Page 75 of Full Court Love
As I watch Sasha look lost and embarrassed, I’m starting to understand why she acts the way she does. Hurt people hurt people. Sasha appears to have everything, but when it all boils down, her parents’ top priority doesn’t seem to be her happiness. I get the impression that she grew up in an environment where she was made to feel like she was constantly falling short of the Pierson image.
A constant letdown.
A constant disappointment.
Nothing she did would ever be enough.
That would make anyone bitter.
I can understand and even empathize with the complicated emotions that come along with striving to be great. What I don’t understand, though, is how to deal with it when the pressure is coming directly from the people who are supposed to love you the most. I’m probably not tough enough to handle that. I would’ve crumbled.
In that way, she and Jordan are cut from the same cloth, although they’ve handled that pressure much differently. Jordan is striving to get away and putting in the work to do better than his dad. He’s ensuring that the damage and hurt ends with him. Sasha, on the other hand, is lashing out and burning bridges left and right.
Rather than stopping the pain, she’s hell-bent on making other people feel how she was made to feel for her whole life: small.
I watch her go meet her parents as we all file out of the locker room. It’s a heartbreaking sight to behold. There’s no excitement or hugs or much warmth of any kind. In fact, her parents largely bypass her and start making their way around to congratulate all the starters.
Sasha’s face falls as she shadows their path. The Piersonswork the room like pros. Their daughter hasn’t earned their attention, so she doesn’t get any.
It makes me even more grateful as I embrace my loving support squad. Jordan, my mom, my grandparents, and my roommates–all with #23 painted on their faces–give me a massive group hug. I’m met with chatter about cool shots I made and laughter about my airballed three in the second half.
Jordan has helped me believe what I’ve always hoped is true: these people would be here no matter what. Whether I played terribly or didn’t play at all, they just want to love and support me. There’s no agenda or expectations. There’s no conditions.
I feel so unworthy of all of it. My eyes fill with tears of gratitude, and Jordan wraps an arm around me. His touch is like a cozy blanket and only exacerbates how loved I feel in this moment. I stay as long as I can before heading to the training room to grab a bag of ice for my throbbing ankle.
One more game. That’s all I need out of this bum foot before we hopefully get some time off before the NCAA Tournament. In that time, I’ll get to rest and recover. But for now, I desperately need ice.
Callie is already waiting with a bag. I make sure she knows how grateful I am. She’s taken amazing care of me, and I’m pretty sure she’s very confused by my overly emotional behavior. I can’t help it, though. I’m overflowing with gratitude toward everyone and everything by the time I leave the training room.
What is with me today? I think the impending end of my career–hopefully not for a couple weeks–is bringing a swathe of emotions I’m not prepared to face. Right now, though, I’m just going to soak in all these amazing people for as long as I can.
My heart is light as I navigate the confusing hallways back to our locker room. I need to grab my stuff before I go backinto the arena to watch the final game tonight. We’ll play the winner of the Marquette vs DePaul matchup.
I’m about to make the final turn toward what I really hope is our locker room–this arena is so much bigger than ours, and I’m directionally challenged–when I hear voices. The heated tone of the conversation causes me to stop. I recognize at least one of the voices and could probably guess the others: Sasha and her parents.
I hear the man’s voice first.
“Your mother is just saying maybe it’s better if you aren’t with us in the donor room right now. Go sit with the team and scout your opponent.”
“Why don’t you want me in the donor room?” Sasha sounds hurt.
“Honey, we love you. But it’s embarrassing sitting with all our friends while you ride the end of the bench. It’s not exactly a secret that we got you onto the team, but we always assumed you’d eventually utilize the opportunity. But you’re a senior who only plays pity minutes.” Her mother’s words are biting.
I’m standing frozen in disbelief and horror. I never would’ve expected this harshness from that tiny, quiet woman who always seemed polished and classy. This is the furthest thing from classy. This is degrading and shameful toward her own daughter.
Sasha’s next words are thick with tears. “I’m sorry I embarrass you. Thank goodness this nightmare is almost over so you can show your faces in public again.”
Her dad attempts to mediate. “Sash, don’t cry. Your mother just means it’s been a tricky situation to navigate, both socially and professionally.”
“Oh, so that’s why you gave a car to the girl youwishyou had as a daughter and made her the face of the company? Gotcha. Thanks for connecting the dots.”
“Well, did you think it should be you?” Her dad’s toneswitches to demeaning real quick. So much for his attempt to show compassion. The question almost comes out as a sneer, and I have to fight the urge to storm in and defend Sasha. It must be bad if that’s an impulse I’m struggling to control.
She backs down, no doubt afraid of a dragged-out fight with these manipulative jerks. “No, I don’t.”
I hear footsteps heading the opposite direction–thank the Lord. I don’t know how I would’ve handled facing these people after what I just heard. When it sounds like the hallway is totally empty, I turn the corner.
Unfortunately, I was wrong about the level of emptiness.