I grew up in a small town, in a yellow house with a red brick porch, on a tiny hill, with bedroom windows that overlooked an elementary school, playground, and a basketball court. Right outside those windows was a large maple tree. When I was a kid I would lie in bed and stare out my window at this tree that loomed over my room and danced in the wind as if trying to teach me the rhythm of the world. In the winter time its lifeless branches would cast shadows across my walls, the wind turning its leafless limbs into long, bony fingers that flickered and suggested an ominous world outside my window. The more the wind blew the longer and more encroaching the fingers became. I would pull my comforter up to my chin and use the warmth of my bed to battle back those cold nights, and the bony fingers would dance and move as if yearning to pull me out through the window into the cold, dark streets. I pretended it was the dance of a sinister laugh, and I would be thankful to be tucked inside a house where I was loved and protected from a dark and scary world.
But in the summertime everything about that maple tree would change. I would sleep with my windows open and the maple tree, now fat with leaves, would rustle at me and bring in a summer breeze that teased my face and suggested a brighter, more lively world. Summertime was my favorite. I would get home from school, change, and head down to the basketball court outside my window. I would play games until my mom appeared on the hillside and embarrassingly shout down to come up for dinner. On the good nights, I ate and returned as quickly as possible to the court, playing until I had resisted the calls to return home long enough. The court also had a light, and it created new shadows cast into my bedroom. The maple tree and its fat leaves would rustle, and I would peak through its branches to catch glimpses of the playful light. I would lie in bed and listen for the sounds of basketball still being played; of the ball being dribbled down the court, the clang of the rim and the boom of the wooden backboards shaking from a long 3. I became so good at listening to the game I could even tell when a rebound had been snatched and a fast break started up the other end of the court. The leaves would dance in rhythm as if trying to join in the game, and its fat leaves carried the sounds into my room on the hot breeze of a summer night. And eventually I would fall asleep, with the windows still open, the tree still moving in rhythm to the game, and the sounds of basketball subtly echoing throughout my room.
On Monday night, along with my friend Josh Andree, I played basketball for the first time in four years. I hate admitting that. A game that was such a part of my life and brought me so much joy had disappeared for most of my 20’s…and you could tell. I think my first 3 ball didn’t hit anything, and my second MAY have grazed the backboard. But it still felt good. When I woke up the next morning the games I played were shrouded in a foggy daze, as if I couldn’t believe I actually played ball. It could have been imagined, but my aching legs and shoulders told me otherwise!
Number 15 on my 30@30 list is to play basketball this year. I suppose I can cross that one off the list but I don’t feel as if I fulfilled it yet. So I’m gonna wait, because just those 3 or 4 games I played brought back all the love I have for the sport. I was so excited, when I got home, I pointed out to Amy that my chin was swollen and numb from a wayward elbow on a lay-up….but it was awesome! Now, I can’t wait for next Monday and hopefully the sound of the net strings snapping from a deep, arching shot.
I fell asleep Monday night confident that back in my hometown, outside my childhood bedroom, the maple tree with the fat, summer leaves was dancing in delight. I laughed quietly before I fell asleep; knowing after all these years the maple tree outside my bedroom window will take all the credit for teaching me how to love a game.
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