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No. 6

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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 . . .


*  *  *  *

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