EPTLast weekend, I came home from college. I got bored Saturday afternoon so I decided to head over to my old school and shoot some hoops at the gym. My dad is the elementary principle and tech coordinator (the high school and elementary are in the same building) so I just went over with him.
It felt weird walking down the hall from my dad's office to the gym. I'd roamed these halls for 13 years. I knew all of the teachers, some of them pretty well. The class sizes are small enough (and shrinking) that the teachers probably know every kid they've ever taught.
Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself. Let me give you a little more background info. I grew up in a little (and I mean LITTLE)town in the upper midwest. My dad's been the elementary principle there for nearly 30 years. My mom's taught high school math there for just as long. My school is small. Really small. Each new graduating class seems smaller then the last. I wouldn't be surprised if we're co-oped in 10 years. We already are for sports. But I digress.
Anywho, as I search through the basketball rack for a perfect ball, I realize two things: 1) I haven't shot a ball in months, and 2) every ball in the rack is flat. Thus, I headed over to the locker room where the air pump was. I have many memories of the locker room. Many NSFW memories. 'nuf said.
Properly inflated ball in hand, I take my first shot from a couple feet away. My routine in High School was always to start really close to the basket and work my way back. My first shot clangs off the back of the rim. I reach up higher on my second shot and it grazes the back of the rim but still falls through. Gradually I work my way back to the elbow. My jump shot definitely feels rusty, but I'm making at least half of my shots.
After several minutes, my dad walks in and starts shooting with me. Let me tell you a few things about my dad. As I mentioned before, he's been the elementary principle forever. He had a heart attack on New Year's day that scared me shitless. Since that day, he's been living a much healthier lifestyle. A year ago, he was probably 6 ft tall and weighed around 245. Since his heart attack he's worked his way down closer to 230. His doctor wants him to lose 10-15 pounds more.
My dad has taught me so many things. How to do things right the first time. How to do things because its the right thing to do, not because you want to be rewarded for it.
He also taught me how to shoot a jump shot. Way back in early elementary when my classmates were throwing the ball from behind their shoulders to get it to the rim, my dad made me shoot with proper form: helping hand not to high, right elbow tucked in, reach up into the cookie jar. I couldn't shoot from very far away back then, but it kept me from picking up the bad shooting habits that would plague many people later on.
Anywho, after shooting for a bit my dad rebounds for me. I work my way around the basket in a semi circle from about 15 feet out. Once I get into a rhythm, I practically can't miss. After a few times around I back up to the three point line.
This is where I made my living in high school ball. I wasn't on the floor because I was a great playmaker, or a good defender. I was on the floor to shoot the ball. I wasn't a starter, but I definitely got my share of minutes.
I loved making three pointers. I loved catching the ball behind the three point line, squaring up, feeling the ball spin off my finger tips just right and bury itself through the net. Sometimes you just know the ball is going to go in every time you shoot it. This is commonly referred to as being "in the zone". I was in the zone a few times back in the day, and god it felt great.
The longer I'm on the court, the greater the feeling gets. I remember every game I played on it. Some of the memories are sweet, some of them sour.
I remember the team running out of the locker room for pre-game warmups wearing fake moustaches and fist-pumping to "Tik Tok" (seriously). I remember getting beat by a margin I will not utter here. I remember almost beating the future state champs. I remember my first varsity points. I remember my frustration sitting on the bench while we got hammered by our biggest rival.
My least fond memory, however, has to be practice. The 3 hour practices every non-game day after school sucked. From regular crushers to crushers w/wall jumps to the dreaded end-of-practice 7-minute drills (aka 7 minutes in hell). I will never miss basketball practice.
Regret
Now my dad and I are playing a game of "HORSE". Warmed up at this point, I'm swishing shots all over the court. My dad bricks his first few, eventually starts getting shots to fall, but I end up winning pretty easily.
Soon after, I feel a twinge. Not a twinge of pain, but something worse. I should have known it would be there. It always follows closely behind when I return to basketball after a long absence. Regret.
It's the first game of districts. We're the fourth seed, they're the fifth. We beat them by 30 points two weeks ago. Easy win, right? Hmmmm..
After the first quarter, we're winning by 10. There's a general sense of relief. feeling that we're going to win, and by doing so we automatically a berth to regionals regardless of what happens in our next game. Then something changes. Our opponents switch to a full-court zone press. We don't handle it well. They get a few easy steals for baskets and all of the sudden its tied at half-time.
I feel weird at half-time. Confused. We'll get back to that later.
At the start of the second half, the game is sloppy. We turn the ball too much. They're knocking down 3 pointers instead of air-balling them like our last game against them.
At the end of the game, the score-board indicates we lost by 5 points. Wat? Really? We lost to these guys? Our season is over?
My best friend, our senior starting point guard, is sitting next to me in the locker room crying. The guy loves this game so much, and now its all over. He put off shoulder surgery and played through a lot of pain all season. For whatever reason, our coach didn't play him a lot in the second half when we needed him the most. We needed a ball-handler. The guy who played instead of him wasn't one. But I don't share my friend's feelings. I had this odd feeling the whole second half
Oh god. A win would have guaranteed us at least 4th place in our district tournament and a slot at regionals. This is my senior year! My blaze of glory! What the fuck is wrong with me!? Did I give 100% that final game? Was my heart in it? Is it my fault that we lost? I don't remember shooting the ball, let alone scoring.
My dad heads back to the office to finish up a few things. I shoot around for a little bit, then put my ball away and turn out the lights.
Was I hoping to lose?
