My Shot Read online

  Learning to depend on other people—all the time—is what I need to do, I thought. That’s how UD is going to have a great season.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vocal Leadership

  I took that philosophy back with me to campus for my junior season, and suddenly basketball filled up all my thoughts. For years it had been my life’s work, but in my third year playing basketball as a Blue Hen, it became my life. And anyone who knows me knows how much I love being alive.

  Viewing basketball as a team effort rather than a sport that I had to carry on my shoulders alone also made me think about my role on the court. Sure, I knew I could shoot free throws and almost never miss, that my height meant I could block more shots than not, and I was super-skilled at making three-pointers, but what else could I add to my team that I hadn’t already? How else could I help elevate our level of play so that we could be CAA champions and advance to the NCAA tournament? I wanted our success to be as a team, not just about me or because of me.

  Before summer training even started, I sat down to talk to John Noonan about these questions. For more than a decade John had been my mentor and my basketball guide, and I knew he’d come up with some great advice.

  “I’m playing better than ever,” I said, “but I need to do something else. Something more.”

  John didn’t even hesitate to answer. Clearly he’d been thinking about my role on the Blue Hens as much as I had.

  “Elena, you are a natural team leader. Everyone knows that. But I’ve watched you practice and play, and you don’t express that. I think you need to assert yourself everywhere: in the locker room, in the huddle, and on the court. You need to talk more, to get people pumped up. You know the game and how to play it, so say it out loud. This year I think it’s time for you to become a vocal leader.”

  For just a moment I sat and thought about what John had said. I’ve always been quieter than most people, and I hate being critical or telling people what to do. Maybe it’s because I’m a third child, so when I was born, I learned to fit into my family rather than take charge of it. I trusted Gene to be the loud one, and for everyone to step up to whatever Lizzie needed. But right then I realized John was right. If I wanted UD to advance and play at a higher level—a level I’d proven that summer that I could reach on a team—I had to speak up.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I hate being the bad cop, but I know how my teammates can play better, so I have to tell them that.” Then I looked him straight in the face and made my goal for the coming season. “I’m going to be a vocal leader this year.”

  Right from our first game, it was clear that I could be. I started getting my teammates pumped up before games, and when the whistle blew, it was I who would yell to a teammate who seemed hesitant to pass the ball or attempt an unlikely shot. I started encouraging my team to take risks, to reach higher, and to play more aggressively. I decided I didn’t want to be just a physical presence on the court. I wanted people to hear me too. After all, if I relied on my fragile body alone, it might fail me like it had the year before.

  I sensed a change in my team’s energy right away. We got on the court, we challenged one another, and we started winning. In November we beat the University of Rhode Island, then Penn State, then Villanova, then more teams after that. Thanksgiving passed, and by the time Christmas came around, we’d won ten in a row and still hadn’t lost. The Bob had moveable bleachers that were used only for huge events like graduation, and maintenance rolled them out as average fan attendance soared from about two thousand to almost four thousand. A local middle school class used women’s basketball tickets as a prize for whichever student finished their required reading first, and we heard reports that students had never read faster in their lives. I found out that students and faculty were buying season tickets in droves. Sure, my parents did that, but it was pretty much unheard of for everyone else.

  Suddenly the Blue Hens were the hottest ticket in town. Even though that came with pressure, I didn’t let it get to me. I was too happy that my team was winning.

  Unfortunately, we finally fell to the University of Maryland in a late December nail-biter. The game was so action-packed, with each side playing so aggressively, that the media said it actually had the feel of an NCAA tournament game. Maryland was ranked number five in the nation and was on an unbeaten streak just like us, and we knew from the beginning that it would be an uphill battle. Still, we played with all our hearts, and I couldn’t have been prouder of the team.

  In the New Year, as we started conference play, we got right back to winning, and the crowds kept coming. US Vice President Joe Biden, who is a University of Delaware alum and lived in Wilmington when he wasn’t in Washington, watched us beat Drexel in late January. We showed up in the campus weekly e-mail about upcoming school events—something that had never happened before—and even people who had never seen a basketball game in their lives came to watch us. I was on cloud nine during each and every game, but did I hate the spotlight? Was the pressure bearing down on me? Not for a second. I’d made a deliberate choice about this school, this team, and this season, and I felt confident in all of it.

  I was nearing a career milestone too. At the beginning of a February game against Hofstra, I was pretty sure I was going to score my two-thousandth collegiate point. I was the leading scorer in the NCAA, averaging about twenty-eight points a game, so unless I had to sideline myself for one reason or another, I thought I’d do it.

  It’s going to happen sooner or later, I told myself, so don’t let it get to you.

  It didn’t. Even though there was a line of shirtless male Hofstra students standing in the first row behind the goal, taunting me while they held up printouts of Geno Auriemma’s head, I sank ball after ball, scoring forty-two points in the game and breaking the two-thousand mark. It wasn’t like the time I broke the high school foul shot record, when I almost melted from the weight I felt. This time, breaking two thousand was all a part of helping my team win. It wasn’t just my success or my milestone. It was all a part of leading UD toward a victory.

