Return to Competition

When I walked off the floor after my last college basketball game two years ago, I knew that I wouldn't play again for a long time. I was dead to competition, dead to the game, and ruined as a player and an athlete. Of course there are stories to behind that, but it's more for therapy and my future memoirs, whenever I decide to publish those. It took me a long time to begin to forgive myself for feeling like that, much less my former coach who routinely crushes his players spirits, mentality, ability. Okay, enough.
I didn't really think about how I might build myself up to the game of basketball again. I still exercised regularly, lifted, and all of that individual stuff. There were moments when a tightness in my chest familiar to two hour practices would creep into my stairclimbing routine, and I resented that. I play sand volleyball over the summer and tried to ignore the recurring feelings that continued to confuse and invade my once bouyant sport-loving spirit. Last winter I tried to play in an indoor volleyball league with my co-workers, but found myself frozen with hate and aversion on the court just like I used to be everyday during my college basketball career. Again, all of this is up for explanation but the point of this blog is redeeming so I will save the details for that. The thought that always streamed through my head was, "Am I not far enough removed from that hell?" Why did it still affect me? I worked through it in my mind, with my friends at times, and on paper. But the solution as well as a pure and unfaltering love for 'the game' whatever it may be, eluded me.
When I say pure and unfaltering, I don't mean to think that I feel like working out everyday or that there aren't days when I try to tell myself to cut my workouts short for lack of enthusiasm. That is only human. The feeling I am talking about is bubbling hate for the action, an inability to physically move at times or lift my eyes from the floor, like a beaten child I was-blaming myself for all that had happened and continued to follow me.
I recently started temping with a new company, and one of the first days I worked there one of the salesmen approached me. He asked me if I played basketball. I used to, but I haven't since I quit. He told me about a nearby rec center we get free access to. Earlier this week, he asked me if I wanted to play noonball yesterday. Of course I do! I accepted without hesitation. The few times I've touched a ball in the last twenty two months included sparse one-on-one matches with my guy friends.
The two of us headed over there and I got into the gym dressed before he did. I walked in and twenty male heads turned and did a little double take at the woman daring to stand in the gym. They ranged anywhere from my age or younger to early fifties. One of the older men asked me, "You in?" Yep. And I walked to the other end to shoot. I missed my first three with a men's ball and hit the second. And we started to play. The next ninety minutes were the most fun I've had playing basketball in years. I love playing with men, I should note. I spent four years meeting every post playing with a bone shaking check when they tried to post up in the lane. Usually taller by two inches and lighter by twenty five pounds, I took my share of beating. And bitching, and cheap shots. But this was pure, fun, and without grudge (for the most part, but especially on my part). Egos remained in check and the most of the men I guarded introduced themselves before game started and respected me afterwards. My frustration was rare and only with myself and a little bit of rust I was shaking off. The competitive feeling was for the game and not directed towards anyone, as I've always though it should be. We lost our first game, then won straight for the next hour. I hit some tough ones, didn't get bodied too much, and earned the respect and encouragement of the men.
I never said much during bball practice. My mouth would only open when I was having fun-usually during pickup games. And it did yesterday. 'That-a-kid' and "niiiicce!" are my two favorites. I still get such a thrill out of the smooth assist, movement of the ball, and unselfish play. A lot of time pickup games and ball in general errs toward the one-on-one and take-it-yourself mentality. But ball movement creates the most beautiful game. And I was raised to play with people. I get more pleasure out of the assist and second pass, running the floor and feeding the trailer, than I ever will out of taking it myself over and over. (Although I was secretly please at hitting my turn arounds off the inside fake while an opponent yelled, "Tough shot!") And so I fed people without bias, whoever they were, and created some pretty, pretty stuff. There are a few things you can always do-box out, run the floor, and pass. You can always do that. So even when I did the first and got beat over the back by a six-six fifty year old, I was doing well. I didn't start scoring until I was fifteen years old, so for the first seven years of my career, defense and team play was what I could focus on. It still is. I praised my defenders and agreed when they called fouls. It was about time he called that hand check. I surprised a few with my first check of them coming across the lane. And I surprised myself with putting my armbar up on sweaty, old, hair backs. But when I was tired, I appreciated that my man didn't hoof it up and down the floor!
When it ended I had met a few great guys, pushed my body to a familiar but unfamiliar place. On the way home, I was jazzed up! I thanked my co-worker profusely for his invitation, and he returned it in kind with gratefulness for the company. And he said, "I'm glad you had fun, because the first time we talked you expressed a loss of love for the game. And I'm glad you found it because I feel bad anytime anyone loses their love for the game."
I am leery of the future and that I will lose it again, but for one day I found myself again. Time will tell if I am far enough removed for it to last.