1. I knew I had one more in me

The second Saturday of March marked two notable events in my life.

The first was the commencement of another season of playground basketball. About two dozen people converged on a suburban schoolyard outside of Washington, D.C., many of whom had not seen each other since the previous September. The players ranged in age from the early teens to the mid-30s. They ranged in profession from student to lawyer to repairman. They ranged widely in talent, too, but there was certainly a ceiling. While there were some former high school and Division III college players, there were numerous playgrounds on which none of their number would dare venture. A visitor from a higher level of the basketball pyramid occasionally would visit their humble court and find no challenge that would merit his return. Perhaps no point illustrates the middle class basketball status of the regulars better than the fact that I, who could not make my high school's junior varsity squad, was considered among the best players at that particular court the previous summer.

The second event was my 31^st birthday.

****

A flick of the remote control starts the tape forward. T.J. Sorrentine is standing to the right of the screen near the center circle, rhythmically pounding the basketball into the hardwood floor.

There are 24 seconds remaining on the shot clock, 1:28 left in the game. Sorrentine’s thirteenth-seeded Vermont Catamounts have a one-point lead over the heavily favored, fourth-seeded Syracuse Orangemen in the first round of the 2005 NCAA Tournament. As much as the legends of many of the game’s greatest players have been born in this event, it is the ubiquitous underdog that makes it the spectacle that it is. There is no sporting event truer to the mythical American dream – anybody in the dance has a chance. A victory by Vermont would be remembered for generations and, as a result, every Catamount player was participating in the biggest game of his life.

Sorrentine had been a solid college player, even winning his conference player of the year award, but as a senior with limited professional prospects, this was likely his last turn on the basketball stage. If it was to be his last game, it was not how he would have wanted to be remembered. He had delivered a miserable shooting performance, missing fourteen of his eighteen shots in the game – a shooting percentage of 22 percent. Nevertheless, he looks calm on the screen, working the ball effortlessly off the floor and between his legs as the clocks ticks down.

With 14 seconds on the shot clock and 1:18 in the game, he glances towards his coaches, who begin pleading with him to run a designed play. Sorrentine continues to dribble more than thirty feet from the basket, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, but no play is being executed. The Syracuse defenders look at him blankly, baffled by the still stationary Vermont point guard. Thousands of fans stand spellbound in the arena. Millions watching at home edge closer to their televisions sets. With eight seconds left on the shot clock, 1:12 in the game, Sorrentine picks up his dribble.

This is what happened next:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBFFJb9KSdc

In the press conference later, with the grin of a boy who knew he'd remember this moment longer than his own name, Sorrentine described the play. "Coach was yelling at me, 'Run Red! Run Red!" he started, then paused as he looked down and shook his head. The grin stubbornly held on his cheeks as he searched the floor and relived the exchange, continuing, "Nah, nah. I got this. I got this." He then picked up his eyes, wide with joy, and the guy who was 4 for 18 when he tossed up the 30-foot jumper said,

"I knew I had one more in me."

****

My father has long held the theory that our enjoyment of jokes is often enhanced by knowing the punchline in advance. He spoke of the magic of Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners. The best moments on the show were when something would happen to Ralph Kramden that would draw the most predictable of responses – “To the moon, Alice!” The entire audience was able to say it with him, allowing them to participate in the joy of delivering a good line. It is probably the reason why my friends and I have watched comedies like Anchorman and Wedding Crashers as many times as we have. It’s probably why people roar at concerts at the beginning of a band’s classic songs, then sing along until the end. Maybe it’s being able to participate in greatness. Maybe it’s simply that Pavlov was right. Maybe it’s that the world is such an unpredictable place that we rejoice in the few times when we can see something coming.

I’ve watched the tape of the Vermont-Syracuse ending more times than I can count. I cannot shake the impression that Sorrentine knew exactly what was going to happen when he began his dribble. I can almost see him smiling. While those 20 seconds were slipping away, he might’ve been reliving all of the practices in the backyard, the playground battles, the high school practices – every moment of his basketball life, everything leading up to this single play. There might have been another game, but for a Cinderella team like Vermont, a single victory was history. He knew this was the end. He knew he was going to get to have that moment. He got to savor it – and that made it so much sweeter.

