October 5, 2011

• Day 23 Basketball

  I lost 7 teeth due to playing ball. The first one was actually a kickball—we were playing pass at church and the ball missed my hands and landed on my face. I didn’t realize the tooth fell out until the blood was everywhere. It took a while to find the tooth, but I had to figure out the whole tooth fairy thing, so it was important.

   

  The other 6 teeth were due to basketball. I was my father’s first son. From our kitchen window, you can see two houses over where the Jones’ basketball court is. If you look hard enough, you can see when someone is playing ball. As soon as I saw signs of activity, I would run down the alley to their house. The Jones’ had five children: heaven when you are an only child (which I was until I was six years old, and even then she was just a baby, so didn’t count).

   

  There was always someone to play with: Cathy, the oldest—just enough older than me to be VERY cool, Josh and David, like older brothers to me, except for the phase where David would chase me around the swing set, threatening to kiss me (I never forgave him for that, and he never managed it. I was fast), Becky, who was (and still is) one of my bestest friends, and Rachel, who we called “Little Rachel” to differentiate from me (I was called “Big Rachel,” even though I was always small for my age).

   

  Josh and David were typical Hoosier boys, who grow up playing basketball. I joined them. Sometimes I could convince Cathy or Becky to join me, but most often I was on my own, hence the 6 teeth I lost. I still remember when I was finally big enough to shoot correctly, instead of doing the “granny shot.” (heaving the ball up underhand and hoping it would get somewhere near the hoop).

   

  When we were lucky, Mr. Jones and my dad would come and join us, and we’d get a real game going. I still remember the resentment growing in me during the games they wanted to get “serious” and play two on two (with Josh and David). I would sit on the sidelines, grumpily thinking it wasn’t fair to be a girl, and a miniature one at that.

   

  During the long summer days, we would walk to the park—a big group of us, making our way down the alley and through the little trail that led to the “Red Barn” park (the red barn was torn down years ago, but name stuck for a long time). There, most of the time only the boys got to play and the girls were told to go swing on the swings. But every once in awhile they would be one short—and I would gladly jump in.

   

  After a couple of “fun” games, the younger boys would get kicked out, and we would all sit on the ground, watching the big boys play. I watched my father dislocate every one of his fingers over the summers we spent at the park. He would come home and my mom would take a sharp intake of breath and say “Again??”

   

  When I was 12, I decided that enough was enough, and rounded up all the girls in the neighborhood. We created a girl’s basketball team called the “Pacer-ettes.” It didn’t last too long, and mostly just consisted of making matching shirts and hair ribbons. After that, the other’s lost interest, and we didn’t have anyone to play against anyways. The boys just laughed at the hair ribbons.

   

  Finally when I was 14, all the playing with boys paid off, and I practiced with a school team where Mr. Jones was coaching. My daily outfit was a tee-shirt, basketball shorts, white socks up to my knees, and slide sandals. I was never far from my backpack with my Nike’s. Old habits die hard—this is still my favorite outfit (minus the socks). While I never got to play in an official game because I was homeschooled, I practiced every day, and did stats for all of the team’s games. It was a good year.

   

  After that life happened and basketball moved to a back burner as something I enjoyed doing when I had time. Dad and I would go out and “shoot some hoops,” but it became less and less frequent. My skills were put to good use at the youth center, where I could do a nice lay-up in a skirt, but mostly I was needed off the court.

   

  Somewhere in my 20s I realized that it wasn’t basketball that I liked as much as the memories and the time I had with my father. Basketball was a bond between us. It was summer memories of simple times where I lost another tooth and held it up proudly. It was walking home, hand in hand, from the park with my dad.

   

  I remember the first time I finally beat my dad at the game “21.” Dad has very good shooting accuracy, so this was no easy feat. He let me gloat for a week. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I beat him playing one on one, and soon after that he officially “retired” from basketball, saying he was getting old (he was around 60). Every once in awhile he still shoots some hoops with John behind the garage.

   

  I have since moved to Brazil, where futebol (soccer) reigns in the place of basketball. Not many hoops are available, and girls do not wear basketball shorts. Ever. But every once in awhile…I still get a chance. Every once in awhile when I am back in Indiana, I get a game going with some of the kids from the youth center. And they laugh that a white girl can jump.

  

  • 2:43 pm
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