Dear Journal:
I didn’t see sissy for the rest of the weekend. I did, however, see the letter that drove her into hiding.
It was on heavy cream-stock paper and featured an embossed university seal at the top and a quill-pen signature from the school’s athletic director at the bottom. It looked like something you might frame…except for the fact that sissy had balled it up and thrown it across the room.
Mom retrieved it from the kitchen floor near the base of the refrigerator after sissy hurled it and stormed upstairs. I want to think sis threw it at the fridge intentionally, in a “this is all your fault!” kind of way, but it was probably just a coincidence.
I peeked at it when Mom went up to comfort her. It was abrupt and unapologetic, stating that her “athletic scholarship had been revoked due to failure to adhere to NCAA rules,” specifically sections blah, blah, blah, of sub-section blah. I don’t remember the numbers, but I Googled them on my phone.
The first one, and I’m paraphrasing, was something like “continue to live by the social rules that made you an outstanding student, athlete, and role model in your school and community.” That seems arbitrary. Like a catch-all that could be applied to anyone for almost any reason. Then again, it wouldn’t be politically correct if it stated, “don’t get fat and pregnant.”
The second was more straightforward: “receive the recommendation of your high school coach.”
Ouch. That one had to hurt.
I must admit, it even upset me a little. I’m no sissy apologist, but she was a varsity starter as a freshman and a four-year letterman. For four years, she gave her all to that team. She sprained her ankle, tweaked her knee, and received so many bumps and bruises you might think she was from an abusive home if you didn’t know better. I was there (against my will, granted) when the coach gave her the team’s MVP award, along with an uncomfortably long hug, after last year’s finals.
Sure, last season turned sour, but that shouldn’t erase four years of blood, sweat, and tears, should it?
Such are the fickle perils of athletics, I suppose. Is it fair when an Olympian trains for four years, only to have their country boycott the games? Or to get bounced by a technicality, or the prejudiced score of an East German judge? Just thinking about it makes me want to cry in my room with a tub of ice cream.
Hmmm, maybe I’ll run up to Baskin-Robbins later. Provide sissy with some cold comfort.
--Jessie