Basketball is Life

David Allen was sleeping like the dead. That’s an exaggeration, but only slightly. A tournament the weekend before, five practices during the week, three morning runs and a couple of weight sessions had been enough to send his sixteen year old body into a near coma. He almost fell asleep at the table for his Friday cheat meal of Pizza Hut and his head hit the pillow shortly after eight pm.

In the heavy darkness of his room he slept in a swirling miasma of dreams. His muscles were recuperating but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere in between here and there, a place with hardwood floors, fresh mesh that went thwap when there was a swish and bright lights; he was ethereal there, something and nothing, and he floated -

Until the lights in his room came on and he was dragged back into reality like someone enjoying a placid winter walk who slips on a patch of ice. He opened his foggy eyes to his father, already clad in his school branded sweater and tearaways.

‘We ship out in fifteen. Get your breakfast. Hurry up.’

David rolled around and a sound escaped him that was part croak and part moan: ‘I can’t do it, dad. My whole body aches. Practice last night was -’

His father’s back had been to him as he went to the door but his turn had stopped the next words from leaving David’s mouth.

‘You think I wanna be doing this? You think that I wanna drag my ass out of bed on my weekend to shag rebounds and coach your lazy ass?’ He took a step forward and looked at David with narrowed eyes. ‘You were the one who said you wanted this. Just say the word and we can forget it. You can fade back into mediocrity and let a pipe dream be a pipe dream.’

David stared at the ceiling and sighed. He raised himself up, swung his feet to the floor and shook his head. His father nodded and left the room.

Precious moments later and the cobwebs were gone. His feet found the carpeted stairs and he went down them, graced by a picture of him and his boys in a team picture holding trophies, of himself holding a ball in his black and gold jersey smiling - a grainier picture of his father shooting a jumpshot, his mouth tight with focus. The lights in the kitchen were on and his father sat at the table drinking black coffee. David poured his cereal and ate quickly - it was time to get to work.

*

It was lucky that David’s father worked at Saint Thomas More because it meant that they got to use the gym on the weekends. Though he had recused himself from formally coaching his own son, being a well-liked history teacher had its perks, and he was good friends with the gym teachers. And so, that Saturday morning David walked into the empty gym and turned on the lights.

A high school gymnasium is like a living beast. During the week, it comes alive but only slightly - the gym classes and assemblies rouse it, but it is only on game nights that it really wakes up. Once the stands are pulled out and full of home fans and they squish in those from the visiting school with barely contained hostility, it begins to breathe and it roars and there is electricity in the air. It is transcendent, and David, a first year senior, had experienced the pure adrenaline of a home game many times.

A quiet gym on a Saturday morning was different, and as David took his shoes from his gym bag, all he could hear was the buzzing of the lights. A basketball player putting on their shoes should only ever be equated to a knight in days of yore donning their armour before battle. There is such care in the handling, such meticulous tying and retying of the laces that it could only be considered noble in its fastidiousness. On that Saturday morning, however, David felt more like a soldier fighting in Iraq: bone-tired and doing his laces mechanically, as if he were about to face a foe that would never tire and never yield.

His father entered the gym with another coffee and David was doing his dynamic warm up, as was routine. Soon, it was plyometric exercise to tear down the muscles - full-court lunges, backboard touches, wall sits, bear crawls, skip jumps and suicides to finish it off. It would have been enough for a whole workout and he was drenched, but he knew it was only the beginning. Next was dribbling, and his father’s commands were so known to him that heard them in his head before he even said them.

Pound the ball! Eyes up! Move, get low!

Then there was shooting. David was a shooter, so this was the most important part of the workout. This is what the scouts would want to see. Form shooting to start and then pull-ups around a chair with the occasional audible thrown in to drive - Balance! Fake it and go! Bend your knees! Don’t fade, keep your shoulders square! Follow through!

Then came finishing practice, David’s father with a heavy pad from the football team that he would whack him with hard enough that David could feel it in his bones - Play through it! Don’t fade, initiate it! Let the ref make the decision! Be stronger!

To finish, spot up threes with sprints in between. When it was all done, David was throwing up his Cheerio’s into the garbage can as his father stood beside him and patted him on the back. He was capable of showing affection, though it usually only came once the required amount of effort had been shown.

‘Well done. You really showed up this morning. Just think of how many kids were lying in bed while you were out here getting at it. I gotta check some emails. Do your stretches, I’ll be back in half an hour.’

