Heart of the Game Cover Reveal

rachelspangler • January 12, 2015

I am couching today’s cover reveal in a bit of political terms because I have been deeply saddened by the news from Paris, and Pakistan, and Nigeria lately. A wave of extremism seems to be on the rise in our world. This is not unsurprising to me. Backlash always accompanies great surges in progress. No one likes to find out they are being left behind, and thankfully outright bigotry has suffered huge blows in the past months. We see it on our own shores in the recent advances in gay marriage, (congrats to all of you in Florida) and in the raised levels of awareness around racism at every branch of our justice system. We see it worldwide too. Women and girls are more educated than ever before, and their right to express themselves safely is being tested in counties that have long denied them even basic human rights. New ideas are gaining ground and old grievances are finally being heard. At times like this our most powerful tool is our voice and the right to use it freely.

Do I believe there are no limits to the right to self expression? No. Do I believe that free speech is synonymous with speech without consequences? No. Do I believe in every human being’s right to express themselves without fear of violence? Absolutely. There is no greater weapon in the fight against terrorists and tyrants alike than free speech. It is the first right we are guaranteed as American citizens. People of every race and religion have fought and died for that right and that fight goes on in every part of the globe today and honestly I think continued fighting is part of the purpose of these attacks. Not only do the people who perpetrate them intend to silence individuals they want to turn entire groups of people against each other. They want to make enemies out of every one. If you are afraid of your neighbors you are less likely to share ideas with them. If you view the world with suspicion you are less likely to see the good in it. If you carry anger and resentment with you everywhere there is no room for love, and if you expend all your energy on defenses you have nothing left to devote to progress.

I will not be part of this cycle. Not only do I refuse to be silenced I also refuse to live in fear of being silenced. I very much see the work I do as part of this ongoing fight for free speech. I live every day aware of the fact that there are people who violently oppose my right to write about the things I do. I have heard from some of these people over the years both in writing and in person. On social media and in social situations alike. I’ve been screamed at on college campuses and the National Mall. I’ve seen hate and anger and venom wrapped in the thin veil of religious piety. I’ve been told Jesus hates me, and that God will rejoice to see me in Hell. I’ve even been told I should be in hell right now and that such a visit could be arranged. I have been frightened. I have been hurt. I have been angered and saddened by other people’s attacks on my right to tell my stories, and yet I will continue to tell them.

You see the only reasonable response to an attack on free speech is more free speech. I once heard Lee Lynch say that we’ve written so many books now they cannot possibly burn them all. I intend to keep adding to that total. That is my answer to everyone who has ever told me I didn’t deserve to say the things I am called to say. That is my answer to the fear, and the anger and the violence. I will not fight fire with fire. I will not turn against my neighbors. I will not give into the forces that try to tear us apart. I will not turn to hate and I will never resort to violence. I refuse to allow those flames to consume me. I will smother them with my own stories. I will drown them out with my own voice. I will throw another book on the pile my sisters and brothers are building, and say, “There’s another one, and another, and another. If you burn them I will write more. And there are more like me. Many more who will dedicate their lives to undercutting your tales of hate with stories of love overcoming them. You cannot frighten us all into submission. You cannot silence us all. You cannot kill us all. We will not go quietly.”

So, without further ado, I am thrilled to share with you the cover of my latest project, Heart of the Game.

It is the story of a sports writer who falls for a single mom. It’s a love story. A romance between two women. Two lesbians. Two people who strive to overcome whatever forces in the world threaten to keep them apart. It is the kind of story a lot of people don’t want told, but it is more than that. It is my latest contribution to the larger body of work, to the larger chorus of voices who proclaim, we will not be silenced.

