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December 01, 2004
pick-up
It always struck him as odd that those who played on the highest level never felt the sun when they did so many of the amazing things they did. It’s as if the basketball gods had reserved that pleasure for the purity of the game. The sun never shone on players leaping off the benches in the last game of a championship series. Jordan never got to win the championship with a shot from the corner that was that much more difficult for the 3:30pm sun in August. The sun was reserved for lone shooters on dirt lots, legions of future-hungry kids playing on cement, and yes, for those exalted few who ventured away from entourages and packed arenas simply to play a game with a ball, a net, and a metal hoop.
If gyms are the temples of the sport, outdoor courts were the deserts to be endured, where faith was tested, strengthened, reborn.
He knew it gave him an edge to appreciate this. The other nine players on the court peered up from time to time at the sun’s relentless eye pouring forth what to them seemed some wrathful ire, to him seemed a benediction.
His man was backing him in, now, trying to power closer to the goal. He held his forearm firmly against the small of his opponent’s back, and through that slender contact, they each tried to figure out the next move for themselves and the other guy. In this case, the other guy turned, hooking him slightly with his elbow to get to the basket. The ball rolled lazily along the rim and off, and he slipped back in between his opponent and the basket before leaping for the rebound.
He was nothing in the world of this sport. Not a pro out on a playground lark, certainly. Not a college or high school player. Not even a kid in the driveway with hopes realistic or otherwise – he was 31, already past the point of making many choices, much less of playing basketball for a living.
As he pivoted on one foot, the hands were all over him, batting and grabbing at the ball. He knew these guys were just feeling challenged – they knew he would never let a ball go so easily. Through a momentary gap, he put the ball hard to the court and dribbled out, looking up to find and jettison the ball to a teammate streaking downcourt.
Regardless of where he played, in the gym at his old high school, or here in the park in his neighborhood, he was always playing away, always the visitor. He treated the court as if it were his home – replaced the nets himself, kept the rocks and leaves and dirt clear, fixed the fence where kids had pulled the poles down. It was his sanctuary, but when the ball was in his hands, he was the interloper, facing a team more comfortable at home, facing a crowd set against him.
It was the same crowd that he felt and heard throughout his life. They followed him, booing him, heckling, applauding his fumbles, his fear. They did not respect his effort, his intensity or desire. They knew only winning, they could never be quieted by anything but being beaten.
He pushed off hard and began sprinting downcourt. His opponents, suddenly finding themselves on the defensive, were pounding alongside him, struggling to beat him back. His teammate was slowing his dribble, pulling the ball back to the perimeter to let his own players get down. He sprinted to the top of the perimeter, then slowed as well, hesitating.
Only a few who truly knew him, knew of the battles he felt he fought both without and within, could understand what the game meant to him. For that short time on the court, he could give everything of himself. No matter what seemed to hold true off the court, no matter what hopelessness appeared to riddle the future, when he was running on the court, diving for the ball, pushing himself harder, that was all there was in the world. There was only the doing, only that moment of doing and doing it right.
It was not mere distraction, though. He pushed himself so hard. He sprinted down the court against hamstring pulls, continued cutting though his knees shot pain up his legs. He destroyed his feet to keep up with the smaller, quicker players. He so badly needed to win, to stun that crowd into silence.
Out here, on the playground, the wins came in short moments. Moments when the doubt and hesitation fell away, when he trusted his body to get him past the defenders to the goal, or to fight inside for a rebound against taller and more skilled players, or pick the ball away from a point guard abruptly but gently, like picking a berry ready to fall.
He saw the defense fail to build along the baseline, and he moved, sweeping behind his teammate, who turned and handed him the ball. He cut hard, running parallel to the baseline, saw a defender begin to turn to step to him. He’d be too late. He picked the ball up, his body coiled as he stepped right, then pushed hard off his left, extending his body up to the goal.
Most of the time, sitting at a desk, in line at the store, his body just felt like mere matter, without its own soul. But in these rare moments when hands and feet and ambition found harmony, and his body moved swiftly and lightly to the basket, he felt as if he had borrowed all that beauty is for a moment, piercing himself to find a glimmer of light inside. It was a split-second sneak preview of some moment in which he might move so effortlessly and gracefully to some greater goal.
He never told anyone how these few moments made him want to cry. That would be a little too much.
He pulled back, watching the ball slip through the net, falling past close with his own falling body. And while he heard the low sounds of praise from his teammates, he heard the crowd, finally, just for the moment, grow quiet.
Posted by Rob at December 1, 2004 05:49 AM