His father left for the history office and David gingerly put his leg in front of him and winced through the stretching of muscles that, like his spirit, were near their breaking point.

*

Sunday was his only rest day. After watching game tape and making notes, doing his homework and mumbling through dinner while his father reeled off information about the best players for the big game on Friday, he had fallen asleep on the couch with the tv on. His mother approached him and smiled. In the old days, she would have picked him up and carried him to his bed. As he was 6’2, she couldn’t quite do that anymore, so she ruffled his hair and watched as he floated back to earth. He stood up and walked upstairs, and as he went, her heart swelled with love - a proud, soaring love for this incredible young-man-in-the-making but enough love to not ignore the persistent voice that told her he couldn’t take much more. She just didn’t know what she could do about it.

*

The next week flew by. David felt as if he were watching himself going through each day - running in the morning, classes, homework at recess, a scarfed lunch, practice, homework in the evening and collapse. By the time Friday rolled around, he was running on adrenaline. But, he got to wear his jersey to school.

It was one of the only times that he really felt seen in a school of nearly 2000 kids. He had a bit of name recognition - people had heard about him on the announcements from time to time, hitting a bunch of threes or winning MVP at a tournament, but not many of them knew his face. With the jersey on, it was different. Walking through the halls, he felt like Moses as the sea of students around him parted, giving space to him and his teammates who were about to represent their school in battle. Even the stoners, who usually laughed at everyone, gave them a nod. And the girls - well, they usually just giggled. Some of them waved. And every time, it made him stand a little taller and walk a little bit prouder.

*

The layup lines before a big game are important. It isn’t just about getting warm and seeing the ball go in a few times; it’s about sending a message. Dunks were thrown down and deep threes launched, for every player snuck at least a few peeks at the other side.

David missed his first layup. Laughs and jeers bubbled from the home crowd of Cathedral High School. Usually, opposing players of the caucasian-kind were called ‘whiteboy.’ Often, fans would specify by number. In David’s case, it was: ‘Shit, number 22. You better come with somethin’ better than that weak shit.’ David’s face burned and he turned to find his father who always stood on the floor just beside the bleachers. He was wearing his standard teacher gear, turtleneck and cords, and he walked towards David, who ran over trying to get the colour out of his face.

‘There’s a guy from Canada Basketball here. Don’t look. He’s got contacts, right? Knows guys from the NCAA? Make a good impression. Right from the tip.’

David nodded and ran back into the layup line. He was used to the pressure, but this time it felt different - it was like he was under water and holding his breath, feeling his lungs start to burn. He heard the whistle and the teams ran back to their coaches.

It was time.

*

The noise was deafening. The Knights of STM started slow - a few turnovers had led to some easy dunks, causing the crowd to erupt in a frenzy. David missed his first shot and felt his face burn. But he was ready on defence, intercepting a pass and bringing it back the other way for an easy two. As the first quarter went on, David, who had the green light when it came to shooting, couldn’t buy a bucket, but managed to impact the game in other ways. His passes led to some easy shots and he picked up a few steals and some key rebounds. By the time he had his first breather, he felt good. Optimistic. When he looked up to the stands, his father’s face was a thundercloud. He mouthed hit your shots. David nodded, feeling a tremor somewhere inside of him.

*

After half time they were only down by seven. Their defense was stifling, even if their offense was faltering. His first shots in the second half were off and David began to feel nervous, so he passed up an open look and forced a pass that was stolen. An early sub brought him off and coach Stephenson spoke in his ear: ‘Be confident. You got the green light, right? Why?’ David didn’t respond. ‘I said why, David?’

‘Because I can hit them,’ David gasped.

‘You’re goddamn right. Now get out there and do it.’

Once he was back in, David, a little over-hyped after his coach’s pep talk, tried to force one up and was blocked at the top of the key. His opponent took off and David sprinted in pursuit, beating him to the spot and waiting to take a charge. His opponent planted his two feet and rose and rose and rose - David actually titled his head up to watch him soar through the air, his thighs brushing the side of David’s face until he slammed the ball through the net and the entire gym erupted.

David’s face didn’t flush crimson this time - his eyes blazed with fury. He demanded the ball from the point guard and dribbled to just inside of half court where he launched the kind of shot that would one day make Stephen Curry a household name. He heard Coach Stephenson shout: ‘What the hell are you–’ until it went in. David turned to the crowd and cupped his hand around his ear, begging them to continue shouting.