****

On that March Saturday morning, I found myself in a similar situation. Well, as long as you can ignore the lack of history, fans, coaching, and talent. I knew my playing days were winding down. I had been playing at this court for the past four summers, trying to figure out what I could do on a basketball court long after everyone else had moved on to other challenges. I had also made it a point of pride to help ensure that there were games at that court six days per week, which meant that I had to be at that court six days per week. I was the last one to leave more often than not, playing kids half my age in games of one-on-one that ended by the light of the moon. It’s an unforgiving pounding on a 5’9”, 160-pound frame.

It could easily be argued that I should have already moved on to other things. I should have made a greater investment in my career. I should have focused on developing a social life beyond the confines of a playground. I should have spent more time thinking about philosophy, religion, or politics. I should have adopted a cause and made it my own. Good arguments all. I had a simple answer.

Nah, nah. I got this. I got this.

I knew that if I had the good fortune to have many years ahead of me, those years would be filled with basketball. There would be men’s leagues. There would be backyard games with my nieces, maybe even, if I’m really lucky, with kids of my own. There would be many more years of coaching. There would be thousands of hours devoted to following the game on television. There would be countless phone calls with my dad to discuss the prospects of our favorite team. But I knew that my body and my future would allow me only one more year of the daily pick-up battles on this playground. I was going to go as much, as long, and as hard as I could. I was going to savor every minute. I was going to play knowing two things.

I knew this was the end.

I knew I had one more in me.

This is the story of the last summer of a playground junkie.

****

Introduction

MORTAL KOMBAT!!!!

It was an often heard scream through my college years, the opening scene of a video game that was widely popular during that time. Just like many other testosterone-laden boys, my college friends went through a phase of playing the game regularly. The game pitted two warriors of various sizes and styles against each another in a best-of-three contest. As the title suggests, only the victor was left standing. At the very end, the loser would wobble, helpless and dazed, before the winner. By nimbly flicking a combination of buttons, the victorious player could remove various body parts from the loser’s corpse before it crumpled to the ground.

Taking the next step feared by earnest mothers everywhere, each of my four closest friends playfully adopted the finishing maneuver of one of the characters. Brian’s move was to yank out the throat. Joe’s move was to rip out the pelvis. Jesse and Brandon’s were similarly violent.

My move? I would write a paper until the opponent just collapsed from sheer exhaustion and boredom. My friends have always known I was a pus… er, a writer.

(For those of you who never had the pleasure, check the following link for a massive number of fatalities -- if you're looking for the pelvis removal, it's at about the 1:30 mark --

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9e_w_CYrrk

Enjoy.)

****

I have enjoyed writing since my freshman year of high school. On the heels of a B- on a writing assignment about my summer vacation – and still struggling socially in my first few months in yet another new school – my English class was given an in-class essay assignment. The test entailed reading a short story and answering a question about its protagonist.

The story was about an American pilot in World War II conducting a bombing run over a Japanese city. As he approaches his destination, he decides to divert from his plotted course to a cluster of factories to dump his arsenal in an adjacent field. After delivering his load, he returns to base rejoicing in the glory of his own mercy. Believing himself a savior, he travels to the area after the war and proudly reviews the safe, shining streets of the bustling metropolis. He finds them missing only one thing – children. Upon questioning a local resident, he is told that the city’s elders decided that the safest place for the children during the bombing runs of the war would be away from the military targets – out in the field.

I do not remember the question posed. I do not remember my answer. What I remember is slumping low in my seat – chin tucked to chest, eyes buried in the floor – as my teacher announced that she would read the best response she had received. She was three sentences into it before I realized it was mine. At the end of her reading, she announced me as its author. A girl named Kelly, on whom I had a rather formidable crush at the time, turned to me, nodded, and said in sweet admiration, “Brain.”

Writing is cool.