  UD finished the season undefeated in the CAA. And when we played in the CAA tournament, we won all three games by double digits. We were going to advance to the NCAA tournament for the first time since 2008, and we’d done it as a team.

  Chapter Sixteen

  NCAA Tournament Debut

  Our opponent in the first round of the NCAA tournament was the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, and we were expected to win. They were a fourteenth-ranked seed from a tiny conference, while we were third in our region. We were known as an up-and-coming powerhouse with only one loss under our belt, and we were fresh off a tournament we’d dominated.

  But strange things happen in the early round of tournaments, so we vowed to play like we meant it. And we did; we won 73–42.

  Our second-round opponent was the University of Kansas, and to say we were nervous would be an understatement. First off, Delaware had never before advanced beyond the first round of the NCAA tournament, so we were in totally uncharted territory. Even though Kansas was a number-eleven seed, making them the underdog, they’d been to the tournament before. They were a much bigger school than us, with a men’s basketball program that was always one of the best. We were still, in everybody’s mind, the little guys. Second, we knew we were making headlines. We had an almost unbeaten record and the nation’s leading scorer (me). Because people were still talking about me leaving UConn, we were a juicy story. Even the president was talking us up! In an interview with ESPN, Barack Obama mentioned that in his bracket he’d picked UD to advance all the way to the Elite Eight. Was he just trying to make Vice President Biden happy? We’ll never know, but, oh boy, did it keep us on our toes!

  There’s a big difference between the kind of pressure I felt when I got to UConn and the kind I felt before the game against Kansas, though. At UConn part of the reason why I burned out is because I felt all alone. When I looked around me, all I saw were women who wante
d to play basketball for the rest of their lives. I imagined that none of them thought it was okay to fail. At UConn we were all expected to be the best, and losing just wasn’t an option.

  As I sat in the locker room before one of the biggest games of my life, I realized that most of my UD teammates knew they’d leave basketball after college, so a part of them was playing just because it was fun. They understood that it was entirely possible we might lose—and that was okay. We’d made it further than we ever had before, and we’d try our absolute hardest to make it through to another round.

  We were prepared. Coach Martin had made sure of it.

  “Kansas is going to be all over us,” she said just before the game. “Especially you, Elena. You’re going to be double- and triple-teamed, so be ready.”

  That was nothing new, so I didn’t think much of it. What did concern me, though, was the attitude the Jayhawks probably had. They’d lost their leading scorer earlier in the season and had suffered a string of defeats because of it, so making it this far in the tournament was a huge deal for them. I wondered: Are they going to be extra confident because they’ve already been through so much adversity and succeeded? I had no idea, so I figured I had to be prepared for anything.

  From the second the whistle blew, Coach Martin’s words held true. I had defenders on top of me everywhere I turned. They came at me all at once—one, two, and three at a time—waving their arms, pushing toward me, and trying to make me as uncomfortable as possible. One of my strategies has always been to put on my game face—serious, so no one can see how I’m feeling—and I doubled up on that. But when I wasn’t being swarmed by Kansas defenders, I was acting like the vocal leader I told myself I should be, yelling and encouraging my team.

  For the first half of the game, it worked. We entered the locker room leading Kansas 37–31.

  “You’re playing great,” Coach Martin said to us, “but I can tell that Kansas has a fire inside them. So don’t stop hustling.”

  Sure enough, in the second half things started to unravel. I was shooting well—50 percent from the field—and my rebounding was just as good as always, but we couldn’t pull our defense together. We looked tired, running to catch up with an ever-faster Kansas, and we weren’t clicking as a team. Defense had been a huge strength for us all season, and when it started to fail us, we looked lost. A Kansas player named Natalie Knight made shot after shot after shot, and we couldn’t hold her back. We’ve got to try something new. We have to get morale back up, I thought, and I screamed at my teammates to do just that.

  Kansas went on a 19–6 run, and soon they were up 53–43.

  If our defense keeps falling apart, I have to step into high gear.

  In high school, being the success or failure of a team was one of my least favorite feelings in the world. The last thing I ever wanted was the pressure that comes not just with being the best, but with being the only option. I honestly don’t know, at that point in the game, if I actually was our team’s only hope, but I didn’t care. I’d matured and moved beyond worrying about everything being up to me. I just wanted us to win, so I was going to do everything I possibly could to make that happen.

  I scored twelve points right in a row, and the score was 59–57. We were only two points from tying the game.

  Kansas answered right away, though, and soon they were up 68–57. Our defense was just no match for them, and we couldn’t keep up with how well they were shooting for the net. By the time I heard the final buzzer, the score was 70–64, and we’d lost the game.

  As I walked toward the sidelines, I could feel hot tears coming into my eyes. The most remarkable season I’d ever experienced was over, but I was disappointed for reasons I’d never expected.

