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  • 3:00pm EST. United States. Boston, MA. 80 Boylston St. Basement.
    Musky sneakers. Icy-Hot. Germ-X. Lotion.
    Music. Typing. Words. Motion.

    I sat on the blue-cushioned table, propped up against the wall. There were fingers and thumbs and knuckles digging into my left knee. My leg was straightened, and bent, and straightened, and bent. I was told to twist, turn, relax, resist.

    I was in the athletic training room for, at least, the 200th time within the past year. The people prodding at me were my age, give or take a year or two. Their knowledge of the human body extended far beyond my own. Each tweak there and each twitch here told them something new about the situation.

    It was right then I realized that this is what they would be doing for the rest of their lives. It was then I realized that they must truly have a passion for fixing people, knowing people, helping people. It was also at that time that I realized that these relationships they build with their athletes must mean the most to them. Every day, they are quizzed on muscles and joints and tendons. Constantly asked why one thing reacts one way at times, but other times it fails to respond at all. So then again, I realized...we must be their break. We must be their reason to continue. It was in that moment that I realized I was more than just an injury to them, and they were more than just people trying to fix me. We had learned about each other and gotten to know each other in an unusual way; we formed a bond that usually takes much, much longer. We were instantly forced to become comfortable with one another, but that level of comfort stuck from the first moment on. It was then that I realized all these every day, seemingly trivial interactions are so very much more than what meets the eye.

    And just now, I realized how sad I'll be to see them go.
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