My Shot Read online

  On the Chicago Sky, I had to adjust my style of play to the rhythm that these tried-and-true players had developed over years. I took their experience and applied it to my own, and we got better and better as a team. Suddenly I began to think of basketball differently. It wasn’t just a sport or a game that was strictly in the moment. Instead it was like the buildings my dad built: the foundation might have been old, and some of the materials might have been recycled, but when it all came together, the structure was new.

  These veterans weren’t just going to teach me lessons on the court, either. Every WNBA game was televised, and after every single one, many of us would have to speak to reporters, so I was going to have to learn to be professional in front of the camera. Other than the media blitz surrounding the WNBA draft, this was pretty new to me, and I’d have to depend on my coaches and teammates to show me what to do.

  Pokey was an old pro, though, and she had a plan.

  “I know every reporter is going to want to talk to you about leaving UConn,” she told me one day. “But we’re not doing that. We’re talking about you on this team.”

  Her words came as such a relief. It wasn’t a lie not to discuss UConn. I wasn’t shedding my old life or burying something that had happened five years before. Just like my team, I was using it as my foundation, then building off it. I was making something entirely new that was going to carry me forward.

  Pretty soon I decided to think of my life in Chicago that way too. Sure, I missed Delaware and Gene and Lizzie and all the friends I’d known and loved since I was a kid, and I spent way too many nights on the phone with them, sometimes in tears. But I’d made a decision to be in Chicago, I’d signed a contract, and I was on a team that was taking me places I’d never been before.

  For the entire season, your life is here, I told myself. You need to let this city teach you something. You’re the rookie, and it’s the veteran.

  With that attitude, I put my trust in the security of my new situation and decided to make myself feel really at home. I didn’t just go furniture shopping or throw a housewarming party either. I decided to look for a dog.

  My family had always owned Great Danes, and I absolutely loved the breed. Our first was Raider, whom Mom had found when she was on a run when I was five, and later we owned our beloved Champ. It had been five years since he’d died, and I still missed him. Great Danes reminded me of Mom and Dad and my happy childhood, and they were tall and all legs just like me, so I couldn’t imagine any breed who’d make me feel more at home.

  After days of looking online, I found the perfect pup. I contacted the breeder in Iowa, I made the adoption official, and she drove him to me. He was a beautiful, floppy-eared, slobbery male with the most gorgeous blue eyes I’d ever seen, and I loved him from the moment he wiggled in my arms.

  The problem was that I wasn’t sure what to call him. I came up with a few names, but I hated all of them after a few hours. This beautiful puppy went without a name for two straight weeks until the night that I threw out the first pitch at a Cubs’ game, and a thought struck me.

  I’ll name him Wrigley. It’s the perfect name for a Chicago dog.

  I loved taking my big guy for walks. Everyone would comment about his massive paws, and his beautiful gray coat, and how they couldn’t believe that such a tall person would buy what was soon going to be a huge dog.

  “What’s his name?” they’d ask.

  “Wrigley,” I’d answer.

  “Oh, really? My neighbor’s dog is named Wrigley. So’s my niece’s.”

  Here I was, thinking I was so original by calling him Wrigley. Yet half the dogs in Chicago apparently had the same name.

  Even though in name he wasn’t half as unique as I’d dreamed he’d be, Wrigley became my best friend, and we went everywhere together. But I started to make other (human) friends too.

  Most of the people I began meeting were somehow connected to the Sky, so while we had basketball in common, we all came from different backgrounds. This felt so new to me, and pretty soon I realized that making friends wasn’t about going to the same school or being from the same town. It was about finding something to talk about that you both liked, and then developing a connection from there.

  My best friend, Meghan, and I were driving around one random night, searching for something to do. I’d just come from practice and hadn’t had time to shower, so I looked like a mess. I’d thrown on my rattiest, ugliest hoodie, whose tie strings ended in little headphones rather than knots. I think I’d bought the hoodie as a joke, or maybe it had been on sale for 90 percent off, but I promise you it was not the kind of thing I’d ever wear out. So when Meghan suggested we meet a friend of hers for dinner, I was hesitant.

