me, his thin hair windblown and his clothes unruly—it’s how he looked before surgery as well.
“Mr. Kostas,” he says, offering his hand. “I hear you’re ready to start walking.” He scans through my chart without looking at me.
“I’m ready to start running,” I tell him.
He lowers the paper in his hand and looks at me, his round cheeks pulling into a smile. “Well, let’s take a look and see what you’re ready for. You were injured while playing a sport, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Basketball?”
“Football.”
He nods. “Full ACL. How’s physical therapy going?”
“Good.”
He nods again. “Have you tried to put any weight on it?”
“A little last weekend.”
“How was that?”
“Wasn’t the worst thing.”
He chuckles softly like he knows I’m full of shit and looks at my knee and the purple scars surrounded by green and yellow bruises. “The swelling looks good.” He nods again, his hair catching like there’s an invisible breeze with the movement.
“We can get you fitted for a new brace, and you should be able to start walking on it. You might need to use the crutches if you’re going to be walking for a prolonged period, but you should be good to start using it again. Remember, you won’t want to kneel or stop on it, and you’ll need to keep your brace on unless you’re at physical therapy or in the shower. Even while you’re sleeping, you should keep it on to prevent yourself from rolling over and possibly hurting it.”
“When will I be able to run?”
He shrugs. “Five … maybe six months.”
“Six months?”
“You had an ACL reconstruction. It takes time. Not only that, but you’ve also got all these other tendons in here that are bruised and strained. They need to heal, and you want to make sure you don’t push this, or you’re going to risk tearing it again.”
“Doc, I’ve got to start training so I can be in shape for the fall.”
He stares at me wordlessly, but I see the pity and doubt in his eyes. “You need to heal.”
“I need to finish college. I need to play so recruiters can see me. I need my scholarship.”
The doctor sighs as he stands up, running a hand over his hair to make it lie flat. Only half of it obliges. “There’s a chance, but it’s rarely advised to start going back into a sport without ten to twelve months of recovery. I’ll never say never, but for now, let’s focus on getting you to bear some weight and start walking.”
The rest of the appointment consists of more waiting and then being measured for yet another brace, this one smaller and more pliable, but still uncomfortable and something I know I’ll tire of before I’m supposed to.
The physician’s assistant passes me a card on my way out to the waiting room with her name and number scribbled onto the back. But thoughts of packing up my truck and getting all my shit back to Jersey dampen my mood and make the satisfaction of getting her number seem as exciting as a tetanus shot.
In the parking lot, I load my crutches into the back seat and drive home, my thoughts swirling around the possibility of getting a scholarship to complete my senior year at any college and how my credits will transfer. If I will have to wait because I’ve been a Washington resident for nearly three years and therefore have lost residency in Jersey, which will force me to incur more fees. I debate if I could afford to stay living in Washington, and what I’d do if I went that route. Could I switch to community college? Could I afford to go to community college?
I get home to an empty house and an empty fridge and a head full of thoughts I don’t want to fucking deal with, so I go up to my room, and though it’s barely past five, I close my eyes and wait for sleep to sink in.
I head to practice the next day feeling like I’ve just lost my virginity and am walking into church.
“Kostas,” Coach Harris calls from behind me, smiling when I turn to face him. “No crutches.”
I shake my head. “Got the green light to start walking.”
“All good news. What did he say about being able to play this fall?”
“He said he can’t make any promises, but I’m young and healthy, and there’s a chance.” It’s a lie, but according to my textbooks, it’s a fact—though, statistically speaking, not a likely one.
Coach Harris grins around his wad of gum. “That’s great