****

During college, writing was simply a necessity. I was a history and philosophy major; it came with the territory. After dozens of papers and a 110-page thesis, my writing well had run dry. My only attempts at storytelling between that thesis and the conclusion of law school five years later was a mountain of e-mails and some marginal poetry for the only girl I ever loved. Some of it was okay, but she deserved better; though that probably could be said of more than just the poetry. In any event, the proverbial pen was largely stilled for a long stretch.

In the five years since, my writing has been my contribution to family events: my father celebrates them with song, my mother memorializes them in quilts, I capture them in words, and my sister is stuck with the burden of actually living events worthy of art. I have grown to love searching for the truth through storytelling, both in piecing together the facts themselves and trying to find the deeper meanings they reveal. My enjoyment of this practice has grown to the point where I’ve considered taking steps toward a career in journalism.

Step one is to see if I can actually write. The next question is, write about what?

****

I have a few rather limiting conditions for a writer. I have a day job, which has the nasty habit of making me use the space inside my skull for other purposes (though I do think there’s still plenty of room available in there). I do not have time to conduct research or interviews. I do not have the resources or opportunity to travel extensively. I am not especially moved by any particular cause or faith – I am, in fact, quite suspicious of them. I have for a resource only my own life, which, while still full of potential, is not dotted with great achievement. As a result of a rather nomadic existence through ten different towns, there have been few yardsticks against which to measure my progress. But there has been one constant: the game of basketball.

My life has been only once blessed with romance, and there is no wife or child to enlighten and inspire me. While I would eagerly embrace those gifts if I am ever so fortunate as to have them in my life, their absence has allowed me a rather extended childhood, lived extensively on the playgrounds and in the gyms of the various communities I’ve called home. Basketball is the only companion I have known for my entire conscious life – I have occasionally left it, but it has never left me. It has been the medium that has caused and facilitated many of the most important relationships of my life. The game has been a source of knowledge, challenge, and meditation. If there is one thing in my life that has been a measuring stick of where I have been, where I am, and where I am going, it is basketball.

I treat it and treasure it as the most trusted of friends. I’ve committed to it. I’ve sacrificed and suffered for it. I’ve thought, laughed, and cried about it. After three decades, it seems that some investigation is appropriate to understand how it came to be so important in my life, the lessons it has taught me, and what I can carry from it in the vaults of my memory as I enter the next phase of my journey.

It is with that purpose and the gracious encouragement of two kind friends that I begin the humble enterprise of explaining why a boy, a ball, and a faded dream matter to me so….

****

Dear Readers 1 and 2

I’m writing this blog because Toni told me to write this blog.

Okay, it’s a little more complex than that.

I’m writing this blog because Toni and Dave told me to write this blog.

I’ve known Toni since high school. She was the first person I can ever remember telling me that she was there to listen if I ever needed to talk to anyone. I have adored her ever since.

Of course, I later learned that I was just one sheep in a rather large flock. At Toni and Dave’s wedding reception a few months ago, a childhood friend toasted her long relationship with Toni. In the course of her speech, she described a conversation where Toni lamented the series of pursuers that she had to gently deflect time and time again. The friend responded with astonishment that someone so smart could be so oblivious to something so obvious, “Toni, you’re hot. You keep telling these boys you’ll listen to them. What do you expect them to do?”

That blindness aside – or maybe, in part, because of it – she was and is a remarkable girl. As often as I am frustrated by people being less than what they could be, she is a reminder that what I believe is within us all actually does exist. Her encouragement to write this blog is only her latest act of gently and generously pushing me towards my own potential. The short version is this: she restores my faith in humanity and she renews my faith in me. I don’t know of a better definition of a friend.

There is something reassuring in seeing someone who deserves so much actually get it. In Dave, Toni found her equal in intelligence, curiosity, and kindness. I was fortunate enough to get to spend a weekend with them on a recent visit to New York City. As the three of us rode the subway out to Coney Island over a multitude of Brooklyn neighborhoods, I mentioned that I was wondering if I could be a writer. Echoing that teenage promise offered half of my life ago, Toni told me that if I ever needed to write something, she would read it. Dave proved her equal again, this time in supporting someone he barely knew, urging me to author a blog and offering to help get me started.

So I’ve got a blog and at least two readers. They have my gratitude. It is my ambition and my hope that I can also give them a good story.