  “I look like a wreck,” I said. “This sweatshirt is ridiculous.”

  “You look fine,” she laughed. “Besides, I want you to meet my friend Amanda. I think you two would get along.”

  Meghan had met Amanda a few weeks before at one of my games, and they’d become friends right away. I didn’t know it at the time, but Meghan was positive that Amanda was perfect for me. She thought Amanda was just the person to challenge me and push all of my buttons—in a good way, of course! I trusted Meghan completely, so I finally said yes.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Let’s meet your friend. I guess I have to eat, so why not do it with other people?”

  Meghan called Amanda and arranged for her and her friend Leigh to meet us at a spot in our neighborhood. When we walked in and sat with them at our table, something about Amanda grabbed my attention. She was blond, like me. She’d played basketball in college. Me too. And she had this infectious smile that put me at ease right away. I feel like I know her, and I haven’t even talked to her yet.

  Pretty soon we started up a conversation, and it was just as natural as I’d hoped.

  “I grew up in Rock Island, Illinois, on the Iowa border,” she told me. “Then I went to Illinois State and was a point guard. Now I live here with my black Lab, Rasta.”

  “That’s like me.” I smiled, then corrected myself. “I mean, I have a Great Dane, not a Lab, and I haven’t lived in Illinois all my life. I meant Delaware. Being here is the only time I’ve lived away from home.”

  “How do you like it?” she asked, then laughed and added, “Nice hoodie.”

  I broke out laughing. She’s gutsy, I thought. Then I sat and thought for a moment or two. I liked Amanda. I really liked her, and I didn’t want to say anything that wasn’t totally honest. But the answer that came into my head was completely true.

  “It’s great,” I said. “It’s starting to feel like home. I’m happy here in a way I never expected.”

  What I couldn’t tell her was what I was thinking deep down: I’d be a whole lot happier if I got to spend more time with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rest, Refocus, and Rediscover Your Passion

  The WNBA All-Star Game was set for July 27, 2013, and by the time it rolled around, the Chicago Sky was the best team in the Eastern Conference. Our record was 12–5, and we’d worked hard for every victory.

  Being in the spotlight had never meant much to me, but I always appreciated fan support. Fans didn’t care if you were famous or not; they just liked the way you played, and that was all the recognition I needed. Besides, the word “celebrity” or “star” felt fleeting, or like too much pressure. After my burnout, I couldn’t take that. I wanted to play basketball, and play it well—not be some big shot who did it for the applause.

  Fans voted on the players who would start in the All-Star Game, and they’d pick three frontcourt players and two guards. I knew I was a fan favorite based on how many little girls were lining up to meet me after games, but I had no idea just how popular I was. I got the most votes out of any WNBA player—35,656—and was the first rookie ever to come in first place in voting.

  Unfortunately, though, I never made it to the All-Star Game. In a matchup against the Washington Mystics, just three days before the
All-Star Game was to be held, I got a concussion. In the last minute of the third quarter, a ball came loose, I scrambled for it at the same time as one of my opponents, and my head hit either the court or her knee. In an instant, I felt searing pain and saw a flash of light, and as I gripped the side of my head, I knew something wasn’t right.

  “Pokey,” I said as I limped to the sidelines, “I need to get this checked out.” I didn’t tell her, but I knew I was out of the game.

  After I was helped off the court by one of our trainers, doctors examined me, and they confirmed exactly what I was feeling.

  “We’re pretty sure it’s a concussion, so we need to run some more tests. You need to sit on the bench the rest of the game, though.”

  I made my way back to the sidelines and watched my team lose, 82–78. When I went in for more tests that night, I got the news I was dreading: it was a concussion. The WNBA mandated that any player with a concussion would need to take time off and pass a few tests to make sure they were healthy enough to play, so I knew I’d be out at least four to five days. I’d miss the All-Star Game, and I might even be out longer than that.

