Basketball Jones Origins

Tonight at the Y, I played ball with one of the Dixon natives that I've met over the last few weeks. He just graduated from high school and has been working an assortment of jobs this summer for the income. I'm about five years older than him, and while I can pretty much take him off the dribble any time I'd like (the height advantage helps too), he certainly has me outpowered down low (now only if he could learn to dribble and finish in the post I'd have some serious issues). Still, we have a pretty good time playing 21 and I get a chance to try out some of the things that I try to work on during the week.

When I stop to think about it, all of this reminds me of when I was in elementary school--in the first grade to be exact. This was back at our old house when my parents had gotten me a basketball hoop for the driveway. My parents bought the hoop from Service Merchandise (which is now out of business) and I remember the agony endured between its purchase and its installation. We had decided to get the hoop cemented but rainy whether kept delaying the debut. When that final day did arrive, I remember standing in the driveway as the repairmen drove their pickup truck out of the driveway for the final time and staring up at the hoop with the red trim around the edges, the crsip white net, and the Jerry West logo imprinted on the lower left hand side of the backboard.

My neighbor across the street also went to the same elementary school. He was in fifth grade, and so, naturally, I looked up to him. I believe he was half Filipino and half Chinese (last name Wong, first name Alex). He used to come over after school and play ball with me. When he moved onto junior high, his bus would always come later than mine and so I would always eagerly rush outside and shoot around waiting for him to get back. When the yellow bus did drop him off, I would always stop and stare towards his driveway expectingly, ocassionally say hello, but always hoping that he would utter those magic words: "I'll be right there."

When I think about, I don't know why Alex played with me as much as he did. Perhaps he was simply a good friend, an older brother figure of sorts, or maybe his mom encouraged him to do so. The important thing is that he did spend those many afternoons with me, challenging, encouraging, and, in those moments of frustration, admonishing me.

This summer, both at the Y and at the Rural Health Camp, I've played ball with high schoolers and it still feels strange that I would be the oldest one on the court. I find myself trying to get everyone involved, even if it means encouraging people after an ugly shot or horrid pass, or drawing up a play to get someone an open shot. All of this makes me reflect on the days where I was the young, timid one on the court--getting patted on the back after a made shot and looking for the encouragment of the older people who ruled the courts. But now, I realize that in settings like these, I inevitably become a different person, though I can't completely describe why this is.

So here I am now, with many of the same frailties that remind me of the child I still am and with ever increasing reminders that I am not altogether the same person I used to be. Lord knows those childhood basketball days have passed me by, save for those nights where I find myself dribbling and shooting in the empty gym, imagining that I'm back on the cement driveway, fighting the gusty crosswinds while swishing up game winning shots just before the final buzzer sounds in my head.