My Shot Read online

  A few of my parents’ friends had strong feelings about me playing in an organized league, and they didn’t hold back from saying something about it. “It’s a good thing you got Elena started so early,” one neighbor said, “because she’s already so tall.” Mom brushed that off. She didn’t want me to feel like I had to play basketball because of my height. As a tall woman herself, she was aware that this kind of attitude sent a message to girls like me. It was like the world was telling us: What else is a girl who’s taller than all the boys supposed to do? She definitely can’t be a ballet dancer or a gymnast! Mom didn’t believe that. She thought I could do anything I wanted, whether it was basketball or art or something else entirely. Sports—and certainly not basketball—weren’t mandated, like homework or chores. She wanted me to play basketball because I chose it, and she and Dad hoped I’d have fun doing it.

  I did. In fact, I didn’t just like it; I was head over heels in love with it. I was also really, really good at it. When I was in second grade and Gene was in fifth, I was on his boys team, and every single one of my teammates was at least three years older than I was.

  During that year’s championship game, the score was tied with only a few seconds left, and Gene stole the ball. He looked down the court and threw it to me. My right hand is my money hand, but instead of going for a right-handed layup after I caught the ball, I shot with my left hand. I didn’t notice Gene, but I’m sure he wanted to kill me for not taking the sure shot.

  It didn’t matter. Swoosh. The ball went in for two points, and we won the first-place trophy.

  I’d saved the game, and my life in basketball had officially taken off.

  Chapter Two

  Growing Up in Basketball

  One of the nice things about youth sports is that you don’t have to take them too seriously unless you really want to. Even young kids are under such pressure these days—being interviewed for preschool, tested all through kindergarten, and shuttled from school to music lessons, then home to do hours of homework—that I think they need a place where they can kick back and have fun.

  It took me a long time to realize it, but now I believe that the basketball court can be that. I coach girls’ youth clinics—called the De11e Donne Academy—during the Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) off-season, and I frequently see kids who are exhausted because of school, tests, family obligations, and after-school activities. I watch them stand nervously in front of me, worried that I’m going to criticize them for the foul they made, or yell at them to run a little harder and push themselves more.

  Instead I try to make them relax with a reality check. “We’re going to work really hard here,” I’ll say, “and you’re going to make tons of mistakes. Don’t worry; that means you’re challenging yourself and getting out of your comfort zone. But more important than anything else you do here, we’re all going to have lots of fun.”

  I wish I’d realized that when I was young. Right from the very start, I was too hard on myself. When I played at the Y and we’d have midafternoon games on the weekends, my mom sometimes suggested we go to the mall or shopping beforehand.

  “I can’t,” I’d always say. “I need to stay home and conserve my energy.”

  Even then I was planting the seeds of my own burnout.

  Mom and Dad never put pressure on me, so the intensity in my life really started by accident. My dad hired a physical therapist named John Noonan, who was a former high school point guard, to train my brother. Gene had shown such promise as a basketball player that Dad figured having a little extra help would ease him into middle school—and then high school—sports. Sure, I was really excelling in the youth leagues, but no one thought of giving me extra coaching. After all, I was only in second grade. But when I tagged along to one of John’s training sessions for Gene, my dad started to feel differently.

  “John,” my dad said, “would you be able to train Elena, too? People just assume she’s supposed to be a center or a forward because she’s so tall, but I want her to see the game from the eyes of a point guard.”

  “Sure,” said John. “When I’m finished up with Gene, let’s run her through a few drills.”

  I ran to the bathroom to change into the gym clothes I’d brought along, and as I got dressed, I realized I was more excited than I’d ever been in my life. My family and my youth league coaches know how good I am. But now I have a chance to shine in front of a real, live, one-on-one trainer.

  When John motioned for me to run onto the court, I began to move the way my body told me to. Don’t charge too fast, I told myself. Like I said, tall girls usually aren’t known for their grace, but when John threw a pass behind me, I caught it with both hands, then made a reverse layup. I didn’t lunge or lumber; I just connected my hands with the ball and my vision with the hoop, then shot when my heart and mind told me the time was right.

  The rim didn’t shake and the net didn’t move as the basketball passed through. When I straightened my legs and turned toward John, his mouth was wide open.

  “That was amazing,” he said. “You were perfect.”

  The few drills he’d planned turned into a full-out training session. He had me sprint up and down the court, take forty free throws (I only missed one!), and dribble through cones he’d placed strategically from the half-court line to the paint, which is the familiar term for the rectangular box underneath the basket. He tried to throw me off by tossing me bad passes, and when I caught them perfectly—and then scored—he’d make his passes even sloppier. I’d still catch them and shoot. At one point I looked up into the stands, and I could see Gene with his head on his knees like he was about to fall asleep. But my dad was grinning from ear to ear. He was right; I was moving as fast and as nimbly as a point guard and netting the ball as perfectly as the best offensive players.

