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                             >> "Game Over" <<
                               by -> RedMan

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        This little gem was provided to us by RedMan, a charming gentleman
 who wrote this as a submission to h0e, in exchange for his IRC channel back,
 which various h0e writers had taken over.  He's a regular on #writers.
 I'm sure you'll enjoy.

                                                        -- Mogel [dto@op.net]

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

        As I stood at the three point line, the ball seemed to be in slow
 motion. Screams from the crowd came as the ball dropped through the net. Not
 only did this shot go in but it dropped through the net with such force that
 it made a sound that was heard throughout the gym. The gym was packed and
 the fans were on their feet, I had just hit my first three pointer of my
 varsity basketball career. As our team set up the press, sweat dripped from
 my face. I was close enough to kiss my opponent, there was no way he was
 going to get the ball. He shoved me backward and he planted his foot on
 mine, he then pushed off and ran for the inbounder. I fell back a few feet
 and sprinted towards my man. As the inbounder released the ball with a firm
 push I stuck my handout in hopes for a steal, SNAP! As the ball was
 deflected towards the right my man ran and picked it up. I quickly looked
 down at my finger and with fear and pain walked over to my bench. My
 pinkie-finger on my right hand was at a ninety degree ankle, as sweat
 dripped down may face I could feel myself getting hot. My stomach seemed to
 drop and I was feeling as if I was on a roller coaster. The game had been
 stopped and I was brought into the coaches room. My assistant coach led me
 into the room and sat me down on a wooden chair. I began to feel very cold,
 and my finger began to have a shooting pain. This pain was not present
 before and was no making itself known that there was something wrong with.

        My parents entered the room, my mother carrying a face that I never
 had seen before. My father with a calm collective look to him. The assistant
 then began to explain that there was to deal with this, either go to the
 hospital and miss the game or deal with it write in the room.

        My mother stared over at my coach when he relayed this message to me
 and my father seem to agree with my coach. I looked at my coach with eyes of
 trust and horror, and then laid my hand in his. He then took his hand and
 placed it over my pinkie. Which by now was swelling and extremely painful,
 he then got a firm grip and with one quick tug my finger was now vertically
 correct. My coach then looked at me with bulging eyes and asked how it felt.
 Being the starting point guard on my schools varsity team there was no way I
 was going to say that I needed to leave the game. With a convincing nod and
 a energetic response I was on my way back onto the court. I reentered the
 game and the crowd began to applaud, I was so nervous. It was like the first
 time I had ever played basketball in front of a crowd. The game resumed and
 I ran down the court, my finger throbbed and I could not help but think of
 it. My teammates snapped the ball quickly over to me and I caught it. I felt
 like dropping the ball and running to the sideline but instead I got rid of
 the ball as soon as I could. I then proceeded to run over to the sideline
 and with a look of pain in my eyes I let my coach know that I needed to come
 out of the game. As I sat there and watched my team lose the game I could
 not decide if I was hurting more from my finger or form the fact that I was
 not in there helping my team.As the coach was screaming and yelling in the
 locker room I could not help but think about my finger, the pain was no
 shooting down my arm and I was praying that I did not break it. I showered
 and proceeded to get dressed. Each time I buttoned a button on my shirt I
 would get a shooting pain, I began to believe that I should go to the
 hospital but I did not want to let anyone know. I walked up the steps and
 there were my parents, my Mom gave me a look of compassion and she seemed
 very concerned. Sternly, my father said that I should o to the hospital but
 with a convincing tone of voice I talked them out of it. I went home that
 night and stayed up thinking about the possibility that I might have a
 broken finger. As I dazed off to sleep I repeated to myself that things were
 going to be O.K.

