spot between my teammates, linking arms before facing the flag.

I didn’t finish my yoga video.

The last time this happened, I tore my ACL.

Ten months.

Ten months of rebuilding from square one.

Of 5 a.m. lifts with weights so heavy my legs shook.

Of coaches slamming pads into my ribs, yelling go again.

Of needles breaking into scar tissue.

Of therapy. Of crying. Of pretending I wasn’t crying.

All I had to do was stretch for 15 minutes. And I didn’t.

I remember first meeting my therapist. I told her I was scared to return to the court. What is stopping this from happening again?

My therapist says tearing my ACL wasn’t my fault.

But she’s not a sports psychologist. She sometimes flinches when I tell her the truth about being a college basketball player.

My therapist says tearing my ACL wasn’t my fault.

She’s wrong.

I didn’t see my teammate until she clipped my knee and everything twisted wrong.

If I’d stretched, I would’ve been faster. Seen it coming. Dodged. Hit first. Any tiny movement that would have prevented this entire situation from happening in the first place.

Because this—

All of this—

is my fault. It may not seem logical but I just know it.

But I’m here now. I’m playing again. I’m healthy and everything’s fine.

Except I didn’t stretch and now my skin feels tight and my eyes are starting to sting and my bottom lip feels funny.

My therapist says to pick five senses to stay in the moment.

I smell the popcorn from the concession stand and the curl cream from my teammates’ ponytails.

I feel my mesh jersey and shorts. I run my hands over the fabric.

I taste blood from gnawing the inside of my cheek.

I hear my name being called over the announcement as they name the starting lineup.

I see myself raising from the bench, high fiving my teammates through the tunnel, waving at the crowd.

I see myself huddling close to my teammates.

I see myself telling them something, giving them directions, but I can’t figure out what I’m saying. Hopefully it’s inspirational.

The game begins.

We win the ball and I call for my teammate to pass it to me, but my hands feel ten feet away from my body. I dribble and the ball bounces off my foot and out of bounds. The possession goes to the other team.

My vision starts to blur and my breath shakes as I inhale, exhale.

One of my teammates pats me on the back and tells me to move on to the next play.

But then someone dribbles right by me, bumping my body as she scores a layup.

The whistle blows and my name is called and I walk silently past my coach.

I sit.

Our athletic trainer hands me water I don’t need.

Our manager brings me a towel I don’t deserve.

My teammate sits next to me.

What’s wrong, she asks.

I am going to tear my ACL today, I tell her.

She takes my hand and pulls me away from the court to a quiet place behind the bleachers.

A few fans glance over. One little girl runs toward us, Sharpie in hand, until her mom pulls her back.

Sam, you are not going to tear your ACL today.

I don’t realize how tense every muscle in my body feels until she hugs me.

In her arms, everything loosens.

My shoulders start to shake.

Tears rush down my cheeks.

A knot grows in my throat, and suddenly I can’t catch my breath.

I try to inhale but I can’t slow down enough and I end up choking on my breath.

“Relax,” she says – or maybe I say it to myself.

She squeezes me tighter, and I focus on that.

My breath slows. My shoulders relax. I can hear shoes squeaking, my teammates cheering, fans clapping as someone scored a basket.

She pulls back.

“Wipe your tears. Take a breath. Ready?”

Inhale.

Exhale.

She squeezes my shoulders.

Sam, you’re going to go back to the game now. You are going to cheer on your teammates from the bench and when coach calls your name, sprint to the scores table and check into the game. Then, you are going to play basketball. You don’t need me to explain how to do that right?

I smile. Does it look like I’ve been crying?

It looks like you’ve been hit by a truck. Now get back out there.

So I do.

I run back to the bench.

I jump up when someone scores a three.

Coach calls my name.

I sprint to the table.

Check in.

Take the court.

The point guard leaves the ball exposed.

I slap it free.

Fast break. Layup.

My teammates smile at me as we run back.

The next play, someone passes me the ball and I shoot a three.

I shoot, and it clinks through the net. Swish.

The other team calls a timeout.

The crowd erupts.

I walk to the bench and see a little girl’s poster.

“SuperSam”.

A laugh escapes me, and I savor the feeling of joy blossoming in my chest.

I’m smiling.

Waving.

The crowd rises.

I take a breath. This one comes easy.

Maybe–

Just maybe–

Everything will be okay.