Long Night in the Basketball Court
Minh Anh sat alone in the middle of the basketball court, where the cheers of thousands of spectators once echoed, now in absolute silence. Her fingers clenched so tightly that her nails turned white, her eyes closed as if trying to escape the reality that was tormenting her soul.
Basketball no longer mattered.
The upcoming games meant nothing.
For the first time in her career, Minh Anh could think of nothing but her mother.
Unexpected News
Two days ago, her mother had been rushed to the emergency room after mild pains turned into something much more serious. The diagnosis was a punch to the heart: critical condition, unclear prognosis, and a hospital room filled with machines and whispered, anxious conversations.
Minh Anh had rushed back from a game away from home, only to be told that visiting hours were over, her mother was sedated, unconscious, and in intensive care.
A Place to Find Peace
So here she was.
To the soccer field.
The only place that had always given her clarity, focus, and strength.
This stadium had been her battlefield, her safe place, her stage. But tonight, it was none of those things. Tonight, it was like a church—dark, cold, solemn—and Minh Anh sat in the center like a lone worshiper, praying not for victory, but for mercy.
The overhead lights had long since been turned off, leaving the field in darkness, save for the dim glow of the exit signs and a sliver of moonlight filtering through the skylights. Minh Anh sat on the hardwood floor where the team logo was at her feet. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, just an old hoodie and sweatpants, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail—a rough, ragged look, stripped of all performance, stripped of everything but love and fear.
And she still didn’t cry.
She couldn’t.
Memories and Pain
The tears had been falling hours ago, when she first read the text from her brother: “They’re not sure if Mom will make it through the night.” Those words had broken something inside her—something no opponent, no injury, no pain on the court had ever been able to destroy. Her mother had always been strong. The one who worked two jobs just to make it to AAU tournaments. The one who stayed up late watching her daughter’s games online, even when she was exhausted. The one who reminded her, after every loss, that basketball was just a game—but love was everything.
And now, love was all Minh Anh had left.
Prayer in the Night
As she sat in that stadium, time seemed to pass by in a blur. She whispered—almost inaudibly—words not meant for her teammates or her coaches or the media microphones. They were meant for the stars above and her unconscious mother just a few miles away. “Please hold on,” she said. “I’m not ready.”
The floor beneath her feet felt colder than usual, or maybe it was just her body shaking with emotion. She didn’t notice the gatekeeper pass the tunnel entrance, stop, and leave her alone. She didn’t hear the buzz of the electronic board as it went off in the night. All she heard was her own breathing and the echo of her whispered prayers rising into the vastness.
The Waiting
Minutes passed. Then hours. She didn’t check the time. She didn’t want to know.
The phone lay facedown beside her—a barrier between hope and pain. She didn’t turn it off, but she couldn’t bring herself to pick it up. She was terrified of what message might be waiting on the other side of the screen.
Instead, she sat still. And reminisced.
She remembered her mother tying her shoes before every game in elementary school, even when Minh Anh was old enough to do it herself. She remembered the peanut butter sandwiches made before long trips. She remembered the hospital visits when she sprained her ankle, and her mother never let her feel like it was just “sports.” It was always more than that. It was always about the heart.
A Magical Moment
And now, Minh Anh’s heart was breaking in a way she didn’t know how to process.
She didn’t pray often. She wasn’t religious in the traditional sense. But this wasn’t about faith in doctrine—it was faith in love, in memory, in connection. This was a daughter calling out across the distance, through the silence, hoping that somewhere deep in that hospital bed, her mother could hear her.
“I need you to stay,” Minh Anh whispered. “Not for the games, not for the fans. Just for me.”
At some point—a few hours later, perhaps—she lay down on the floor, staring up at the dark ceiling as if it held the answer. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her breathing evened out. Maybe it was the silence, or maybe it was exhaustion. But in that moment, something changed.
Not the peace.
Not the solution.
But the presence.
And then, the phone rang.
Once. Twice. Three times. A call.
Her heart jumped. She sat up, her hands shaking. She didn’t recognize the number. For a second, she couldn’t move. Then she picked it up.