This beast we know as COVID-19 has brought to the surface doubt and tragedy, but also perspective and hope. As a senior at White Station High School, I am being challenged, measuring the endurance of pain. This insidious virus has taught me that mental pain can be far worse than physical.
I’m a pitcher and have played varsity softball for the Spartans for three years. The thought of not having a fourth breaks my heart. It’s often said, “You never know what you have until you lose it.” I miss this part of me that’s been stolen, and I will forever reflect on doubleheaders, championships — our 2017 team became the first in White Station history to reach the state sectionals — and my teammates uniting on the diamond at 514 S. Perkins Road. I was named captain this season, and prepared myself to lead the team. For a full season. I’d do just about anything to put on my uniform and stand in that pitcher’s circle again.
I’ve also lost my last season of club soccer (my purest passion, by the margin of a hair over softball). Without the ball at my feet and teammates I consider family, fighting for the same goal, I’ve felt a void in my veins. It’s comforting to know I’m not standing alone. Tears have been shed from many souls who are facing undeserving loss.
If I could change a single thing in my life so far, it would be to take absolutely nothing for granted: football games on Friday nights, going to those sectionals with my sister — a senior centerfielder — freshman year, winning a State Cup in soccer, parties with my best friends, watching sports with my father, and, perhaps most significant, receiving my education at a school that’s taught me much more than MLA format and the quadratic formula, but culture, diversity, and friendship. All of us have thought, “Why now?” Well, there’s never a perfect time to have a pandemic, but strength must be our asset right now. My heart pours out to the people who have lost jobs, experiences, and people they love.
The pain is temporary, I tell myself, and life will continue with a new light, and fresh encounters.
Everyone should have the opportunity to anticipate — and navigate — an ending, and the Class of 2020 is losing a life stage that can’t be repeated. Three games left, two, one… no. I played my last softball game without knowing it. I sat in my last class not knowing. That is the torture of surprises. My emotions have been oscillating from fear to hope, desperation to confidence, and voice to silence. It’s a new type of pain that is new to everyone, whether we are 77 or 7. I stay busy, establishing and sticking to priorities. Time must be shared and divided among overlapping practices, games, and work shifts. Knowing where I would be, who I would be with, and how I would feel if the virus had not turned our lives around, is a scary thing to process. But a great part about our species is that we are adaptable. Traumatizing situations happen, and we find escapes and silver linings and solutions while we fight as a whole. As a team.
I identify myself first as a student-athlete, and I empathize with the senior athletes — high school and college — around the world who have been stripped of their final seasons. No child wonders if their graduation, or senior prom, or their countless memories made with their best friends before parting ways, will ever be at stake. I may never step in the halls of White Station as a student anymore. I may not dance at senior prom. I may never throw another pitch, or score a goal in a soccer game. This is scarring, but I will not allow myself to be identified by what I lose. The pain is temporary, I tell myself, and life will continue with a new light, and fresh encounters. My dad has always told me, “the most important pitch is the next pitch.”
We cannot dwell on the pain of the present but steer toward the hope of tomorrow. Through this depression of loss, we should all gain an appreciation for the little things in life. We never know when it will be over. I now appreciate, with a new gratitude, fresh air, but also a bruise in the shape of softball seams on my skin. I am thankful for my best friends, all in the same room, sharing a laugh. I appreciate cleats on my feet, and that I still have a job, and that school really isn’t so bad. Everyone will come out of this crisis with a scar, but imperfections make us that much more beautiful. Pain is temporary, but love is unconditional, so I hope we all give the love to each other and the little things. When we escape this nightmare, a brighter light will take its place. Patience is our virtue, and we will all rise on two feet to overcome the past. It’s stormy right now, but rain can’t last forever.
Elena Murtaugh is the daughter of Memphis magazine managing editor Frank Murtaugh.
