Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Echoes


To most people, it's just a basketball.  It's a symbol of recreation.  It's for play time.  For me, it's so much more than that.  It's the symbol that I most closely associate with my childhood.  It's passion and pain.   

I come from a basketball family even though most people probably don't know it.  My grandfather and his brother were excellent players.  They played the old style back in the 20's, but growing up I still heard people around town talk about how they could nail it from way out.  All my Aunts were great players, and when I say that, I mean like All-State quality leading scorer type players.  My Aunt Reba for example was one of the best players in the State of Louisiana her sophomore year.  Her team went to the State Championship and she not only started but played a pivotal role.  She may have even been the leading scorer, but I'm not completely certain of that.  Her younger sister Sherron was just as good.  They even played together in my hometown when Reba was a Senior.  I reckon they were something to see.  My Mom didn't play.  Not because she couldn't, in her 60's now, but she can still nail a hook shot before you know what happened.  Most of my cousins… same thing. 

I learned to dribble when I was 3.  I vividly remember it.  I was on my grandmother's carport with both of them coaching me.  Because my Dad was principal of the high school, I also had uncommon access to the gym.  I shot basketball every day after school for at least an hour or two.  I loved it more than anything.  My room was covered in posters of different players and I wanted nothing but to play in the NBA.  Obviously, that was never an option, but a boy can dream,  right?  I could shoot three pointers at 10 from anywhere around the line.  I would play horse with high school kids and win.  I was never a great dribbler or penetrator, but so what?  Last time I checked, they give you an extra point for longer shots and I was better at that anyway. 

At about the age of 11, things took a turn.  I began to play really organized ball.  I was being coached for the first time.  There are people who thrive in this environment.  I wasn't one of them.  This wasn't my coach's fault though.  It was mostly mine.  I was a baby in many ways.  I wasn't used to doing things wrong.  I wasn't use to life not being fair, and having to fight for your position.  I still lived in a fantasy world where people received what they deserved, but that's just not true.  It's just not the way the world works, and a lot of folks would do good to learn that. 

Over time, I lost interest in basketball.  I could always still shoot because I stayed on the team until I graduated.  In other words, I had to play a certain number of hours a week, but my heart wasn't in it.  I didn't try.  I certainly didn't play on my own time.  Why would I?  It was something I felt that I had been born to do, and something I had failed at miserably.  I couldn't see a solution.  It's depressing to think about.  It haunts me.  I wish I could go back and practice all the time.  Prove myself.  Validate my heritage.  I think about it all the time, more than you can imagine.  But for what?  I can't go back.  It's lost. 

Today, I still play basketball.  I shoot as a warm-up before working out, and I can still make it rain from way out.  I like to see how many NBA 3's I can hit in a row, and I admit sometimes lifting gets put aside because I'm having too much fun.  But, there's a flipside to the coin.  It bothers me a lot.  It brings back bad feelings and thoughts.  When I am stressed at work or at home, I don't show it outwardly unless it's a flash of my temper, which I try to control.  Rather, I internalize things.  I guess, I always have.  I'm so extraverted, I don't think most people realize that about me, but it's true.  When I'm asleep at night, I'm defenseless against my inner struggles and that's when I dream.  If I'm stressed, it's almost always basketball that comes back to me in my dreams.  I can smell the gym.  Feel the sweat.  I can't make a shot for the life of me.  Not only that, but I dribble off my foot or throw passes that are easily picked off.  I wake up angry.  Wishing I could change it.  The wound is fresh all over again.   

That's life, right?  It is.  And I often overlook the good things basketball left me with when thinking on the bad.  For example, I don't quit.  Not ever.  Sometimes, to a fault even.  The other thing is that I don't believe in losing.  I hate it.  If there's one thing that I want my daughters to learn from me (other than faith), it's that in this life nobody gives it to you.  You have to take it.  No apologies.  It's me or you, and that's all there is to it.  It's not bad.  It sounds bad but it's not.  It's not even harsh.  It's just how the world works.  You've got to know that and deal with it whether you like it or not.  The sooner you figure it out the easier life will be.   

There's something else still though.  Something deeper.  Something darker.  The Bible tells me that the enemy comes to "kill, steal, and destroy".  I think we often think of that in terms of our property, possessions, or even health, but that's stuff is temporary.  Even my body doesn't really belong to me when you think about it.  It's just a place I rent for a little while.  I don't think Satan cares much about that stuff.  If I were him and had all the power at my disposal that he does, I wouldn't bother with peoples possessions, I would steal people's dreams.  Why?  Because it wounds you far deeper than a wrecked car ever could.  It doesn't just hurt you at the time, but it keeps hurting you over and over and over.  It echoes through your life until you are dead.  There are people who let this destroy them.  People who fill themselves with depression and eventually bitterness over things that have happened that they can't change but they wrestle with on and on.  I think it's natural to relive your life.  To have regret.  People who say they have none are liars.  Sorry, but you are.  But in moments of pain, I need to remember… I have to remember… my birth rite wasn't stolen from me.  My heritage hasn't been lost.  I am His.  He has marked me with His blood.  The Bible says that He comes to bring "life and life more abundantly".  So far, I've been talking about a game, and it's not that important.  On the other hand, what is important?  My grandmother was a mighty woman of God.  My Dad talks about how she would pray for him/me for hours…. literally hours.  He could hear her while he was setting tobacco.  I was five when she died and still.  Hard to imagine.  Her Dad was a minister.  So was his brother.  They planted churches all over the countryside, and undoubtedly led many folks to Jesus.  My other grandparents also had an equally rich heritage.  My grandfather's Dad was a minister as well.  So what?  Lots of people go to church.  Yes.  And it is a big part of the Southern culture.  Sure.  But there's a difference between attendance and conviction.  My heritage certainly has some great ball players in it, and I'm not one of them, but what else it has is worth so much more!  People who had "more abundant" life!  People who passed something down to me that is more priceless than John D. Rockefeller's fortune.  They told me about Him.  They introduced me to Him.  They showed me how to put Him in my heart.  They taught me the sound of His voice. 

So, will I teach my girls how to play basketball?  You bet!  And if you're reading this, you'd better guard them on the baseline, too.  I haven't forgot how to rip that net, and I plan to show them how.  But you know what I care far more about teaching them?  It is far more important to me that they know Him.  Truly know Him.  Somewhere down deep where everything else fades away and it's only their thoughts and His voice.  I want them to feel His presence throughout their spirit in a way that is so real they can't ever deny it.  In short, someday when they write about their feelings, as I am now, I hope they can end it like this…

This world is not my home.    

 

1 comment:

  1. I really enjoyed your thoughts Van. Leigh Ann Braswell

    ReplyDelete