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Facebook memories reminded me that we are approaching the 1 year anniversary of my stem cell donation. On June 1st of 2021, after five days of injections, I underwent a medical procedure to donate stem cells via a line in my chest. Those cells were then transferred into a cancer patient somewhere in Ohio. In addition to feeling like a high tech medical miracle, it was also a huge, awe inspiring experience for me personally, and I’ve spent the time since then feeling so proud and honored to have been in a position to so something so powerful. Then about two weeks ago I received a phone call that my recipient had passed away. I’m gutted. The news has ripped at me in ways I could not have anticipated. This is, in effect, the death of a stranger, a young woman in a different place, whose name I have never known. And now I will never know it. In some ways I don’t feel entitled to this level of grief. In so many ways she’d only ever existed for me as an idea. But we were not nothing to each other. I have prayed for her every day for almost a year, and now I pray for her family. I have wondered and worried over her. I have woken up in the middle of long nights and on Christmas morning thinking about her. Every time I notice the little scar on my chest where the line went into my body, I have felt her with me. Still, I did not know her. And I never will. When the transplant coordinator called, she broke the news quickly, then she said that she needed one more thing from me. She wondered if I might release my remaining stem cells to researchers. I was still a bit rocked back from the start of the conversation, and this request confused me. She explained that there were some cells left over after the transfusion, and they still belonged to me. Legally and ethically, those cells, even after they left my body, are a part of me, and no one can do anything to those extensions of my body without my releasing them. I thought about asking her if anyone had mentioned that to the Supreme Court, but I was too sad in the moment. The anger would come later, but as I’ve pondered that fact, it has helped me at least contextualize the level of grief I am feeling: A woman died with a part of me inside of her. I have tried to temper the dramatic impulse to surrender to the idea that if she died with a part of me inside her, a part of me has died as well, but I’ll admit I have gone there a time or two. What I have leaned on more frequently, though, is that despite not knowing anything other than her rough age and gender, we shared something more fundamental than names or letters. We shared stem cells, the very building blocks of what makes us who we are on a cellular level. With those cells I sent my hopes, my best impulses, my health, my love, the pieces of my blood and bones that allow me to live such a wonderful life in the hopes I could sustain her with those things. Turns out I could not. It has been two weeks of wondering if I could have done more. Fearing that my body, which I have always had a problematic relationship with, has failed me again, and this time betrayed someone else in the process. Worrying someone else paid the price of my insufficiency. Remembering loved ones I have lost to cancer, feeling that pain anew. Imagining the anguish of those who loved her as deeply as I loved the people I lost, and almost crippling empathy for the pain they are living in right now, pain I couldn’t save them from even though I tried. It’s been dark in my brain. My emotions have overwhelmed me often. Sadness ruled the first week. I burst into tears several times at inopportune moments, and cried until my face hurt. This past week anger took over. I will admit, other than a general sense of the injustice of it all, I didn’t understand where the anger came from. Then in session this week, my therapist explained that anger is a common outlet for a sense of helplessness. Helplessness is tied to our fight or flight instincts, and I am a fighter. I suppose a part of me is still trying to fight a battle that has already been lost. I am also still fighting against this slew of emotions I had no way to anticipate. I told her I was afraid of the strength of them. Since she knows me, she told me I needed to take hold of this narrative and find the through lines of what will sustain me as this story’s conclusion becomes a part of the larger story of my life. Even for a writer it was hard task. I know so very little for sure. I will think of this woman for the rest of my life, and I will never have any more closure than I have today. Despite my best effort and intentions, I will only know that she is gone, and she took a part of me with her. What is to be made of all the emotions that come with that? My therapist then asked if regret factored into the mix. I quickly said it did not, and I was surprised she even asked that. She smiled like she knew that, then gently pushed. “If one year ago someone had told you, there’s a woman in need and you will never know her. She needs the very base of your body’s building blocks, it will be a grueling process over several days that will take more out of you physically and emotionally than you had imagined, and all it will give her is 11 more months. 11 months to say what she needs to say, to hug loved ones, to try to make peace. One more Christmas, one more birthday, one more fall, and winter, and spring, but that’s all. She will be gone, and you will live on with the questions, and a connection most people will never comprehend. Would you sign up for that? The answer was yes. It is yes. If I got the same call tomorrow, the answer would be yes that day and every day after. It will always be yes. I suppose that is the through line. That’s the story. It’s part of my story, and it will be, for as long I have cells in my body…or out of it. · If your answer would be “yes” too, and you are eligible to donate, please consider registering with Be The Match , and if you aren't eligible yourself please share this information with the people in your life who might be!
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