In the Gym
In the gym I spot an empty basket and begin warming up. I start shooting just a few feet from the hoop. Only after I’ve made five shots in a row do I move back a few feet to the next spot. Soon I’m beyond the arc, effortlessly draining three-pointers. During this drill my mind empties. I am at once everywhere and nowhere, absorbed in my own world.
“You want to play full court?”
The voice startles me. I blink and wipe sweat from my forehead. On my left, a few yards away, stands a skinny guy, mid-thirties, wearing a Pistons t-shirt and holding a ball on his hip.
“What?”
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” he says. “Want to play full court?”
“Sure,” I answer, surprised to be asked.
I’m not usually a high draft choice. I look around and count nine players, some black, some white, and mostly younger than Pistons Guy. Oh, I see. They need me to make 10. As I move my gym bag over to their court, a couple more young men wander in and greet their friends. I drop my stuff on the sidelines and step onto the court, ready to play.
“Not you,” Pistons Guy informs me. “I’ve got my five. Take next game.”
“Hell, no,” I reply. “I was picked, and I’m playing.”
“But that’s the way it works,” he says, as if he’s explaining crossing the street to a toddler. “We shoot for captains and the captains pick the teams.”
“Yes, and you picked me,” I point out. I don’t add that I’ve been hooping since before he was born, that I competed professionally in Europe, or that I’ve scrimmaged with NBA players.
“But then more people came,” he continues. “And things got mixed up, so we repicked.”
“Fuck that,” I say, fuming inside. “I don’t care what the teams are, but I’m playing. You needed one to make 10, and I’m not going to get screwed out of my game.”
We continue to argue, but I stand my ground. Pistons Guy steps uncomfortably from one foot to the other, unsure how to deal with a cursing, 69-year-old, gray-haired, short, white woman. As the oldest male in the gym, the other players defer to him, but they soon become impatient.
“Come on!” they badger him. “Let’s get the game going! People are waiting!”
Pressure mounts, and finally Pistons Guy throws up his arms. “All right. Screw it. You’re on our team.”
We start, and the men on both teams hoop and holler when I hit my shots and make plays, including the game-winning assist. The react like they’ve seen an alien or a talking dog. Well, I think resentfully, Talking Dog’s team gets to hold the court and play again. Against my will, my eyes start to brim over. I bend down quickly to retie my shoelaces and, while there, pretend it’s sweat I’m wiping from my face. I’m still eight, still trying to prove I belong, and it still hurts.
* *. *
By the next morning, the hurt has lost its sting. My grown kids have come to visit, and we’re enjoying French toast drowned in cottage cheese, applesauce and syrup—a family favorite passed down multiple generations. I tell them about the gym incident, joking about how confused the young men seemed by my refusal to back down, how strange I must have appeared to them.
“You go, Mom!” Miles laughs.
“Yeah. Go, LeMom,” Maya adds, then asks, “but how did you get to be like that, so…so…out there?”
I try to deflect. “You mean why I’m so strange?”
“No,” Miles says. “You know what we mean—your personality, the way you look at things.”
I chew slowly and savor the sweet, soaked bread, trying to digest what they’re asking. They are both in their mid-30s now, and they’ve started raising this topic more frequently. I’ve shared little bits and pieces of my life, but recently they’ve been digging for more. I’m flattered, of course, but their interest also unsettles me. They admire me in a way I don’t admire myself. They think I’m unique, wise, and strong, but I’m flawed, insecure, and weird. When I think about what’s shaped my life, powerful emotions bounce me in too many different directions. Maybe they won’t like what they learn.
On the other hand, if they really want to know…
How the Ball Bounced, by Nancy Nerenberg 