Hello, tender friends!
Some sounds are nostalgic, like shoes squeaking on a basketball court and the rapid, steady thud of the ball bouncing. Some memories are nostalgic, like my dad coaching me through layup after layup and whip-fast ball handling strategy in our driveway as a kid.
Basketball became my preferred sport by the time I was 8. I was good, but not extraordinary, but I loved the rhythmic sounds of the game. To this day, I’ll lose track of the hours if you give me a hoop and a ball and some free time.
While I don’t remember it, my family tells me that I hated when my dad gave me instructions when he was court side. “Drive the ball in for a layup! Pass to the open center! Set a pick!” he said. They say I screamed for him to stop. I suspect that his well-intentioned instructions made me more nervous, and that’s likely why I spazzed on him. While I loved the sport, I struggled with performance anxiety and never played individual sports for this reason. I have always preferred to excel or fail in group settings. It makes the victory sweeter and the sting of loss more bearable.
I’ve been taking my dad to play basketball once a week the past few months to see if it jogs any memories. I ask him if he remembers the pickup game I watched him play in the Bronx when I was about ten. Afterwards, every other player told him he played well. Even at that age, I understood that they meant: they were surprised a white man played like he did because they were all black and he was clearly able to hang with them.
He pauses for a minute and I grow hopeful. The blank look leaves his eyes. “No,” he says. “But do you remember walking across the Brooklyn Bridge?” I do. It was something we did often when we drove into the city. I feel energized by the victory of his remembering.
I suggest we shoot around for a bit. A young man and his father are on the other side of the court. The dad feeds his son the ball to practice foul shots. They smile. They laugh. If no tragedy occurs, they have decades left of days just like this one. I remind myself that I had my turn at childhood and was lucky compared to many.
I watch my dad. The man who I never once saw get beat in a one-on-one pickup game when I was growing up struggles to coordinate his movements to the hoop. The man who used to alleyoop on a regular basis now shoots the ball underhand because he has lost the strength for most overhand shots.
I crouch down and start the dribble 8 drill around my ankles. I have always hated this drill, but I notice my dexterity is more acute than normal. I take some shots. Nothing but net from all over the court. I drive in hard for a few layups. This isn’t typical for me. Like I said, I was good but never extraordinary, but something feels different. I’m playing better than I did when I was 20.
“You’re playing really well,” my dad says. The blank look is gone from his eyes. I am a child again, proud of the fact that my dad is proud of me.
Emboldened by my way better-than-normal play, I step back for a 3-pointer. I make it but notice my toes slip over the line. I sigh. I never could make 3-pointers without crossing the line, which makes them count only as 2s.
My dad is still watching me play even though he normally can’t focus this long. Gratitude for this lucid moment overwhelms me. I think it’d be cool if I made a 3-pointer and he saw it.
I step back behind the line and hear a voice. I don’t know where the voice came from or if it was definitely the Holy Spirit, but as clearly as anything I hear, “Well Stacey, you’ know you’ve always been able to do this.” Power surged through my arms.
I shoot. Nothing but net. I look down at my feet. I’m a full foot behind the 3-point line. I’m so stunned I almost don’t believe it.
I take another shot and make it. I move all over behind the 3 point line. I’m not keeping precise count, but I’m averaging 3 out of every 4 shots. I even shoot straight from the baseline. Swish. Swish. Swish.
“Wow,” my dad says. “Those are really good shots. You’re playing extremely well.”
“I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t believe I’m making all these,” I reply. I think about asking him to make a video because I’m not sure I’ll believe it if I don’t, but I know he can’t manage well enough to record me.
We play over an hour, the power shooting through my arms the whole time. I know God is with me, and I don’t want it to end. It’s like when the Holy Spirit is moving in church and you don’t want to leave your pew even when church is over.
When it’s time for me to drive my dad home for his medication, I pray Please don’t leave me. I know these moments don’t last, that even though God is with us all the time that these periods of feeling his presence like this are rare.
As the doors to the basketball court close behind us, I hear the father and son still playing laugh together. They have decades left.
I went back to the court alone a few days later. I couldn’t make 3-pointers without crossing the line.
I keep praying, day after day Please don’t leave me.
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