  “Can we stop so I can have a drink of water?” I finally asked John.

  He looked at his watch and practically jumped. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. We’ve been practicing nonstop for forty-five minutes! I lost track of time. Yes, go get some water!”

  As I sprinted toward my water bottle, which I’d left on the sideline, I realized I wasn’t even tired. Sure, I was thirsty and sweating, but I felt like I was doing what I was meant to do, and doing it so well. Still, there was a little voice in my head nudging me. It was saying, If you work a little harder, maybe you’ll be perfect. Just push yourself to the limit, and you’ll be the best basketball player in the world someday.

  • • •

  When I was in second grade, John Noonan became my basketball trainer, and he stayed with me all throughout high school and college. Like I said before, he had been a point guard in high school, and sometimes I wonder if he knew what to do with a player like me at first. Here I was, so tall that it was clear I was going to tower over almost everyone before I even got to middle school, yet he never forced me into a particular position on the court. He never said, “You’re big, so you need to block like a center does. Don’t try to be too offensive or take all the shots like a guard does.” He saw me as someone like Larry Bird—a tall player who was all hustle. To John, I was both an offensive and defensive player who could do anything for my team, anytime during the game.

  He never pushed me too hard, though. Sure, our workouts were challenging, and he never let me quit, but he didn’t put extra, needless pressure on me. He never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. Neither did my parents. Sometimes I think they just wanted me to feel normal because they already had one child who was so different.

  But the truth was I was different. There was no getting around it. I was taller than every other person in my class.

  “Your height is a good thing,” Mom would say when I complained about it. “It’s special. You’re special.”

  But instead of stopping to take pride in my accomplishments, I decided to push myself harder. When I was ten, my league team went to the national championships, and even though we placed third, I scored more points than an
yone on either team, and I vowed we’d win the championship soon. Two years later we did. By the time I was in eighth grade, I was playing varsity for Ursuline Academy, and I was named to the All-State team. I spent every single weekend practicing, working out, training with John, crawling out of bed to run, or traveling to tournaments, and I was doing it because I was convinced that if I didn’t extend myself just a little further, someone would do better than me.

  The only time I wasn’t running from one place to the next was when I was with Lizzie.

  Because Lizzie can’t get around by herself, she has always spent a lot of time on her favorite couch. I imagine it’s scary not being able to communicate or sense what’s around you, so my parents, Gene, and I have always made an effort to let Lizzie know we’re close by. Since Lizzie was an infant, Mom has worn the same kind of Chanel perfume so that Lizzie can smell her when Mom walks into a room. When I was just a baby, I learned to use a type of sign language called hand-over-hand, which involves me placing my hands against Lizzie’s so that I can draw out simple words and phrases that are important to her, like “sleep,” “swim,” or—don’t laugh—“cheese.” (Lizzie really loves cheese!) When all you can focus on is the touch of someone’s hands or the silence of a quiet room while sitting side by side with the person you love more than anyone else, it’s easy to feel at peace. Time with Lizzie was more important than being anywhere else in the world, and I loved it.

  By the time I was thirteen, I wished that I loved basketball half as much. But I just didn’t.

  The summer after seventh grade, my team attended a weeklong camp in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, home of the University of North Carolina Tar Heels. Most people know UNC for their amazing men’s basketball team, but the fact is that their women’s team is equally impressive. Their head coach, Sylvia Hatchell, is the third winningest coach in the NCAA women’s division—ahead of even Geno Auriemma—and she has led her team to twenty-two NCAA tournament berths out of thirty-one seasons with UNC. My team was going to scrimmage for a week with other high school squads while she and her assistant coaches observed us, and to say I was nervous was an understatement. I had to be the best there, so I stayed up late every night practicing.

  I gave our first few games everything I had. I used the skills John had taught me and combined them with the physical strength I’d spent hours honing. That’s one of the things about being good at sports; you can be strong, but you also have to be smart. John had helped me with my technical skills, and I’d practiced them again and again until they felt effortless.

  At the end of one practice, Sylvia approached me.

  “You’re Elena, right?”

  “I am,” I said, blushing. “It’s so good to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake hers.

  “I want to see you in my office.”

  All I could think was that I’d done something terribly wrong. I was convinced I was in deep trouble.

  Instead, when I got to her office, she lavished praise on me. “I’m so impressed with you,” she said. “Your skill level is way ahead of most people your age. You seem incredibly intelligent out there, and it’s clear you’re going to be a star.”

  I barely managed to get my words out. “Um, thank you. Thank you so much, Coach Hatchell.”

  “That’s why I want to offer you a full scholarship to attend UNC and play basketball here. I know you have the rest of middle school and high school ahead of you, but after you graduate, I hope you’ll come here.”

