9. One Shining Moment

The ball is tipped
and there you are
you're running for your life
you're a shooting star....

In one shining moment, it’s all on the line
One shining moment, there frozen in time.

At the conclusion of its coverage of the 1987 National Championship game between the Indiana Hoosiers and Syracuse Orangemen, CBS showed a brief highlight package of the best moments of that year’s tournament set to a monument of schmaltz entitled “One Shining Moment”. Over the two decades that followed, the tune has become a sports institution, serving as the backdrop for a series of images capturing the most explosive and emotional moments from the three weeks in March when every team plays for the purest reason that there is: for the right to play again. It is the often-imitated, never-duplicated standard bearer for sports television sentimentalism.

The song itself became the soundtrack of basketball fantasy for a generation of youngsters. It was the anthem of every kid who imagined a ticking clock and a roaring crowd as the backdrop for his final shot before dinner. On its face, and in the blur of pictures that flicker across the screen, it is a song about victory. It is a song about champions. It is a song that extols the virtue of persevering through overwhelming adversity in the pursuit of one’s dreams. But on another level, it is a song that serves as a reminder to revel in the glory of competition. It is a song that urges each participant to appreciate each opportunity and each experience, to cherish each victory and each triumph, even if those moments aren’t the ultimate dream.

It is a song, for all its simplicity, that I should’ve listened to better than I did.

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Life was in many ways easier for me as I neared the midpoint of my high school career. I had grown accustomed to Midwestern accents and television prime time kicking off at seven o’clock. I had settled into a vigorous academic schedule that would spit me out at high school graduation as a second-semester college sophomore. I wasn’t clinging to the basketball team for social survival any longer, but that didn’t make it less important to me. I’ve never worked harder in my life than I did during those years and basketball, as always, served as my release. I was the smallest sophomore in stature – around 5’5” and 115 pounds – and least in all other statistics, but I was still a part of something. The practices served as my opportunity to spend time with my closest friends every day before hitting the books and were the only way I could play the game I loved during the brutal Windy City winter. I had accepted that basketball would have a less formal role in my life after high school and that this would be the last time in my life when I could be part of a team that mattered. The sophomore team was the next stop on my way to the varsity, the original March Madness (the Illinois High School Association claims that title for its basketball tournament), and the roaring crowd at Waukegan High School. It was a modest dream, but a dream nonetheless.

I had made some progress on the depth chart, from the sixth string to the fourth, though it had very little to do with my abilities or my aspirations. The sophomore team picture contained ten fewer boys than the freshman edition, but most of that number simply quit the team for a variety of reasons. Some quit to focus on other sports. Some quit to focus on their social life. Others quit because they didn’t enjoy being benchwarmers, suffering through the daily rigors of practice without getting to play in any of the games.

That isn’t quite true. There were actually games for the benchwarmers. The sophomore team, like the freshman team, was broken down into “A” and “B” squads. The head coach directed the games of the “A” team and an assistant coach would cover the “B” team contests. The “B” teams included anyone that did not play substantial minutes in the “A” team’s games. For the sophomore squad, the “B” team was usually no more than seven players and often was as few as five, so – the coach having no alternative – I got to play most of the game. We posted a fine record and I had some decent performances that season. I posted my career high in a school uniform: 15 points, the result of hitting all six of my shots from the field and three more from the line. In another game that we won by approximately 50 points, I claimed to have had 20 assists. During the varsity game later that day, the assistant coach – otherwise memorable primarily for introducing us to the term “cajones” – pointed out the local high school sportswriter and prodded me, “Go give him a quote!”

I often didn’t hear him clearly – unless, of course, he was screaming something about “cajones!” – so I looked back at him, a little mystified, “Go give him a Coke?”

“No, a quote! A quote!”

It seemed a little presumptuous to me – no cajones, I’m sure the assistant coach would say – so I did not approach the sportswriter. The next day, the paper reported that I had 7 points and 14 assists. It was the only time I remember seeing my name in the newspaper associated with basketball.

****

But the glory was in the “A” team’s games, especially for the sophomores. The sophomore games were directly before the varsity contests, which meant that by the time our games were concluding, there were often a couple thousands fans in attendance. If the game was a blowout, the benchwarmers were likely to be playing in front of actual people, though it was unlikely that any of them would be watching. The apathy directed towards the third-string players was even shared by the head coach. At the season-ending banquet, he introduced each of the players on the team before a crowd of family members. The first player, the other guard on the “B” team – and more importantly an occasional substitute on the “A” team – was praised by the head coach for a few paragraphs for his effort and his steadiness in practice. It was well-deserved recognition.

I was next. The coach paused. He furrowed his brow, looking at the sheet of statistics in his hand for an idea. It came to him and his eyes twinkled briefly before he spoke, savoring his own joke before it was spoken.

“Uh,” began, inauspiciously, “Jeff led our team in free-throw shooting this year. He made his only one.”

All of the parents and other players laughed. So did I. It was a good opening line. Unfortunately for me, it was also his closing one. He quickly moved on to lauding the next player at length and I humbly stepped back into line. Ouch.