It was on.

*

Over the next few minutes, David launched an onslaught: contested threes, pull ups, hard drives and shovel passes. They couldn’t do anything to stop him. He didn’t even look at the stands anymore - he only saw energy, movement, space, opening and light. It was all second-nature.

The game was tied with one minute left. David took an inbound on the baseline, seeing that his defender was starting to get closer to him. He attacked him with a dribble and stepped back into a jump shot. He heard none of the noise, none of the screaming or the booing, only the sound of the net - thwap - as the ball sailed through.

Though stunned, the crowd didn’t quiet. There was still time. Their opponent came back at them, the point guard weaving in and out, eyeing an opening until David’s man pushed him and cut to the net. David recovered and jumped the pass, snatching it from the hands of his enemy and looping around in a safety dribble.

They were up two. He just had to get it over half court and let them foul him. His man played him tight and David heard his father shout: ‘Get moving! Watch the clock!’

David turned to look at his father and in that instant, dribbled the ball off his foot. It rolled ironically to his defender, who picked it up and sprinted the other way.

David stood stunned as the player in blue sprinted towards his net and once again, it was his father’s voice that called him to action: ‘Get him! Don’t let him score! Foul him!’

It was amazing that in all of that noise he could somehow pick out his father’s voice. So he ran. It was incredible, considering how tired his legs were, that he made up so much ground. He was within fouling distance, and that was the plan all along, just a good clean chop and make him earn it at the line but somehow, somewhere along the line, something changed. It wasn’t a snap necessarily, but an overflowing - a flooding of the part of his brain that was supposed to keep these things in check. His composure or his cool or his logic or his compassion or his conscience – whatever was supposed to be there doing a job had failed.

Once the player had started his layup and was airborne, David pushed him. Hard. Hard enough that the kid flipped around in the air and fell like some drunk trapeze swinger. If he would have pushed a millisecond earlier, it might have been fine - but it wasn’t. He landed on the side of one foot and there was a sickening crunch that rang throughout the gym. For a second, there was silence. After, it was pandemonium.

The only reason David left the gym with a nose that was still intact was that there were so many people on the court it had been impossible to actually wind up and throw a punch.

*

Near silence in the car on the way home. It was raining and all David could hear was the wipers. That and the sound of his mother’s leather jacket as she turned to him and put her hand on his knee.

*

David’s father sat in his armchair and stared. His wife was sleeping and his son was probably sitting around moping or crying - and if he wasn’t, he should have been. His hands tightened around his drink - where did the discipline go? He had worked so hard, put in so many hours to help actualise what this kid wanted. And one moment of pressure made him forget it all. His mind wandered and because it was safe to say these things in there, he wondered if he had been too hard on the kid. Hell, he wished his old man had been harder on him, had told him to work harder instead of being all hippy-dippy and letting him forge his own path. It wasn’t tough love - it was a realistic understanding of what it takes. None of the greats get to where they are and say, man, I’m glad my coaches were so nice to me. I’m so glad no one made me feel uncomfortable. No. So it wasn’t his fault. Or at least that’s what he thought.

And yet, it occurred to him in a flare of helplessness that he might not know which love was the right one.

*

A few hours later, David tiptoes through the empty house. He holds his gym bag. His jersey is still sweaty. He moves through the house like a ghost and when he gets to the front door, he eases it open. He walks in the night in his socks and the sidewalk is cool under him. The night sky is endless, a yawning abyss that only wants to take light. He isn’t angry. He isn’t sad. He is just sure.

He gets to the park near his house and goes towards the trees, feeling the moisture under his feet. Into the woods far enough that it isn’t obvious, he throws his bag. When it lands, he laughs and thinks of that new Harry Potter, the one with the Horcrux, where each one holds a piece of Voldemort’s soul. His spirit. It’s not that far off, really.

As he turns to walk back, he stops. A part of him feels emptier now, knowing he’ll never touch a ball again, that he’ll never feel that feeling of purity watching it sail through the air and land in the net. The elation that could only be described as feeling something more than life, more than truth, something elemental and ancestral in the brotherhood and the bonds that are formed all because of that mixture of synthetic leather and rubber.

But he doesn’t turn back.

In the distance, the sun is starting to rise.

He looks up at it and smiles.