        I woke up in some pain but I thought nothing of I because injuries
 are always worse the day after. It was Saturday so I had a couple of days to
 rest my finger, by mid-afternoon my finger as throbbing like it had just
 been hit by a hammer. At this time I decided that I needed to go to the
 emergency room. My father and I hopped into the 95 Mazda 626 and of to the
 hospital we went. On the ride there several things were going though my
 mind, although I was very optimistic. At most I thought I would miss a month
 or so, and that was absolute tops. I got to the hospital and filled out
 paperwork. Actually I filled out endless pages of paperwork that was quite
 painful to my finger. About twenty minutes later a short, skinny blond hair
 nurse came out and with a soft voice said "Sheahan." I then got up and with
 a nervous step in my walk proceeded to the examination room. I took a seat
 and the nurse asked to see my finger. She gently touched my finger. With a
 stare that made me nervous, replied "this does not look good." With a
 threatened voice I said" What do you mean," she then pointed out to me that
 the top part of my finger was twisted to the left. My knuckle was twice the
 size of any other one on my finger and it had a blue color to it, the kind
 of blue you see when you have been bruised very badly. I had notice this
 before but I had failed to make a big deal of it, then the doctor walked in.
 He was a tall man with a thick mustache and thick brown hair. He opened his
 mouth and the words "how did you do this?" came out. I replied in a
 basketball game and he then began to take a look at my finger. He had a look
 of concern on his face and before I knew it I was gong to have my fingered
 x-rayed. I had this done which took all of ten minutes and then he returned
 with the results. I had been siting there in anticipation of the results. I
 was on the edge of my seat waiting for his return. Then the door opened
 slowly and the doctor walked in. He took a seat next to me and with a calm
 voice said" It looks as if you are going to need surgery." I almost fell out
 of my seat this would mean that I would miss just about my whole season. Me,
 the starting point guard out for the season. I looked at my father with hope
 and desperation hoping that he would have some advice to give me. What could
 he say the doctor had given his diagnosis and he was right. The doctor then
 proceeded with a stern convincing voice to say that I had shattered the
 bones in my right pinkie finger. I would have to have surgery to pin these
 bones back together, the process is going to take about two and half hours.
 I picked myself up off the floor and my dad and I got back into the Mazda
 and drove home. I was extremely quite on the way home and felt as if all my
 hard work and preparation for this basketball season was for nothing.
 Although my father tried to keep my hopes up it was not having any effect on
 me. The trip to hospital was one that I regretted and in two weeks form
 then, would be paying for in the operating room.

        The weekend seemed to drag on forever and finally Monday rolled
 around. Throughout school I had shooting pains in my finger and all I could
 think about was what exactly my coach was going to say when I gave him the
 news that I was going to be out for six weeks. The day ended and I packed my
 school bag as usual, I then headed for basketball practice. I got there and
 everyone came up to me asking ho my finger was, I responded with an upset
 disappointing tone, that I would be out for six weeks. The team was as
 surprised as I was when I heard the noise. Although the team felt bad, they
 were not the ones that were going to have the doctor cut open their finger,
 and pin tiny bones back together. I had stay on the sidelines and watch the
 team day in and day out play the game that I loved so much. The worst of it
 was that I had to watch someone fill my spot, a spot that I had worked long
 hours for in the summer. Someone was just going to step in and take the spot
 that I had reserved for myself. That was worse than the pain of my finger or
 the surgery I had to go through.

        The day had come, and I woke up extremely early that mourning. I was
 not allowed to eat anything and as I was driving in with my father my 
 stomach was growling. We arrived at the hospital and I checked in at the
 front desk, a rather large women with brown hair took the information that
 they needed. They brought me into a room and had me put on a johnny. You
 know, one of those pieces of clothing that shows your ass to the world. I
 cam out of the bathroom and they had brought in a television for my father
 and I to watch as I waited. We put in "White men can't jump" and just as
 Woody was going to take the court for the first time the overweight nurse
 walked in. They brought me to the prep room and there I lay just waiting to
 go under. As they started my IV I began to get nervous. I thought of nothing
 except for the surgery to come the doctor then added vallium to my iv and
 before I could count to five I was out.

        I woke up and felt very sluggish, I lay there for a while and then
 proceeded to get dressed. The operation was over and I was on my way to
 recovery. Two weeks passed and I was still attending every practice and
 every game, this was very hard for me because I was unable to play. The
 season went on and I watched for the sidelines, and on the final game of the
 season I got my cast off. However, I was unable to play because I still
 needed to go to therapy for my finger. My junior basketball season was lost,
 and I could never get it back. The effects came a year later, May of senior
 year.

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      * (c) HoE publications.  HoE #229 -- written by RedMan -- 4/7/98 *