  I don’t care what mistakes I made, I thought. I’m over being critical of myself. I’m just sad that the seniors on this team have to say good-bye now. We had so much fun this year, and now it’s over.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Seize Every Moment

  Because I hadn’t played basketball my freshman year, my first season with the Blue Hens had been as a redshirt freshman. That meant that during my sophomore year, I was in my first year of basketball eligibility, but I was in my second year academically. By the time I played against Kansas in the NCAA tournament, I was the same age as the seniors on the squad. I’d been at Delaware for four years, and I could graduate if I wanted to. There was more at stake, though; if I decided to leave UD, I could enter the WNBA draft.

  My life after college wasn’t a decision I took lightly. When I’d chosen to give up basketball forever three years before, I’d told myself to come up with a backup plan, and that was special education. At Delaware I’d studied hard in my special ed classes and had held internships, and when I hung out with Lizzie and her friends, I’d used the skills I’d been learning. I knew—even when I was at the top of my college game—that I had the option to leave basketball again and still have a fulfilling career as a teacher or therapist. Basketball didn’t have to be everything.

  I wanted it to be, though. Part of me was surprised, but I’d grown to love it. I’d decided to make it my career—not because it was all I knew how to do, but because it was all my heart longed for.

  But was it something I’d dive into a year early, before I’d given the Blue Hens a full four seasons? Even though the WNBA recruiting class that year wasn’t as competitive as it would be the following year, and I probably would have been a top draft pick, I refused to consider it. I was having way too much fun playing basketball.

  After my burnout I’d realized that having a good time was the key to avoiding another collapse. Enjoying something—then just going with it—was what would make me happy, and happiness was the antidote to too much pressure. If I got stressed, I might start to hate basketball, or, worse, I might have another relapse of Lyme disease.

  I was onto a good thing at UD, happier than I’d ever been before in my life. That’s why I knew deep in my soul that it wasn’t time to leave. I was going to stay another year and work as hard as possible to see the Blue Hens reach the Sweet Sixteen in the NCAA tournament. I knew it was possible. We had a terrific incoming class, and the sophomores, juniors, and seniors were still riding the high of our previous season. They wanted to do better than last year as much as I did.

  The season started out in November beautifully. In nonconference play, we defeated the University of Rhode Island and then Penn State, both at home. We had five days off until our next game, and we were going to work out and practice steadily till then. But, unfortunately, I could tell something wasn’t right. It wasn’t with the team either; it was with me.

  Ever since the agony I’d gone through getting diagnosed with chronic Lyme disease, I’d been vigilant about making sure I was on top of my health. I was strict about my diet, took all my supplements, and if something in my body was bothering me, I wouldn’t brush it off. I couldn’t. I’d take a day off to visit Rita Rhoads if I had to, or I’d rest in bed all day, monitoring my symptoms. When I woke up on the morning of November 20, my head was throbbing and my joints were screaming. I could barely roll to one side to get out of bed, and when I finally did, I stumbled toward the phone.

  “Coach Martin,” I whispered, “I’m having a flare-up. I can’t play Providence tonight, so I need to take some time to rest.”

  I’ve been blessed with a lot of understanding people since I got sick, but I think Coach Martin never really understood my Lyme disease. When I’d first gotten my diagnosis two years before, she downplayed it, and even warned me that I’d be remembered as a high school has-been if I didn’t get my act together.

  This time she was silent on the phone, and then she told me to get to the gym for practice.

  I hung up the phone and punched my fist into the wall. I was just so tired of feeling that she wasn’t listening. I also realized that I’d be justifying my illness to skeptical people for who knows how long, and that left a hollow feeling in my gut. Finally, I hated not having
a clue as to how long this flare-up would last. All I knew was that I had to take a short break from basketball, rest up, and get better.

  This time I may be sick for a week or a month—or even three months. I may miss the rest of the season! I have no idea today, and I won’t for the rest of my life either.

  Right at that moment I think I accepted how unknown the future was for me. Sure, if my health was perfect and I never injured myself so badly that I couldn’t play again, I’d probably have a career in basketball for the next decade. But with Lyme disease breathing down my neck, the prospect of leaving the sport again was very real. Every time I felt my muscles scream for no reason, my joints crack, my head throb, or my vision weaken, it might be a flare-up, and it might stop me in my tracks—forever. I had a chronic condition, and that meant it would be with me, always keeping me on my toes, for the rest of my life.

  Realizing you’re sick—even when you’re feeling great—can be a depressing thought for a lot of people. I think elite athletes, especially, like to feel superhuman, but we have to understand that we can break as easily as everybody else. I refuse to let that get me down. I have a sister who’s been severely compromised since the moment she came into the world, and she still feels joy all the time. Lizzie lives in the moment, delighting in the beautiful things she can smell and feel, and the family and friends that care for her. During my senior season I told myself I had to look at life like she did. I chose to seize every moment like it was my last, so that I could live my very best life.