Love and Basketball

For those who fell in love with a sport growing up.

Love is a funny thing. The things people do for love, the extremes we go to capture it to feel a sense of fulfillment in return, can often be viewed as crazy. Especially loving something that doesn’t have feelings for you in return.

That’s my relationship with basketball.

I first picked up a ball when I was 4 or 5 years old. I remember being at my grandma's house, and her neighbors had a hoop in their driveway. See, back in the 90s, kids played outside. There was no iPhone to scroll social media all day, no Xbox to play Fortnite.

So instead, we played Hide-and-Seek, Tag, or Red Rover until the streetlights came on. That’s when you knew it was time to get your ass home.

I was intrigued by this game the neighbor kids were playing, basketball. That day, I finally mustered up the courage to ask, “can I play?”, they agreed. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing; I was certainly too short to play on their 10-foot hoop even if I did.

But I fell in love.

The moment my fingertips gripped that composite leather, every ounce of love and passion for the game traveled through my veins, connecting the ball straight to my soul.

From that day forward, I’d ask the neighbor kids if I could play anytime they were outside. It was bliss. As I grew, the fascination for the game grew as well. I loved the days we’d play basketball in P.E. class, learning the game along the way.

I’d spend hours studying tapes of the greatest players, imitating their moves, and implementing them into my game. Then, I’d play into the dark of the night with only a yard light to see the basket. Creating in-game scenarios on the driveway at my parents' house. Then, using the famous MJ fade away with my tongue hanging out to hit the game-winner, 5–4–3–2–1… swoosh.

Any kid growing up who fell in love with a sport surely knows the feeling of passion and happiness the game can bring.

Rather it is basketball, baseball, football, volleyball, or softball. Playing it brings an escape. For those few hours, you’re free. Now that I’m 28, I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never experience scoring a basket in the NBA. Or that I’ll never get to throw an alley-oop to LeBron James.

Maybe only being 5'7 (1.7 m) has something to do with it.

My love for the game will never dissipate. Sometimes I’ll go to the local YMCA for a few hours to shoot around just to have that feeling again. That feeling takes me back to a 5-year-old kid that picked up a basketball for the very first time. It takes me back to that kid playing in grandmas yard.

When I go, I never want to leave.

One more shot, one more move, one more game-winner. Love is a flick of the wrist, hearing the ball swooshing through the net.

As we get older in life, things get taken away from us. Life happens. We have kids, a house, adult responsibilities. But don’t get so busy making a living that you forget what once captivated your heart and takes you back to when you were a kid.

As Michael Jordan once said:

That’s Love and Basketball.

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