Crossovers And Jumpshots

I'm watching the basketball tournament, twisting in the chair with every off-balance shot, grimacing when a player I don’t know, and don’t cheer for, tosses an errant pass for a turnover at a critical time.

I care because I played.

I didn’t play well enough to make any team of this caliber, any team that had any standards, actually, but I shared this wonderful game with other people and I was an actor in these small dramas that happen on courts all over the world.

I suspect it’s the same for anyone who played a sport with passion …football, basketball, tennis, swimming.

When I watch, I remember.

The memories cascade over me.

I remember the the first shot: a 12 year old ninth grader in a Connecticut gym glass. 

More interested in academics than sport.

Standing at the head of the key.

My equally geeky classmates exhorting me to “shoot, shoot.” 

And I threw it into the air. 

It went through snapping the strings and me to attenton.

It went through and I wanted desparately to feel that again.

I was hooked.

I remember the outdoor court in Lincoln Heights.

Red dusty dirt swirling about on a windy 85 degree East Tennessee summer day.

I’m out there by myself, every day, hundreds of shots from different spots on the court.

Flicking my wrist just so.

Refining my follow through, because it was important to look like a baller too.

Memories of being covered with that red dust after a game, played as hard, and with as much purpose as anything I’ve ever done.

Covered in dirt and glory.

It was magnificent.

I remember the court at Fairgarden Elementary School on the East side of my hometown. A gathering place for every player in the neighborhood.

A place where people from other neighborhoods would come with lots of game and attitude. 

We defended our court with jump shots and hard fouls.

A sloping asphalt court with steel netting on the rim.

Shots from the corner would snap the chains, and make a satisfying “chang” sound.

I practiced that shot from the corner over and over and over.

Chang, chang and chang.

I remember scraping snow off that court to play in winter.

Fires in 55 gallon drums to keep you warm while you waited for your “up.”

The desperation to win, when you saw how many people were waiting to play and you knew it could be another hour to play here, if you lost.

I remember the nicknames and odd body shapes, players who looked like anything but … learning to never underestimate anyone on any given day.

I remember the courts at Sunland Park in South Florida.

Smooth and clean, with sand that would get in every crevice of your sweat soaked body. 

The pat on the butt and the “nice shot” from the guy who ruled the court.

I felt I truly belonged when other players would point at me and say “somebody better guard the jumpshooter.” 

Demanding defense was the ultimate affirmation.

I also remember the hot nail of a stabbing pain in my knee when I came down awkwardly, and my anterior cruciate ligament was torn.

I remember that a guy with a college degree, a good job and a family that loved him, suddenly felt a huge sense of loss.

The game comes and goes. You play well one day, poorly the next, and at some point never again.

But, you keep the memories close.

High arcing shots from a corner that snap the strings and buoy your soul.

I watch, and it’s like it was all yesterday.