October 20: Two For Two

Most kids I knew growing up that owned a basketball hoop had it attached to the roof of their house above their garage or they kept a portable hoop in the cul-de-sac. Either way, they usually had to avoid parked cars. I always had the luxury of being able to play without obstacles.

When I was five, my family moved to our recent house and my dad had a open space of concrete poured for the sole purpose of putting in a basketball hoop for me. It was the perfect place to run around, shoot free throws, and lob three-pointers to my heart's content. I would spend most of the nights of my youth running around on the smooth cement in imaginary worlds where I was beating buzzers and being drafted by the Orlando Magic until blisters formed on the bottom of my bare feet. I came up with games where making more free throws increased my chances of a certain girl at school liking me. If I made six out of ten shots, for example, I had a sixty percent chance she was into me.

In elementary school, I was always the first picked at recess. My skill level must have stayed in the fifth grade, because once I graduated to middle school, I started getting chosen somewhere within the middle of the group. Although I was still playing just as much as ever at home, I failed to make the Freshmen team in high school. I was convinced I was better than I had shown in the tryouts, so I went back out for the Junior Varsity team the following year; and I made it.

When the coach informed me I had made the team, he was straightforward in letting me know that I probably wouldn't be getting much playing time, but he still wanted my enthusiasm on the team; he wasn't kidding, either. I was played so seldom that I didn't even bother taking my warm up pants and jacket off once the game had started. I just stayed at the end of the bench and waited for the game to end so I could go home.

I was like the retarded kid they let on to the team to make me happy. Had I stayed on the team until graduation, I'm convinced I would have won the "Most Inspirational" award at the team dinner. I would have run a little too fast to the podium to get my certificate and my teammates would laugh at me, but I would interpret their laughter as encouragement. The coach would say something like, "This next recipient always showed up to practice with a smile on his face. He was a hard worker and was a joy to have on the team." In other words, "This guy really sucks at basketball and I didn't have the balls to cut him."

I believe it was one of the final games of the season and we were up by a good twenty points with two minutes remaining. One of my teammates asked me why I wasn't playing, but he happened to ask the question just loud enough for the coach to hear. It wasn't until the other players chimed in, however, that the coach felt pressured into letting the retard have a go.

The next thing I knew, I was standing at one end of the court as a team member passed the ball in bounds to me. I took a few dribbles toward our end of the court before an opponent came to cover me. Because he was so aggressive in his attempts to get the ball, I was forced to stop dribbling and hold the ball as tight as I could against my chest. He kept slapping at the ball as I curled my body tighter and tighter while trying to protect the ball until the referee blew his whistle and my teammates on the bench erupted with applause and laughter. Did the retard do something right?

One of the reasons I sat the bench so often was because I clearly didn't know the rules of the game. I knew whichever team threw the ball through the hoop the most won, but that was about the extent of my knowledge. Apparently because of the way my opponent was covering me, I was awarded the opportunity to shoot a free throw. If I made the shot, I would get a second one.

As I walked toward the other end of the court, I saw my teammates cheering and rooting me on. I saw the coach's blank face and I saw the lethargic Junior Varsity cheer squad counting down the minutes until they could call their boyfriends. This was my moment to shine.

I toed the free throw line as my stomach did flips and my knees shook. I held the ball in both hands at my waist and looked up at the hoop which seemed miles away. I didn't even bounce the ball before I raised it in front of my face, bent my knees, stood on my toes and released. The gymnasium went silent as the ball rotated through the air and fell softly through the net. My first point of the season. The second shot felt eerily similar to the first. No bounce. Bent knees. Silent delivery. Unlike the first, though, it bounced on the side of the rim, hit the glass, and fell clumsily through the hoop.

I don't remember if the coach left me in for the remaining minute and thirty seconds, but my moment had come and gone. I finished the season with a free throw percentage of one hundred. I don't think that's ever happened in March Madness and I know it's unheard of in the NBA, but that's what I do. I didn't enjoy my time on Junior Varsity so I never even tried for Varsity, but I did my share in that particular game to win by at least twenty-two. I owe it all to those countless nights I spent shooting free throws until it was time to come in and go to bed.