It was a close game. No matter how hard the Crusaders tried the opposing team would keep the score close. There was a lot of energy in the gym that day, some of Home Team fans were biting their nails. Sure it was “just” a Junior Varsity game, but this might as well be the NBA Finals for me, number 50. I was tall compared to the other boys, with blond hair, thin as a pole, and with long gangly arms. I had a lot of passion for the game. My position was “forward,” but as far as I was concerned it was defense. I can hear the crowd now, chanting, “Defense, Defense” and it was like they were cheering my name. Every basket scored by the opposing team was a personal attack. I felt responsible for every swoosh of the net, every successful ricochet off the backboard. I was determined – entranced – to stop the scoreboard from changing in my enemy’s favor. I was giving 110% -- everything – to turn the tide.
The leader changed at every possession and the crowd was in an uproar. There was a foul and play was stopped for a penalty shot. The shooter waited for the ball from the referee while the other nine players took their spots along the key and at half court. I slid into my spot under the basket and readied myself for the rebound. I don’t know what was going through my mind – a lot of anger for ‘letting” the other team stay in the game. I was angry at my team as well as myself for we were all to blame. Anger welled up inside. I must do something, I thought.
The shooter released the ball and it arched over the court toward the basket. I focused on it as it flew over my head. I knew it was “off” and the rebound would be mine. I crouched down and blocked the opposing team members around me, just like my coach taught me.
Buh-DUNK.
The ball hit the rim and backboard awkwardly careened toward me. Now was my chance. I sprang up and snagged the regulation sized ball out of the air, feeling the dimpled surface with my fingers. (Now, I have to interject, that this was a masterful rebound and the most assertive one of my lengthy, two year career.) I brushed off the other players to keep claim of my prize. My mind was cloudy with adrenaline and anger. I took no chances and did a “pump fake” to ensure a clear shot. I extended, put aside “my conscious self” and released the ball with just enough power to kiss the backboard and ricochet into the net. I came down to earth with triumph in my heart. Time stood still. Something didn’t seem quite right. There was restlessness in the crowd . . . I looked up to the score board. The opposing team has 2 more points. I looked around and finally realized the horrible truth: the shooter was on the other team.
My triumph turned to utter defeat and humiliation. The crowd was stunned. I felt hundreds of eyes staring at me, my teammates were aghast. Did this just happen? I asked myself. Anger welled up inside of me to protect me from the waterfall of shame pouring down on me. I was LIVID, anger exploded from my being – anger at myself and anger at the opposing team. Oh, but was I ever just in pain and agony, humiliated and felt like such a joke. I looked away from the crowd because I was unable to look the spectators in the eye. I just wanted to melt into the wooden basketball court and escape the stares. A time out was called and my coach, standing on the sidelines, caught my attention. I don’t remember his exact words but the essence was: “It doesn’t matter Jon, I don’t care.” I replied in my anger, “I don’t care, either.” But I lied that day – to myself, and to everyone at that Junior Varsity game.
My outward anger didn’t last long, because it turned inward and began to eat away at my soul. I had failed.
I don’t remember the rest of the game, or the rest of the basketball season. But it was never the same. My coach put me on the bench soon after my ‘triumphant disaster.’ I don’t blame him; my mind wasn’t in the game anymore. I never wanted to play basketball again. I felt humiliated and ashamed. I covered it well and dismissed it in public, but inside this couldn’t happen again. I was too embarrassed to share my pain with anyone.
The pain and anger went underground through the off-season. Soon basketball season came again and my parents were there urging me to try out for basketball. I refused to, I didn’t give a reason, and I don’t know if consciously I knew my reason. I just didn’t want to play that game anymore, at least not on a team. I didn’t tell them I wasn’t going to do it, I wasn’t that aware. I used passive aggressive behavior to sabotage them. I just didn’t go to tryouts, and all I gave them was “I don’t want to.” Which wasn’t true – I wanted to play. I loved the game, but the humiliation hung on and held me back. My parents handled it in a controlling way, saying “You should do it, if you don’t you’ll regret it.” As a hurting 16 year old boy, that’s not want I needed. I needed to know I was loved without strings attached.
written February 9, 2006
Buh-DUNK.
The ball hit the rim and backboard awkwardly careened toward me. Now was my chance. I sprang up and snagged the regulation sized ball out of the air, feeling the dimpled surface with my fingers. (Now, I have to interject, that this was a masterful rebound and the most assertive one of my lengthy, two year career.) I brushed off the other players to keep claim of my prize. My mind was cloudy with adrenaline and anger. I took no chances and did a “pump fake” to ensure a clear shot. I extended, put aside “my conscious self” and released the ball with just enough power to kiss the backboard and ricochet into the net. I came down to earth with triumph in my heart. Time stood still. Something didn’t seem quite right. There was restlessness in the crowd . . . I looked up to the score board. The opposing team has 2 more points. I looked around and finally realized the horrible truth: the shooter was on the other team.
My triumph turned to utter defeat and humiliation. The crowd was stunned. I felt hundreds of eyes staring at me, my teammates were aghast. Did this just happen? I asked myself. Anger welled up inside of me to protect me from the waterfall of shame pouring down on me. I was LIVID, anger exploded from my being – anger at myself and anger at the opposing team. Oh, but was I ever just in pain and agony, humiliated and felt like such a joke. I looked away from the crowd because I was unable to look the spectators in the eye. I just wanted to melt into the wooden basketball court and escape the stares. A time out was called and my coach, standing on the sidelines, caught my attention. I don’t remember his exact words but the essence was: “It doesn’t matter Jon, I don’t care.” I replied in my anger, “I don’t care, either.” But I lied that day – to myself, and to everyone at that Junior Varsity game.
My outward anger didn’t last long, because it turned inward and began to eat away at my soul. I had failed.
I don’t remember the rest of the game, or the rest of the basketball season. But it was never the same. My coach put me on the bench soon after my ‘triumphant disaster.’ I don’t blame him; my mind wasn’t in the game anymore. I never wanted to play basketball again. I felt humiliated and ashamed. I covered it well and dismissed it in public, but inside this couldn’t happen again. I was too embarrassed to share my pain with anyone.
The pain and anger went underground through the off-season. Soon basketball season came again and my parents were there urging me to try out for basketball. I refused to, I didn’t give a reason, and I don’t know if consciously I knew my reason. I just didn’t want to play that game anymore, at least not on a team. I didn’t tell them I wasn’t going to do it, I wasn’t that aware. I used passive aggressive behavior to sabotage them. I just didn’t go to tryouts, and all I gave them was “I don’t want to.” Which wasn’t true – I wanted to play. I loved the game, but the humiliation hung on and held me back. My parents handled it in a controlling way, saying “You should do it, if you don’t you’ll regret it.” As a hurting 16 year old boy, that’s not want I needed. I needed to know I was loved without strings attached.
written February 9, 2006
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