  Every player, in any sport, gets injured. It’s one of the many risks you take when you play as hard as we do, and it’s something you just have to live with. You’re rarely alone on the sidelines either. Brittney Griner had just suffered a sprained left knee, and it had already been decided that she’d be missing the All-Star Game.

  The pressure is so high when you’re an athlete that you can’t let the unavoidable make you crazy. If I’d gotten overly disappointed about my Lyme disease, my concussion, or the mono I got when I was in high school, I would have exploded from stress. That’s why when the doctors gave me the bad news, I was frustrated and nothing more. My injury was going to disrupt the momentum of a great season, but there wasn’t anything I could do.

  When you have a setback like an injury, or you can’t follow your passion because of something that there was no way you could have prevented, you just have to make the most of the situation. If you don’t, you’ll burn out. That’s why I decided to go home to Delaware to rest up, see my family, and try to heal. I was there for almost a week, and I missed two games, plus the All-Star Game.

  Unavoidable time off is also a great way to refocus on your priorities and passions. In Delaware I had the time and space to remember why I did what I did. I played basketball because I loved it—not because it was what I was supposed to do or because someone had told me to. I was in the WNBA because of true, honest passion for the sport. It had taken me places I’d never expected to go, tested me in ways that had taught me so much, and had given me goals that I couldn’t wait to reach.

  Being home also let me think about my relationship with Amanda. After our first dinner out with friends, she and I had traded numbers and promised we’d text each other to meet up again. At the time, I didn’t know what would come of seeing her more. I was definitely attracted to her, but I’d have been just as happy having a new friend as I would a girlfriend, since my schedule was crazy. Finally I decided I didn’t want to think too far ahead, so I told myself to let whatever was going to happen, happen, and be happy with it no matter what.

  A few days after our first dinner, my phone made that familiar tri-tone sound, and I pulled it out to see who’d texted me.

  Hey, it’s Amanda. It’s beautiful out! U want to meet up at Montrose dog beach?

  I texted back right away. Forget trying to play cool! Amanda had already seen me at my worst in that awful hoodie.

  Yeah! I can be there in an hour. I’m the tall girl with the huge dog.

  Great. I’ll be there with Rasta.

  For those of you who don’t know Chicago, Montrose Dog Beach is a fenced-off area right on the shores of Lake Michigan just north of Wrigley Field. Dogs are free to dig in the sand, swim in the lake, and frolic to their hearts’ content, and everyone always has a great time until a dog bypasses the fence and starts to bother the sunbathers on the “real people” side of the beach. I thought it was so cool that Chicago had a beach just for dogs and their owners, and the fact that Amanda had suggested going there made me like her even more.

  She arrived right after I did. Rasta and Wrigley eyed each other cautiously, and then Wrigley walked toward Rasta to give him an approving sniff. Amanda and I took our shoes off, let the dogs off their leashes so they could run to the water, and then walked along the shore, laughing as they splashed around.

  We could have stayed on that beach all day. The sun was shining gloriously, our dogs had become instant best friends, and we talked about everything from our families to basketball to what we wanted out of our lives. It was one of the best days I’d ever had, and Amanda and I didn’t have to discuss what we both just knew. We were meant to be together.

  When I was back in Delaware recovering from my concussion, I thought a lot about that day and all the times I’d had with Amanda since then. Without practice and travel and all the million other things that kept me way too busy, I took the time to thank the world for bringing her into my life. Then I flew back to Chicago on August 6, healthy, hopeful, and ready to help my team reach the goal I’d set for myself: to make the WNBA play-offs.

  • • •

  We did. In fact, the rest of my rookie season was everything I’d hoped for. In August we went 9–3, clinched the Eastern Conference title, and secured a spot in the WNBA play-offs. We’d be up against the Indiana Fever starting September 6, and to say we were excited would be the understatement of the year.

