Even then, I wasn’t sure how it happened. I was a point guard and I had gone in for a lay-up, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor holding my right hand. I had somehow been knocked down, and one of the defenders, # 13, after trying to block the ball from going in, came down hard with his left foot on my right hand. (I remember his number, because I too was #13 for my team.) It really hurt. It was one of those moments in a teenage male’s life that everything in your soul wants you to cry, but you just knew it wouldn’t be cool at all.
Turned out to be a big deal. The coaches came on the floor. The referees had come over. In fact, everyone from both teams were crowding around me trying to get a look. They helped me get up (I had tried to resist that, but apparently I had turned pale enough that everyone thought I was going to pass out.) As they brought me over to the bench, I saw out of the corner of my eye that #13 was sitting on his bench and he had tears in his eyes. He was hurting because he knew that he was responsible for hurting another player.
Wherever there is pain, there needs to be healing.