Celebrating Without Sports: How COVID-19 Made Me Reflect
- James Fletcher III
- Apr 9, 2020
- 6 min read
Updated: Apr 9, 2022
The birthday wishes are well appreciated, I will break out hot wings and a cookie cake later tonight and my latest jersey will be on its way soon. But this is not a typical birthday for me.
Dating back as far as I can remember, and even further if you ask my mom, I have celebrated my birthday the same way. With sports.
I held parties at Autozone Park with the Redbirds, I sat courtside in FedExForum and talked to Marc Gasol about how cool it was to be there. I even invited a mascot to my birthday party once… and he came.
Whether my party celebrated the Final Four, Opening Day or the Memphis Grizzlies’ last home game, it was always going to focus on the thing I love, sports.
But now, as leagues across the world pause and sit out this pandemic, I am left without the one thing that I could always rely on. This time around, I know I can make it.
This article will share a story that some have heard, but many have not. This is how I almost lost sports and myself.
Growing up there were a million sports to play, a million things to watch on television and thousands of athletes to emulate. I quickly went from a young boy with dreams of becoming a professional athlete to a high school student competing for offers. But for a time, it looked like it would all fade away.
Coming to the end of my sophomore year in high school, I was a member of the cross-country team, the starting goalkeeper on the soccer team and was playing AAU basketball with what is now Hoop City Basketball Club.
I had been given the chance to meet NBA players like Mike Miller and Zach Randolph, I had stood beside future MLB players before games and even once had a bizarre meeting with NASCAR driver Kyle Busch. Meeting all these stars only drove me to become more like them. I was determined that I could make it to at least the collegiate level.
But those dreams changed, not in an instant, but over what felt like an eternity spent in emergency rooms and doctor’s office waiting rooms.
It all started toward the end of summer, the year of 2016. Our basketball team was playing in a tournament in the gym of a local high school. We played a team that we held a particularly bitter rivalry against. For most of the 40 minutes, the game had been rather loosely officiated, and tensions were growing with each possession.
I laid out across the floor for a loose ball just past half-court, midway through the second half. I was not able to come up with the ball as it bounced away and was picked up by a member of the other team. Knowing I needed to get back on defense, I quickly scrambled to get up.
There I was, stretching my legs out and rolling to my stomach as I went into a push-up position, ready to spring up and forward into play. At possibly my most vulnerable moment, I saw out of the corner of my eye something I was not prepared for.
I fell back to the floor in a heap, rolling to my side and grabbing at my chest. I looked up at the nearest referee who offered nothing more than a shrug as he mouthed the words “I didn’t see it.”
I had been kicked. As a laid on the ground, a member of the opposite team came up beside me and took a full step forward before swinging through my ribs.
In the moment, all I could think about was winning the game and getting revenge. Thankfully, my coach recognized the severity and pulled me out of the game before I could do much more damage.
The next morning, I woke up in agonizing pain. The adrenaline had worn off and all that was left was a cracked rib.
I sat in the first office of many that day, waiting to get an x-ray, only for the doctors to tell me there was no treatment. “Rest,” they said.
I poked and prodded more, looking for answers and finally got out of them that I could return to sports whenever I stopped feeling pain. At the time, it seemed like the best news. But now, I look back and wish for a more detailed, lengthy timeline.
Cross-country season was set to begin in two weeks, and in my mind, that was plenty of time.
I sat out the first week, mainly to appease my parents, who were afraid I was not ready to return to a sport that requires so much cardio.
When I returned, I faked my way through things. I got used to the pain. Unless it reached the point of stabbing or I felt like I could not breathe, I ran.
I faked it all the way through to the first race of the season and thought that I was finally going to do it, make my official return to sports after my most annoying injury yet.
But that day did not go the way I planned. I had set my sights on coming in with a new personal best and setting myself up to run with the fastest groups at the next race, but I never reached the finish line.
Coming down a hill just past the second mile marker of the five-kilometer run, I passed out and apparently rolled down the remainder of the hill before crashing off the course and into a group of spectators.
All I remember from that time is that there was a woman asking me questions and that I insisted I was doing fine. After a visit with the EMT, I was sent home.
That night, driving home was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I struggled to stay focused, to steady my breathing and to keep my mind on the essential tasks like maintaining speed and staying in lanes.
I tried giving the rib more time to heal, but in the next race I ran, I suffered the same result. It now appeared there was more to these issues than the rib that started it all.
From there, I was referred to a cardiologist. They ran all kinds of tests, took what seemed like half of my blood and came back with nothing. They were as confused as I had been about the whole thing.
I will never forget that day, from the tacos I ate before the appointment, to the episode of Judge Judy in the waiting room. But the most impactful moments came after a long look at the results of my many tests.
I asked the doctor the only question that mattered to me at the time, “can I play sports?”
His answer was very indirect and avoided giving a definite decision. But his avoidance told me all I needed to know. As long as they did not know what was wrong with me, they could not risk me being on the course, or court or field.
I walked silently to the car with my mom beside me. I did not want to talk.
My entire world seemed shattered, everything I had worked for and towards was now out of reach and there was nothing I could do to fight for it.
As we drove home, I made a point to turn up the radio and avoid conversation. Thankfully, it was on the right station.
It was just after 4:00 p.m. in Memphis, Tennessee and the dial was set to 92.9 FM, which meant that Gary Parrish was on the radio. Hearing his voice in that moment changed the course of my life forever.
Who knows, if it had been turned to another station, maybe I would be a singer now.
Hearing the same voice that I had come to from 4-6 p.m. weekdays for sports information and more since I was a young kid gave me an idea that saved me from the deep emptiness I felt thinking sports could be ripped away from me.
If I could not be a part of the sport, I could at least cover it.
Many people questioned this seemingly random and sudden urge. I was never known for my grammar, English was one of my weakest subjects and I had avoided writing and public speaking for years.
But I was determined that if this route was the one that saved even a sliver of sports to call my own for the rest of my life, it was worth it.
Since that day, I have worked tirelessly to make that crazy goal a reality. Since college I have worked in media relations, served as a national recruiting analyst, a sports director and a producer for an ESPN affiliate station. I have built relationships with people that I never dreamed I would get to know just a few years ago and have been given access as a writer and host that very few have received at my age.
Now, as I turn 21, I look to build off this success and do even greater things as I move forward. While sports are away and internships seem unlikely to come through, this journey will continue.
UPDATE: The journey has continued, after an internship with the Tuscaloosa News and a part-time role with USA Today, I now work on the National News Desk at On3.
For all the young journalists out there, or the kids like me who have something that they just cannot let go, I encourage you to put everything you have into it. Do not let anyone tell you what you cannot do.
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