Skip to main content

No. 6

Image
By


To my dad


My intestinal fortitude can be summed up in one basketball game fifteen years ago. 


It was my junior year in high school, about halfway through the season. I was supposed to be improving and readying myself to play full time on the varsity squad the following year. On to glory.


But my will failed me. And to think of my actions now makes my heart hurt.


The ankle had been sprained but was undoubtedly on the mend. By half-time, though my body felt as light and nimble as it ever had, I was defeated.


Barlow, the lively bastards, had us down big, and were showing no signs of slowing. The full-court press was kept up in spite of the lead. We had spent the first twenty minutes watching their guys take the ball from us and drop in easy lay-ups. They seemed to have sprouted wings.


Instead of talking to my teammates and suggesting a strategy, I would take the inbound pass and delude myself into thinking I could break Barlow’s press single-handedly, dribbling through their energetic five like a shark honing in on its prey. Consequently my stat-sheet was impressive — that is, if turnovers can be thought of as highly as points or assists.


Deflated and afraid, I sat down on the bench, a sweaty mess. A terrible thought came into my head. I would pretend as though my ankle were killing me, as though it wouldn’t allow me to go on.


I reached down toward my heavily taped “injury”, rubbed it and made an insincere grimace. I made sure the coach could see me.


“You all right?” he asked.


“It’s hurting me, coach. I thought it was better, but . . .”


In between fuming at us on account of our lack of an organized press-breaker, he told me to take it easy, not to push myself. I exhaled loudly, streaming the air out through pursed lips, grimaced again ostentatiously and leaned back. What a show I put on! If only I could have transported such panache and performance to the second half.


As the second half began I didn’t move from the bench. The varsity coach, all the while sitting a few rows behind our bench, watching carefully, called out my name.


“Yeah, coach?” I said, guilt overtaking me as I met his stern, penetrating glare.


“What’s wrong?” he inquired, jaw set, as ever, like Gene Hackman.


“It’s my stupid ankle. It’s still sore.”


“You looked pretty good out there to me.”


A loaded statement. Depending on my answer he would decide, as a fellow-solider might, whether to go into the fiercest of battles with me. He would plan next year’s team based on this response, namely, on the words and demeanor I chose to use while giving it.


I could have responded with something to the effect of, Yeah, give me a couple of minutes, coach; I’ll be back out there with a vengeance.


Everyone is afraid of failure, of being embarrassed. The sporting life, for one, is less than kind to those who let this fear play too heavily upon them, those who cannot find within themselves the drive to succeed. Buck up, son. Get back out there come hell or high water!


No dice. I lost to more than Barlow that day.


“I’m not sure, coach; I’ll try in a sec.”


And all I did was get up and limp like a fool beside the bench. Fake fucking grimace fake fucking grimace . . .


*  *  *  *

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Portland Flashback

By
“Put this under your tongue,” Josh said, handing me three small circles of thin white paper. The club’s owner, a dubious character, not because of his whittled-away teeth or the stringy, wet hair plastered to the sides of his head, but because of the sheen over his dark pupils, had offered the goods to Josh. I hesitated, but then this sickly looking man gave me a friendly salute. And so, already three sheets to the wind, I placed not one but all three under my tongue. They were tasteless and dissolved in seconds. While I waited for the fun to kick in I scanned the room. Halloween: goth kids dressed up as vampires. Or — wait a minute — were they vampires disguised as humans? The room was changing. I looked over at Josh to make sure he was still there. The pudgy motherfucker, with a serene grin on his face, was lost in the screeching music. All of a sudden I caught the hungry gaze of a vampire, its eyes comically wide open. Don’t look at me! Averting my eyes I watched as the wal...
Post a Comment
Read more

Beijing The Behemoth

By
Beijing the behemoth. At the airport I’m beat from being up some thirty-odd hours, but too sentient to think of sleep, the hotel be damned. Throw me instead into this sea of concrete, bemused smiles and unabashed stares. In the taxi with Chris, the school’s recruiter, Iphigenia and I watch the towers of concrete repeat themselves for miles. I command myself to take in every detail, no matter how small. But I’m fading fast and when the city center at last comes into view, she’s too late. The fatigue has unfortunately set in and I can’t make out much but the obvious: taxis, bicycles, rickshaws. . . . And so the hotel it is for us, because anyway I’m just too damn worked up. I don’t have a map, I don’t speak Mandarin, I haven’t changed any money yet. I promise myself a good random stroll the next morning, one which will enlighten me as to the way of the street, the dao of the hú tòng.  But the morrow brings nothing so edifying. Only a short walk with killjoy Chris, who cl...
Post a Comment
Read more

Dála

By
Intense summer heat makes my sweaty feet itchy.  This is mostly because I will forever associate the most aesthetically pleasing walk I’ve ever taken with the midday heat in one of the hottest places on earth.  Dála (in Greek ντάλα) is when the sun has warmed the land so much that it then commands it.  The heat dances riotously over the pavements, and brows become sore from squinting.  But try not to wilt on me.  This is the best time to strike out to collect the dust from the streets on your face and clothes.  My best dála goes like this: As we walk down the quiet main strip, the vineyards come into view.  Their vines have crept up and over the trellises of the open-plan dwellings, giving families a precious defense, even if it is perforated here and there by arrogant rays of sunlight. The dust indeed collects, and we sweat even while strolling leisurely.  But we are impressed, delighted and alone.  Cold white water rushes ...
Post a Comment
Read more