(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy
Friday” email on 3/16/12.)
It’s
March Madness time and an opportunity for me to share the last installment in
my series as a Notable Team-Sports Deficit when I was growing up. Fortunately,
there’s a finite number of team sports at which you can fail miserably when
you’re young, although it doesn’t seem that way at the time. If you recall, I
did quite well in sports as long as it didn’t involve: throwing a ball,
catching a ball, hitting a ball, or kicking a ball. And, let me add: bouncing a ball … or, as some
call it, “dribbling.”
As
an adult, I’ve only had one experience playing basketball. More than a dozen
years ago, a teacher friend of mine invited me to play on his Hoopfest team. I’d always enjoyed his annual team practice
the evening before the first game of the big local 3-on-3 event when I was
invited as a non-playing guest. The
other players would arrive in Spokane from out of town, and we’d sit on his
back patio laughing, joking, and carbo-loading with beer. He’d barbecue large
quantities of red meat for protein, and they’d talk through their game
strategies between trips to the restroom or to replenish our sports drinks. I
could never understand their verbal playbook which mostly entailed what hadn’t
worked the previous year … or ever, for that matter.
So,
it surprised me when I was asked to play on the team. Apparently, one of them wasn’t feeling well
for the first game, and I could take his place as the fourth member. This really wasn’t something I wanted to do. Basketball had been a bad experience for me
starting in grade school, and I created a mental block with staying power. I finally gave in, just to “help out” in this
one game. I stressed my one non-negotiable
sports mantra: “Never be responsible for the ball.” So, my job would be “the pick,” – or maybe
“the picker,” I don’t remember for sure -- which I had never heard of. For those of you in the real world, “picking”
means you just stand there so that – get this -- a player on the other team
plows into you. That’s right. And then you’re supposed to act surprised
like you didn’t see it coming. Go
figure. Sounded easy enough, but it brought up another issue I have with the
game: personal space. I don’t know if
you’ve noticed, but people get really close to you when you’re play basketball
… like skin-to-skin contact, and not in a good way. Plus sweaty. I wasn’t looking forward to this.
We
met at our court the next morning, and I picked up a basketball for the first
time in public since I played for the Monroe Mud Hens in sixth grade. We warmed up with a few tosses at the basket …
which I abruptly stopped when I realized I was giving away my status as a team
filler. I mostly concentrated on bouncing
the ball around without hitting either of my feet. When the game started there was a lot of
tussling with everyone sizing up members on the other team. Now and then the ball would come at me, and
I’d open-palm ricochet it away so as to avoid any responsibility. There were
times when guys got WAY too close in my personal space -- aggressive-like --
apparently not knowing who they were dealing with: someone who had taught
personal safety in public schools for years.
So the next time it happened, I told him firmly, “Excuse me. Elbowing
makes me uncomfortable. Please stop,” which is the right thing to do. But he
just ignored me and didn’t even say “sorry.” And, apparently, the ref missed the whole
thing and didn’t bother to scold him. It became perfectly clear that, if I was
going to avoid any further personal-safety situations, I would need to take my fancy
picking a few feet away from the fray of things. I’d just randomly stop here and there, stand
up stiffly for a moment, and then move on … kind of like a fast-paced game of red-light/green-light.
Pretty soon, the other team was treating me like I was invisible and didn’t
have feelings. It had become a 2-on-3
game.
During
breaks, the guys on our side would be encouraging and give me a few tips that I
promptly forgot. We ended up losing, BIG
time. I felt bad that I’d let my
teammates down, although I had repeatedly warned them. But they were fine with it. Just fine. As it turned out, they really hadn’t wanted to
win the game. Losing put them on another
track that apparently makes it easier to work your way back up the ladder
toward the Final 300. I’d actually helped our team. Imagine!
Yes,
I felt better having assisted in way I could never really comprehend. But things had been different 40 years
earlier when I played on our sixth grade team. I liked to call us the “Monroe
Mud Hens.” That wasn’t actually the
school mascot, but it had a nice ring to it … so I impulsively wrote it on my
school shirt with a permanent pen … and, as a result, could never wear it to
school again. We had a pretty decent basketball team that year. I just remember one game when we played Hill
Crest Elementary, an upper income school next to a country club bearing the
same name. We felt like bad boys against
them because we were from the “Bench” area of newer subdivisions that were really
pretty nice … but still didn’t compare with the uppity Hill CREST
neighborhood where most families had two-car garages. We took an early lead in the game and never
looked back. In fact, we were so far ahead, our coach did something no one unexpected:
he put me in. Back in those days, it didn’t
seem like there was a lot of planning or playing positions or assigned areas or
other sports stuff … at least not from what I can remember. So, mostly I just ran around wherever the herd
was. I’d hang back when our team had the
ball so no one would pass to me (on accident), and then I’d try to grab the
ball whenever the other team had it … which actually happened … suddenly and
unexpectedly. In the flurry, I just
clutched the ball to my chest and flailed my elbows around in the unfamiliar
territory of being responsible for the Real Game Ball. We were right under the
basket, and someone yelled, “Shoot!”
Rather than chance dribbling on my foot, I shot straight up. It hit the
bottom of the rim and rocketed straight back down to me. I tussled with less
resistance around me this time, stepped back, and shot again … right over the
basket and back down … and I managed to catch it AGAIN. Amazing, considering my instinctive eye
fluttering. Third time would be a charm, and as I cocked my arms for the
certain swish, the whistle blew. Our
coach had called for a time out. I
looked around and found myself all alone.
Everyone else was down court … at OUR basket. Needless to say, this was a career-ending
play … just as I was warming up to the game.
True story.
Time
can be a pretty good healer from early experiences like this. These events help us build character and
develop empathy for others, particularly kids.
So often, they struggle with more than we’ll ever know even when we’re
with them daily in school.
And,
if you’re really on your toes, you can turn these past tragedies into solid assets
as an adult. For example, they really come in handy when, invariably, group discussions
turn to commiserating about how tough each person had it when they were growing
up. I’d try edging in with my stories of
being disrespected and put-down … but typically in the course of fulfilling my
dream role as a General Annoyance …
which results in little – if any – sympathy. But then everything changed when I
started giving my recounts of being a Team-Sport Deficit. Yeah, now THAT’S pathetic!
Sniff, sniff. Uh huh, I finally became a contender!
Sometimes
I think about what might have happened if it weren’t for my one fatal play. All
things considered, the NBA is better off without me. I would have had to get a
tattoo … probably a little green tree frog … that would have made all the other
guys jealous. I don’t think the league
needs that kind of pettiness. And, me? Well,
I’ve never had to have joint surgery … or to worry about what to do with all my
money. Life just has a way of working
out.
Knuckle bump (ouch … dang!),
L. “Shortman” Haymond
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