My fingers curled around the basketball, the rough skin foreign to my touch. The clock lost another second and my options ran out. I turned to the hoop and with all the focus and strength I had…
Upward Basketball is at best a program for the children who are too chubby for the Friendly House league and whose parents are unwilling to accept the fact their kid has no athletic talent whatsoever. An opinion is always subject to have an exception; I, however, was not one in this particular instance. Hoping to finally discover any secret talent that lurked beneath my many layers of Hostess snacks and happy meals, my overeager parents signed me up for a team. Since I believed any form of cardio was surely only fit to be used as cruel and unusual punishment, this bit of news outraged me, but after being tranquilized with the promise of Dairy Queen, I peacefully went to my first practice.  My family was quick to realize their fatal mistake of dumping me on a court, but with deep regret they would not allow me to quit.
Fortunately, the benevolent God of Fate bestowed my seven man team with a girl who was an exception to the “Upward’s standards.” She was a celestial being whose 5’4” frame instilled terror in the hearts of our fourth grade opponents. She carried all 700 pounds of our team to an undefeated season, and if the rest of the team contributed anything to our exceptional record, I had no part in it. Although I did not seem to take note of it at the time, I can clearly recall my pudgy fingers never failing to miss a catch and how my ruddy cheeks always wobbled from exhaustion before the end of the first quarter.
One day, as my mother drove me home from a game, she finally gathered the courage to ask me what she been wondering since my first practice. She looked for my eyes in the rearview mirror and found me plowing down a cosmic brownie with vehement and intense enthusiasm.
“Taylor,” she said tentatively. I met her eyes in the mirror and refrained from continuing to open up another brownie. “Aren’t you…” she paused, searching for the right word to use, “embarrassed to be the last girl running down the court?”
I laughed and turned my attention back to delicious prize between my fingers. My mother was referring to the fact that I was acting utterly oblivious to any of the shame that I should have felt while trailing behind my teammates and opponents like a lame rhinoceros stomping aimlessly around several yards behind its herd.
“Why?” I said over the crinkling of the wrapper. “Everyone is looking at me.”
As I remember saying those words, I cannot help but cringe and pause in my writing to bury my face. I guess I have finally found the shame I could not even feign as a child. I was thrilled and proud to hold the attention of the crowd, albeit for being on the worst end of the talent totem pole.
After trampling and stumbling my way through several more games, the end of the season finally came and my chest was still swelled with brazen pride. Despite not once possessing the ball, no amount of incompetence could impede my pride. During the season, there had been only one team my celestial teammate struggled to defeat, and it was the same team we would face in the championship game. That final game was a brutal battle between my 5’4” teammate and the other team, and since the score was constantly switching in favor, my directionless imitation of a rhinoceros was never awarded a rest. My belief in the cruelty of cardio was proven.
As the game dwindled down to the final seconds, my team found itself short of luck. Down by one point and only enough time for a single attempt at victory, my 5’4” teammate captured the basketball at the defensive end of the court and began her perfected sprint towards victory. Because I was still making my way back to defense, I suddenly found myself in front of everyone as the court was thrown into transition. The clock flashed “4” while the ball was at midcourt and I stood at the foul line, trying to capture the breath that had been evading me since the first whistle. Realizing she could not make it to the basket in time for a decent shot, my 5’4” teammate made a panicked decision at an attempt to win the game. I watched the ball fly from her hands and sail to the basket. No, I realized, it’s headed towards me!
I still wonder what demented idea had been running through my teammate’s mind. She had to have known that I was hardly capable of breathing, let alone attempting to win a championship game. But nonetheless, she had made the pass to me. The ball spiraled towards my face until orange engulfed my vision. I caught the ball just before it hit my face, and I owed the impeccably timed catch to fear rather than skill. What am I supposed to do?! Pass it back? Dribble? Shoot it? My fingers curled around the basketball, the rough skin foreign to my touch. The clock lost another second and my options ran out. I turned to the hoop and with all the focus and strength I had, I launched the ball upwards and simply hoped for the best.
The crowd’s thunderous cheers hushed as everyone watched the ball arc higher and higher, move further and further. The buzzer shrieked as the ball reached its climax, but still no one moved. The ball began its descent as I stood quivering at the foul line, my toes shaking underneath the pressure of my weight. The ball finally fell past the net, cleanly slicing through empty air. Unchecked pride consumed me as a large grin spread comfortably across my countenance. The fact the ball fell on the wrong side of the net did not seem to inhibit the elating feeling that finally touching the ball brought me.
My team was reduced to a nebulous tangle of tears and snot while the winning team congregated at half court, roaring victoriously. I bolted from the court and ran into my mother’s outstretched arms.
“Don’t worry, honey. Don’t worry about losing,” she cooed, stroking my hair.
I impatiently brushed off her hand and jumped up and down. “Mom- did you see that? Did you see me? I touched the ball! I touched the ball! That was amazing!” I blubbered through tears of joy.
Ah, to feel that pride again.