It wasn’t his fault; I imagine he had simply forgotten about me in preparing his remarks. I had a rather forgettable season and any statistical analysis of the team’s performances would conclude that I was the least significant player on the roster. I had only one memorable moment that season and it revealed little more than my proper position at the end of the bench.

Still, I did have one.

****

And all the years
no one knows
just how hard you worked
but now it shows....

In the last home game of our season, we had a substantial lead entering the fourth quarter. The scrubs knew we were going to get a few final minutes of playing time in front of our classmates. It was a long shot that any of us would make the varsity squad the following year, and I would ultimately be the only one who would even try. We referred to those mop-up minutes of a blowout as “popcorn time” – the time of the game when the starters could grab a box of popcorn, since their work was done. Throughout that season, as soon as we sensed a decisive victory, one of us would turn to the others and say, “You smell that? Smells like popcorn.” (Quite the banter, I know.) The rest of us would grin and starting bouncing our legs up and down, trying to send some life into our lower limbs in anticipation of checking in to the game.

The varsity squad was carrying an exceptional record that season, so the crowd came early. The dominance of the varsity had even drawn the students that didn’t care about basketball, including a sweet, stunning, and thoughtful girl on whom I held a formidable crush. My eyes had been instantly drawn to her the second that she walked into gym and they followed her to her seat in one of the front few rows. She was a lighthouse on the opposite shore – she wore a long-sleeved, red-and-white-striped shirt and a beaming beacon of a smile that drew my eyes to her every time the play headed to the end of the court where she was stationed. It was the first time that I was going to get to play with her in attendance. Despite my deep desire to impress her, I didn’t really have any grand plans for the spectacular – “spectacular” was not in my arsenal. I would do what I always had done: spend my few minutes trying to get my teammates open shots and, if I was lucky, I’d get to run around enough to justify a post-game shower.

Paul – the neck cartoonist from my freshman year – had another idea. He and I had become friends, though he had decided not to play basketball that year and instead focus on football and baseball. I have had a friend or two in my life that enjoyed trying to see what they could get a group of people to do, but no one more so than Paul. The fact that he’s had a successful career in public relations is not a surprise. After a few dreary minutes of uninspired hoops, and a correspondingly uninterested crowd, Paul decided to focus the assembled masses on the one remaining matter that had yet to be decided: whether or not I would score.

I became aware of this with about two minutes remaining in the contest. The ball was in-bounded to me and I began to dribble up the court. As soon as I passed the center circle, a few dozen people started screaming at me to shoot. Our offense was not designed to permit the point guard to heave up a 40-foot shot. Few offenses are. Further, the popcorn posse was only willing to follow our plays for a pass or two and once I had successfully initiated the offense, I was unlikely to see the ball again. As I passed the ball to one side of the floor and ran in the opposite direction to set a screen, the sudden balloon of crowd noise deflated, and we were soon on defense again.

The rise and fall was repeated a few times as I caught the ball and passed it away. Each time I touched the ball, a few more sections of seats were drawn into the drama. It was hardly a unique situation. The first team I ever watched consistently – the 1981-82 North Carolina Tar Heels – had a 7’1” center from Finland named Timo Makkonen. Each time Makkonen took a step down the floor, it was an even money proposition whether his next stride would successfully keep his lumbering body upright. (If this is unfair to Makkonen, I apologize – I’m going off my memory of him as a six-year-old.) But the fans loved him. Every time he touched the ball, the students would urge him to shoot, erupting in chants of “Timo! Timo! Timo!” Makkonen and other similarly flawed crowd favorites served reminders that normal people do play the game. I suppose the crowd identifies with them, thinking, “If that guy can do it, so can I.”

But whatever the reason, the chants will always be. On this particular day, those chants were for me, and as the clock ticked toward the final minute and I failed to satisfy the pleas for points, the entire student section and most of the adults were absorbed into a single screaming, stomping, clapping company of encouragement.

I was conflicted. I didn’t like attention when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it and I really didn’t like it when I was receiving it precisely because I wasn’t capable of doing much of anything. But if I was going to get it, then I damn well wanted to succeed. I didn’t like to look for my own opportunities to score, in small part because my disposition disfavored it and in large part because of how poorly I shot the ball on most occasions. I wanted to please my coaches, who had assigned me a particular role: play good defense, handle the ball, and set up my teammates. Unless weapons were aimed at my forehead – and they better be substantial weapons, not just a measly kitchen knife or something – I was not supposed to shoot. Then again, I also wanted to please the masses and I wanted, unlikely as it was, to impress the girl. The timeless lesson applies to me as it does to so many other males: ultimately, in any comparison of virtues, always, always, ALWAYS count on the boy choosing the path that he thinks will impress the girl. (Of course, the other aspect of this algebra, at least for me, is that whenever the boy thinks he knows what will impress the girl, he is always wrong. This theory is encapsulated in another blog tentatively entitled: Last of the No-Freakins.)

