By BILL BERRY
of The Gazette
I am saying goodbye to playing basketball, and it is taking a long time.
It is no simple thing. I know those who have found it easier to say goodbye to a spouse or a lover than to basketball.
Some of us are hopelessly addicted to this sport, and too stubborn to quit. Those so afflicted know the story well. Between injuries, we gather here and there around town to try it one more time. We are taking it a day at a time, so to speak. We limp and sag, and our uniforms are not in great shape, either. But given another run, er, trot, and we are out there, because we can't give it up.
This is insanity, others point out. My wife is among them. She claims that I get injured every time I play. She is wrong. It is more like every other time. But little wonder she thinks as she does, since basketball nights are followed by days of loud groans that accompany routine acts like bending, reaching and walking. Crude proclamations are sometimes issued, such as, "My frickin' leg feels like it's falling off."
The truth is, old gym rats are one major injury away from something real serious. Still, there is no stopping us. We must do this. We can trace it back to the root, the earliest days, when we realized that we loved playing basketball like almost nothing else on earth. The sound of a single bouncing basketball is the sound of hope. The sound of several bouncing basketballs is the sound of a game in the making, and some of us can't stay away.
The last of us today were the first back when. First to the open gym on Saturday morning, first to get there after school, first to the locker-room on game day because we couldn't wait another second. We were the ones whose shouts echoed off gymnasium walls. "One more, to 21."
There are a few simple facts about basketball that make it so special to those in its grips.
It is, above all, captivating for participants. When you're on a basketball court, concentrating on the matters at hand, nothing else in the world is of much importance. A pretty woman on the sidelines might be a bit of a distraction, but only on the periphery. Basketball is compelling this way. It fully engages the senses in an ever-changing array of possibilities. Those who know how to play see the whole court. Their minds are full of thoughts. "If he does this, and the other guy does that, then this could follow. That is, if the guy over there doesn't slide into that spot." These little mental dialogues are going on constantly in a basketball game, and they change by the split second. So engaging is the experience that real time can be set aside. Yes, time, as in the time of the world outside of basketball. Permit but one example:
This was back at St. Mary of the Angels in Green Bay, where some of us seventh-grade boys had been misbehaving regularly in class. Come report card day, the truth had out. My own grade in "conduct" was at an all-time low, and many horrors awaited once I crossed the threshold of the family home the night of report card day. The greatest fear of all: the ghastly prospect of removal from the basketball team.
Still, there is a glimmer of light in even the darkest days. Mine came from 3:30 to 5:30, when we had basketball practice. There they were, Smitty and Jughead and Donnie, all the guys, out there on the court. Some had similar heck to pay back home, but between the lines, for those precious minutes, all was well. This practical reality repeats itself as long as a basketball lover plays. You just give yourself up to the moment.
It was bloody back home that night, but not so much that basketball was ruled out, only the potential of it, should the family name be further tarnished.
It was back with the team the next night. Those who have played the game have a lifetime of teams to fall back on. You played with them in schools, city leagues, pickup games, three-on-three tournaments. You socialized with them afterwards, and by the end of the night, you all had played pretty well, regardless of the real final score.
The most athletic of basketball teams will win the most games. That is, if the athletes are also teammates. If they are not, then a team of lesser athletes but better and smarter teammates may sometimes defeat the superior athletes. Time and again, through more than four decades of active participation, I have seen this probability recur.
At the same time that "team" is so important in basketball, individuals on a team are acutely aware of their own standing. It is said that if you stop a basketball game at any point and ask the individual participants how many points they've scored, in almost all cases each individual will know the answer. It is supposedly as true for fourth graders as it is for pros. This is one of the many curses and blessings of the game, especially for old gym rats. Here is an example of why:
A fellow from out of town stopped down to the Y for the "businessmen's basketball" the other night. "Businessmen's basketball" is an overly kind term for "a bunch of busted-up gym rats stumbling around on the court." The out-of-towner was here on business. At 52, a former small college player, he had found a game with a pace to his liking. He drilled a bunch of shots from the outside and helped his team to some wins, playing like a competitive gentleman all the way. Afterward, in the hallway, we were agreeing that it takes a long time to say goodbye to basketball. "The trouble is, you do well one night, and then you think you can still play. Then you're screwed," he said.
There is an especially powerful rush that comes from hitting an important shot. At that precise moment, there is nothing much more important. Success at the act ranks higher in the scheme of life than in ought to, but there it is, just the same.
Making one shot, however unlikely, amidst a group of younger men, or even those your age at this point, sets you up for another game of risk, further increasing the likelihood that you will one day have hip or knee surgery, ankle fusion, shoulder repair, or, dreaded most of all, suffer a blown Achilles' tendon. One silly basket is all it takes. That's all, even though you know you can't do what you used to do. My friend Casey Sullivan once summed up declining court skills this way. "It's like you're back in eighth grade. You know what you want to do, but you can't do it."
True it is, although the oldest of gym rats are first to agree that youth is wasted on the young. So much dribbling, so much spinning, so much show, such limited results.
Still, the time comes to end the game. It's just that it can take a long time. It is no easy matter to say goodbye to basketball. Some of us have been trying, for a long time. Knee braces, Ibuprofen, heel cups and tape are our aids. We will ice tonight.
We hope to find a court just one more time, where nothing else matters for a little while.
There aren't many places like that in the world.