  But first I’d have to come to grips with one of the most painful losses of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Making Sense of Loss

  One of my closest friends at home was named Mary Lacey. Our moms were best friends, and I’d known Mary Lacey pretty much since I was born.

  I was such a serious kid in elementary school, but never with Mary Lacey. We played together; we laughed till we cried; and we loved running through our yards, making up whatever silly game our hearts desired. But in high school Mary Lacey started to struggle. We all had our issues with our bodies, dating, grades, or parents, but Mary Lacey took it all harder than most people. In college an even darker cloud descended on her, and I started to realize that maybe Mary Lacey’s problems weren’t just about the circumstances in her life. She was struggling from severe depression.

  Just before the play-offs were set to begin, when I was still in Chicago training and getting ready, my phone rang. It was Gene.

  “Elena,” he said, his voice cracking, “I need to tell you something.”

  Gene is pretty much never super-serious, so hearing him sound like that terrified me. “What is it? Is something wrong?” I was starting to get frantic.

  “I’m so sorry, but Mary Lacey committed suicide.”

  I dropped my phone and burst into tears. I was overwhelmed with shock and sadness, and I couldn’t believe that what Gene had said was real. She couldn’t have, I thought. She’s my oldest friend. I love her too much.

  I must have sat on the couch for ten minutes before I realized I needed to call my mom. When she answered, I could tell she was sobbing.

  “I’m driving to see Mary Lacey’s mom,” she said.

  “Mom,” I cried, “don’t drive if you’re like this. Go to Dad’s office. Or pull over and I’ll call him. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Mom has always been a rock, and hearing her this out of it was almost too much for me. Then it hit me: if Mom was that devastated, it was real. Mary Lacey was truly gone.

  I managed to pull myself together enough to hear Mom say that I was right, and that she was going to find my dad.

  “He’ll drive me,” she said. Then she started to cry all over again. “Oh, Elena. Mary Lacey was like my own daughter. If anything happened to you, Gene, or Lizzie, I just don’t think I could go on.”

  Even though my head was swimming, I knew that wasn’t true. “You would and you will, Mom. You’re so strong. I love
you. Please give Mary Lacey’s mom all my love.”

  When we hung up, I went back to the couch and crawled into a ball. I know she’ll make it, I cried to myself. She’s my mom, and she’s my hero. But the question is, what will I make of this? How can I ever find any meaning in something this awful?

  After a death, most people feel this way. We often wonder why someone so young and beautiful could die, and we start to worry that we’ll never find happiness in anything ever again. The truth is that terrible things in life happen, but we have to keep moving forward. The future will offer you so many good things, and you need to be awake and aware enough to enjoy them.

  It’s totally understandable, though, for you to feel like whatever good things come your way are meaningless. After all, if the person we loved so much doesn’t get to have them, what does any of it matter?

  Sometimes it’s not a question you can explore all by yourself. Luckily, I had Amanda to help me, and she couldn’t have been more understanding and comforting if she’d tried. She encouraged me to mourn but not to lose sight of the fact that I could and should keep going. After all, I had a great life, a family who loved me unconditionally, and I was most likely about to be given one of the WNBA’s biggest honors.

  • • •

  Just before the play-offs were set to begin, the league would be presenting one of the first-year players the Rookie of the Year Award. The media had been buzzing for weeks that I was the top contender, but I honestly didn’t know how I felt about it. In fact, a big part of me didn’t even want it.

  I know I’ve worked for this, I thought, but how can I be happy about it if Mary Lacey’s not here?

  Then I remembered how I’d dealt with my whole first year in the WNBA: I’d thought about it differently. Not just that; I’d started to imagine my life in a whole new way, and that involved changing my attitude about death, too. I told myself that Mary Lacey might not have been around for me to thank her, but my team was. I would use the award to honor them, taking away the guilt I felt by making the prize a gift to others.