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.
I really enjoyed your thoughts Van. Leigh Ann Braswell
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