words by ava

Fingers outstretched, reaching for that ball— joy, that feeling I know.

Tip Off

The squeak of shoes dragging against the boarded wooden floor, our feet pawing like anxious horses, anticipation afloat. The whistle blows, and as the ball is freed from the referee’s grasp, it begins again. 

I was never very good at basketball. Seven years and six practices a week couldn’t remedy my utter lack of hand-eye coordination and a predictable tendency to travel. My freshman year I was convinced I was going to quit. My coach was a bully who hated me more than I hated basketball. I guess I didn’t hate basketball; I hated being bad at something. My perfectionist self was used to excelling at everything, easily. 

Against all odds, instead of quitting that year, I stayed. I stayed because I had fallen in love—with a sport I could hardly play— but in love nonetheless. Despite my initial hatred, I realized that in the imperfect texture of the rubber ball, in the chafe of the jersey, in the aching knees, in the echo of my coach’s yells, there was love. 

Neck and Neck

Jammed fingers and sprained (and resprained, and resprained) ankles, shin splints, a torn PCL, and concussions, too many concussions. Injury was my biggest competitor, a constant companion, a weight upon my already injured back. Taped like a racehorse, ice baths, ankle braces, physical therapy, days missed—all in an attempt to remedy the pain. 

When I wasn’t out of action, there was the aching, an eternal soreness, and exhaustion, drenched in sweat, leaving for school in darkness, heading home once darkness’s cloak had once again descended. Shaking off the off season weakness was met with the firm answer of burning, spasming lungs and shaky legs. Sprint for missing a shot, sprint because someone was late for practice, sprint because the last one was too slow, sprint just because. The physical exertion was so taxing that the pain was nearly tangible. 

And yet, the pain was a service in itself. It was gratifying. To take the anger out, to treat the stress of hours of homework ahead, my sought after remedy? The thud of a bouncing ball. Day after day, taking the anger, the stress, the disappointment, forcing them to contort to a space in which I directed them: the court. The court met me as I was, and in its open acceptance, my anger was quieted with discipline. 

Halftime 

In 1891, in an attempt to occupy his students during the brutal Massachusetts winters, James Naismith ushered a squadron of boys into the Springfield College gymnasium to engage in a sport of his own creation: basketball. With a limited set of rules, the match ended in a near-death fist fight under the net. And yet, despite the brawl, the boys were determined to play again. 

When Naismith nailed those two peach baskets to the upper railing, did he know that in that moment he was creating more than a simple cold weather pastime, that he was creating joy?  

In every pregame locker room talk, my coach’s speech always came to a close with a shout to “get out there and compete.” I can still hear the echo of that word: compete; how his mouth formed to utter that dictation: compete. Not play for fun, or play to win: compete. In that word, there was a call to action. Compete was present-focused, and it wasn’t result-seeking. It demanded you not for a game, but for every second. To step off the court, as the buzzer resonated through the crowd, and know that you showed up. You were present. The ball and you were one, and in the union, was a fight. 

In response to coaching his final game, Coach K reflected: “For me, my entire time coaching, I always wanted at the end of the year, whatever the last game is, where you’re either crying for joy or you’re crying for sorrow and if you are, then that means you put everything into it. He spoke of an occurrence I could only label as “competing.”

Down by 10

Being scrappy, aggressive, wanting the ball and wanting it badly, skidding for loose balls and snatching at tempting dribbles, all admired, until— the arch of a hand too far extended, a foot not quite planted—foul. Not enough fouls and you’re not playing hard enough, five and you’re out. 

“I’m sorry about this afternoon”— that was Coach K’s answer to the devastating regular season loss to rival UNC. With these words, the crowds that surrounded me murmured in protest against this unwanted apology. I saw it though, the slump of the shoulders, the apology that wasn’t really an apology, it was familiar. It was a feeling I knew well, at least one I used to know.

Growing up tethered to the court, (or to the field, or the track), I was no foreigner to this feeling: it was disappointment; blaming yourself, a desire to fix it, to go back, to rewrite the moments, rewind the clock, to that moment in the game where you felt you gave up, where you should have pushed, given it more, given it your all, given it more than your all, for another minute, just another moment on the court, that 92 x 52 foot rectangle that now felt like a home.

In all my years of sports, I was notorious for being absolutely untouchable after a bad game. I can’t count the number of games my senior year that ended in angry tears, sunk down against the lockers, shrouded by this terrible feeling of loss, not just the loss of a game, but an interoceptive upending, a personal loss. When UNC beat Duke, there was nothing left to do but to take some action, to address the disappointment and the tear stained faces of the fans, and to apologize. 

Comeback

As the minutes creep into the final quarter, you finally sink into your rhythm. You can’t miss a shot. There is certainty as the ball leaves your fingertips—the stroke of the imperfect texture, a sigh, a recipe for success. The ball drags through the net, another two points. Untouchable. 

On the court, the ball was never in my hands for long—I let my teammates take the shots— but I could defend. The footwork, the coordination, sunk low, arms reached out like wings. A practiced patience for stalking the offender, a reaction time in the ache of a breath—you train for that act, to not even have to think anymore. 

Al Green’s “Love and Happiness” plays in the first seconds of the movie Love and Basketball where it all begins for Monica and Quincy: a scrimmage on a basketball court. And I hear it in that song: the smiles exchanged between me and my teammate, the ache of another forced inhalation on that final sprint of the night, the ice, the tears, the losses, the triumphs, all spin in an ever rotating zoetrope of love, constructed of an imperfect texture, like the reptilian skin of that orange ball that I grew to love. 

Walking into Cameron for the first time, with the sight of the bleachers, tears stung my eyes. I remembered: a photo of my best friend and me taken our senior year, goofy smiles and concessions, piled onto the bleachers with the rest of our team, the high of a post game win evident—and an iron fist clenched around my heart. Remembering the love for a sport I no longer played, as my footsteps echoed on the creaky Cameron bleachers, I struggled with this loss. I hadn’t just lost a game; I’d lost the game. I’d lost basketball. 

But then the pregame warmups started. The players jogged onto the court. And I heard it. The thud of the bouncing balls after they had arched through the net, the slap of high fives, and the murmur of pregame lightness. I saw the drawn brows and the focus knitted on their faces, the camaraderie of a team. The squeak of shoes, no longer the squeak of my own shoes closing out on an offender, but the familiar sound pattern still carried, on its waves, joy. 

I felt it again. The anticipation. The nerves. And I got it: why they pile into bars, fight for the front spot, camp out for nights, to feel it, the love and joy of a competition. At the end of the day, the craziness and unparalleled ruthless rivalries, it is just basketball. But it is just basketball: an orange ball through a hoop, the hesitation before a fake, the sway of the defender, the scramble for a loose ball, the bright lights and the roaring fans, and in Cameron that night, with the blow of the referee’s whistle, it began again. 

Photo- https://time.com/5822507/love-and-basketball-movie-20th-anniversary/