The Passion of the Court

It’s March. I love March. I haven’t always loved March, I must admit, for two reasons. One, March in Minnesota is a mess. The weather is more unpredictable than usual and it’s just generally very ugly around here. Kind of like the big mess after a party. Assuming, of course, that winter in Minnesota is a party which I think is a bit of a stretch. And two, I haven’t always been a basketball fanatic. This is the time of the year for March Madness or as we call it in my house, All Basketball, All the Time. I used to be upset that all these basketball tournaments, college, high school, men’s, women’s, were preempting my favorite shows because TV, that’s important.

The strange thing is I have always loved basketball. Playing that is. Watching? Not so much. Why watch when you can play? If I did watch, I would get all antsy, thinking I could do better than the players on the floor, although this may have been all in my mind, cocky little thing that I was. I think that all former athletes harbor the illusion that they can still play ball as well as, if not better than, they did when they played in their younger years (older, you know, so consequently smarter and therefore better which as we will soon see is a completely fallacy that not only negates the better thing but the smarter thing as well). We think we are only a little out of shape and out of practice. Given say, two weeks or so, we could be back to prime form. This illusion dies hard.

After clinging to this misconception for a few years too long, reality came crashing in just last summer. I tried to do a layup--something I learned how to do in 3rd grade--to show my daughter how to do it. I’m not sure what happened but limbs flew everywhere and my back screamed, what the hell are you doing? And the ball, well, the ball never came close to the backboard, much less the hoop. Apparently, doing a layup is not like riding a bike. I regrouped. After all, I had played city league for several years after my daughter was born and it had been only a couple of years since I had played. I tried again. Dribbled a couple of times, ball went off my foot. Started over again. Dribbled, ran a couple of steps and laid the ball up. Limbs flew, back screamed and ball hit the roof of the garage. Tried a couple of more times with the same result and ended up on my back in the driveway laughing while my daughter stood over me looking worried. “Are you all right?” She asked her brow wrinkled in concern.

I wanted to say, “No, I am only laughing to keep from crying.” But pity from your six-year old is just embarrassing so I said yes and kept on laughing. The illusion was shattered. Had I thought about it at all, I would have realized that even when I played, I played some sort of stunted basketball. Not being in the best basketball shape, I and the rest of the moms on the court kind of whittled our skills to the ones we were best at. In my case, it was defense, rebounding and put back buckets. I had no energy left for dribbling and fast breaks which effectively made layups obsolete for me. It had probably been 10 years since I had truly attempted one. But still because I once could, I thought I still could. After all, no one wants to admit her first grader can do layup better than she can.

Now that it is clear to me that I can’t do, I must watch (which sounds completely perverted and voyeuristic but is not), because that part of me that loved to play basketball still needs the excitement. I will watch pretty much any women’s game that is on and will follow any team that is good. I must say that I pretty much stick to women’s basketball because they still play fundamental team basketball which is truly a thing of beauty while the men are concerned with being individual superstars and making it to the NBA before their sophomore year which depletes the college ranks and makes the concept of team building non-existent and, therefore makes the game sloppy and uninteresting to watch and basketball is still a team sport no matter how much some people would like to think differently (practically all of the NBA except Detroit).

I just needed to say that.

At any rate, I understand now why those guys who look way too chubby and out of shape (or way too skinny and out of shape) are obsessed with football and get so excited when their team wins or loses. It’s a way to be a part of something you love without all the pain. It may seem sad but truly, I appreciate the game on a whole new level. Now I’m convinced I know better than any coach on the floor and certainly better than the refs.

Yes, the illusion dies hard.