The majority of the group bounded up the stairs with the typical Friday night excitement. A slim minority trailed behind them, contemplating each stair and how many times they'd climbed them. The eternity of those stairs was outdone by the narrow hallway, miles long and lit now only by a glowing red exit sign and fluorescent white seeping in under the door.
They shifted their sweats, those shorts underneath always seemed to ride up. The door swung open and a cadre of neophytes blasted through. The group, regimented, lined each wall, to these kids coming through it must have felt the walls were closing in. They were pushed, hazed and scolded until the final one passed. A voice raised above the laughter. It was the beatbox we'd all become so familiar with in the past months. Another voice chimed in, for those ten seconds, Biggie Smalls was resurrected. On cue, the rest of the group joined and they brought it together, one last time.
In an instant they were at another doorway. The swarm of people inside anticipated their arrival. Whether it was the casual conversations of adults or the immature shouts of the teens, it all subsided. For a moment, it was silent...
Some say that at death, your life flashes before your eyes. Granted, no one knows (well,
almost no one) if this is true or not. The semantics of the whole thing are largely meaningless. But, if I were to see my life flash before my eyes, a small number of things would appear: My family, my wonderful girl, my friends, and basketball.
You see, for as long as I can remember, basketball has been the rock of my being. No matter what situation I've found myself in, the game has been there to see me through. Be it the death of a family member, a fight with my parents, the break up of a relationship or the disappointment of missing out on a job opportunity - I've been shooting jump shots.
Whenever Gordon Bombay reached a crossroads, he'd lace up a pair of skates and hit the ice. I grab a Wilson and shoot until I smile. Sometimes those smiles take minutes, other times hours.
Basketball and I have always shared a love-hate relationship. Breaking an arm in second grade and learning to play left-handed turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Dad locking me in the garage (granted I could've just opened the door to the outside, but it was winter!) and making me dribble for an hour every day left me in tears. Aside from an intramural league here or there, I basically shunned any previous connection to the game I loved. For some reason, sour grapes took the place of affection.
Perhaps I was bitter because my days of competitive action were through. My physical ability just wasn't enough to get me to the next level. Sure, I probably could have played at a small college, but if it wasn't the big time, who really cared?
The beauty of the game wasn't the jump shot or the perfectly executed offense. To me, it was my body parallel to the ground, five feet in the air as I dove head-first into the crowd for a loose ball. It was the echo of Coach Faulx's "Niiice Paaass" after forcing a ball through a lane no one else could even see. Above all, it was always being the "1" in the Box and 1.
The past few springs and falls I've joined a league at the local Y. I'm winded three minutes into every game. The past few sessions, I found myself in arguments and near fisticuffs with the opposing team. For what? Why should I crap on the brilliance of this game? There's no reason I should hold anything against basketball, it never has to me. My strength is helping our team, not bitching about someone calling a foul. The team is what made me a player. It showed me who I was.
Basketball took me as a child and spit me out a man. But the ability to continue those head-first dives and blind-luck passes have kept me ageless.
...the crowd erupted as the pep band fired up a rousing rendition of "You ain't seen nothin yet". The seniors came out last, Buzz the caboose as usual, and fired our Sharpie-personalized head bands into the student section, which housed our greatest fans. Our parents, our teachers, our friends all cheered while we celebrated our final game as Knoch Knights. Nothing would stop us that night. At one point I hit a shot and turned around to look at the crowd. As usual, I had found my smile.
Some say that at death, your life flashes before your eyes. Whether it does or doesn't, I don't care. Mine already has.
