Last night, in Houston, Stephen Curry took a spill that, in the moment, seemed career altering. Shit, perhaps even life altering.
He fell. So hard.
Fell so hard from such a height.
Time stopped. The arena grew hushed. Everyone loves Steph. Including Houston.
No one wants to see any one guy get hurt.
But if it's Steph, well, ...
Neck injuries, head injuries and spinal injuries are some of the most unpredictable and scariest in sports. In life.
You start messing around with the spine, with the neck, and suddenly you can't walk.
Things you take for granted are gone. Basketball. Holding your daughter. Walking to the store to get grocery bags.
And so when Steph fell last night, and the worst seemed a horrible new reality, the world collectively held its breath and prayed for him.
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If Curry's injury weren't enough on its own to remind us that life is fragile and fleeting and can change in an instant, the flooding of Houston and the subsequent deaths of 10 people in Texas (with 16 still missing) surely drove that point home.
As much as we turn to basketball and to sports and to music and literature for distraction, we can also turn to them in moments of weakness. In those moments when we question ourselves. When we question the greater design. Wondering what life has in store for us.
Searching for meaning amidst the destruction wrought in a night time of flooding.
After the game, many people, including Dwight Howard, were trapped for hours in the Toyota center. It took some people until 7am to get home from the game, navigating a waterworld apocalypse of sunken vehicles and impassable streets.
What a strange world.
Steph, I am so glad you are okay. And to all the people who were trapped in Houston and survived, escaped, I am so glad you are okay.
I want nothing but the best for everyone, always. But it's never that simple.
Deep breaths, moving forward. Prayers out to all.