So I wanted to score, but I wanted to do it in the natural course of the game. That way, I could satisfy the coaches, be respectful of my teammates, please the masses, and maybe, just maybe, catch the eye of the girl. Everybody wins. With 40 seconds to go, I got my chance. A long rebound led to a fast break. I caught the ball on the right wing and had an unobstructed path to the basket. I rose for a lay-up and deftly released the ball on a path towards the backboard that would gently lead it toward the bucket. The ball did as it was told, pausing on the glass and preparing to fall softly off the front of the rim and into the hoop. The crowd leapt to its feet and began to cheer in celebration.

Unfortunately, and to the exasperated gasps of the masses, as the ball hung inside the front edge of the rim, a defender was completing a wild and futile attempt to block the shot. The motion of his arm was a few feet short of the location of the ball, but as he thrashed downward, his hand caught a corner of the net, stretching one of its strands and violently jerking the breakaway rim downward. As the rim sprang back to its proper location, the ball was catapulted against the backboard and caromed away toward the free throw line. The referees should have called goaltending, but the play was too unexpected or the game too uncompetitive, so they simply let play continue. The opposing team dribbled the ball in the other direction, the crowd sagged, and I raced back on defense.

After another 30 seconds, a foul was committed, leaving ten seconds on the clock as a player for the other team stepped to the free throw line. By this point, even the coaches were motioning for me to hedge towards my basket, in the hopes that I could receive a long pass and finally score two measly, meaningless points. The crowd was growing desperate, screaming at the shooter in the hopes that a bad miss might lead to another fast break and another opportunity for me. The second free throw was missed and the rebound ricocheted among competing hands as the final seconds trickled from the clock. I was standing a few feet in front of the students section, where I treated them to an uneven dance as the tug-of-war between my ears became visible in my steps.

Nine seconds. My initial instinct was to secure the ball and run out the clock, a respectful gesture towards an already beaten opponent. Traditional basketball protocol dictated that this was the proper course. I shuffled a few steps to my left towards the scrum.

Seven seconds. The crowd protested. Vigorously. My own coaches were telling me to head for the other basket so I would have a chance to score. If the reason to sublimate one’s own ego to the team was because the collective was more significant than the individual, and if the greater good was truly what was at stake, then shouldn’t my goal be to make as many people as possible happy? That means offering the performance that would please the crowd, doesn’t it? I shuffled a few steps to the right as the crowd squealed in delight.

Six seconds. It felt wrong. I didn’t want the attention. This wasn’t me. I took a step back towards the left.

Five seconds. A teammate secured the ball. When in doubt, always go for the column with the girl. I took off to my right and down the court. The crowd erupted.

Three seconds. I received the ball just inside the three-point line. I took one dribble, cutting inside one sprinting defender.

Two seconds. I rose toward the basket as another defender streaked in front of me. Already in the air, I pulled the ball back as the defender swung his arm and continued past me.

One second. I hung in the air – I could always jump – and gently arched the ball towards the backboard.

The buzzer sounded. The crowd exploded. The ball fell through the hoop.

****

But time is short
and the road is long
in the blinking of an eye
ah that moment's gone....

My one shining moment may have been my single success in a season of ineptitude, but at least it was properly crowned. I did get that post-game shower (though that may have been attributed more to my sweaty teammates offering congratulatory hugs more than my own perspiration) and emerged from the locker room a few minutes into the varsity contest. Paul quickly found me in the stands and, before a few hundred of my classmates, hung a net around my neck. He explained that since the defender had severely stretched the net, the decision had been made to replace the twine for the next game. Recognizing the theater that is typically involved in the ceremony of cutting down the nets after a championship moment – and foreshadowing his public relations career – Paul quickly approached the maintenance men and retrieved the damaged net. It was awarded to me as my prize for my single basket and the crowd offered its approval with a final ovation.

Looking back on it now, I kick myself for not enjoying the moment more. I had nearly all of my friends, my family, my teammates, and my peers encouraging me. I got to make a difficult, buzzer-beating shot and celebrate in the embrace of a roaring crowd. I don’t know too many people that have had such a moment, or had a net hung over their heads in recognition of that moment, even if it was in rather absurd circumstances. Everybody deserves a moment like that. I actually got to have the experience. I should’ve savored it.

But I didn’t, at least not at the time. My eyes turned immediately toward my dreams. I retreated to a spot near the top of the bleachers as the attention of the crowd returned to the game. An attractive girl sat beside me, trying unsuccessfully to engage me in conversation. I listened quietly, nodding at appropriate moments, but it wasn’t the girl I wanted. It wasn’t the moment I wanted, the achievement I wanted, or the net that I wanted. It wasn’t the one shining moment I wanted. I sat beside her, running the net between my fingers, wondering where the girl in the red-and-white shirt was sitting. I wondered if I’d ever get a chance to sit in that varsity locker room. I wondered if I’d ever score when it mattered.

I got the ticking clock and the roaring crowd as the backdrop for my final shot. If I’d had it to do over again, I’d enjoy the popcorn a little bit more.

****