  At the age of thirteen, when I hadn’t even grown to my full 6'5" frame, I received my first college scholarship offer. When most girls were begging their moms to go to the mall on Friday night, or dreaming of getting their learner’s permits, I was already being asked to consider where I’d go to college. Talk about pressure.

  “Th-thank you,” I stammered. “I’m so honored. But I need to think about this and talk to my parents. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  Coach Hatchell assured me there was no rush, and I took the rest of camp to let her offer sink in. When I went home and talked it over with my mom and dad, we decided I should tell her that I’d sit on the offer till high school. I’d say it was because settling on a college in seventh grade was just too early. But I knew the real reason.

  The truth is that I’m not sure I love playing, I thought. I worry I’m doing it only because I feel like I have to. Plus, the idea of this sport tearing me away from home just breaks my heart.

  Chapter Three

  High School Star

  Ursuline Academy is a private Catholic school in Wilmington, and beginning in sixth grade it educates only girls. It was where I went from seventh grade on.

  The nice thing about all-girls schools is that there are no boys to compare yourself to. That may sound obvious and silly—I mean, of course there are no boys. It’s an all-girls school! But that’s not exactly what I mean. I’m talking about the fact that girls can really shine when boys aren’t around. At Ursuline, pep rallies were for all of us. Our basketball squad was called the Raiders, not the “Lady Raiders.” Playing sports at an all-girls school doesn’t brand you as too tough or not girly enough. Instead you’re powerful and respected. You’re showing your friends and classmates that girls can be strong—and they don’t need boys to tell them that.

  You’d think that that kind of support system would have made me happy, right? But I wasn’t. Playing better than ever—like when I led the Raiders to a state championship as an eighth grader—didn’t either. I always left the court feeling totally empty.

  I just couldn’t figure out why I was training so much or playing so hard. By the time I was thirteen, I was traveling to out-of-town clinics or tournaments almost every weekend, sometimes sleeping in a hotel miles and miles away from my home and my sister. She was the person who needed me, not a bunch of basketball fans or college recruiters who wanted to snatch up the next high school star. Legendary Tennessee coach Pat Summitt flew to see one of my games early on in high school, then left that night, and while I was very honored to meet her, I wondered why her opinion of me mattered. Impressing her is not why I was put on this earth, I thought. I knew that if Lizzie wasn’t even aware of all of my accomplishments on the court, then who was I playing for? Was I working like crazy for myself, or because I thought that it was what I was supposed to do?

  I wasn’t just burned out physically. My heart, mind, and soul were tired as well.

  When I moved up to high school from eighth grade, my classes were in a different building. There were older kids in the new building, from freshman all the way up to seniors, and while I hadn’t met a lot of them, they apparently knew who I was.

  Early on in my freshman season, my teammates and I were walking through a narrow hallway on our way to the locker room so that we could get changed for an afternoon practice. I was toward the front of the group, followed right behind by our assistant coach, Peg Desendorf. As I made my way toward a mass of students just getting out of their last class, they turned, almost all together, and cleared a path for me. Some of them even reached out to touch my arm as I passed.

  “What is going on, Coach Desendorf?” I asked as I turned to her.

  “You were All-State as an eighth grader, Elena,” she answered. “You’re like a celebrity here.”

  I was humbled, but it wasn’t enough to make me love basketball. In fact, I began to worry that if I let up even for a little bit, I’d be disappointing all my new fans.

  I started playing harder than I ever had before. By the end of my freshman season, my team had a 25–1 record, and I was averaging twenty-eight points a game. We competed in—and won—the Diamond State Classic, a national girls’ high school basketball tournament that was held in Wilmington and benefited the Special Olympics. This was especially meaningful to me because of Lizzie. Even though she wasn’t able to participate in the Special Olympics, I’d seen some of her friends do it, and watching them receive medals made my heart sing.

  In fact, remembering the
Special Olympics was one of the few times I felt a sense of peace. I hated basketball, and that wouldn’t change as I headed into my sophomore season, a year that put me on the national map more than ever.

  Chapter Four

  Free Throw Champion

  In high school I became famous for my free throws.

  The truth was, though, that I’d been great at them for years. When I was twelve, I was playing in an Amateur Athletic Union tournament, and we were down by two points as the clock ticked away. With one tenth of a second left in the game, I was fouled, sending me to the line for two shots. The whole game was up to me, and I was about to pass out from the pressure.

  I thought about the thousands of free throws I’d made since I was little, and as the crowd began to roar, I visualized the ball going up, arcing forward, and then meeting the edge of the basket. When I unleashed the ball from my fingers, it did just that, moving through the net perfectly. We were down by one.

  One shot, and we’ll go into overtime, I told myself. With hundreds of eyes glued on me, I tried to shut out the noise in my head and shoot again.