Love of the Game

Whap. Whap. Whap.

If you control it the right way, a basketball can do so many things under your hands. You can spin it away from you, you can cup it just slightly enough on your dribble to confuse a defender, and if you have the patience, it can become a lifetime of enjoyment.

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For me, basketball has always been a love; love to play, love the challenge, and love of the sport. I find the sound of the ball hypnotic as it bounces hurriedly on a hardwood floor, or its solid constant thump on a concrete court, or even a hardpacked dirt driveway...just give me the ball and I will take care of the rest. The following is what the game of basketball means to me over the years of my life. Here you go, and may you enjoy.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

As sweat dribbled into my eyes yesterday, I stood out on the dirt road, flipping a ball to myself, then catching and shooting...catching and shooting. I thought of all the different places I have played basketball over the years, of the person I have come to be, of the changes I have seen in myself, yet how my love of the game has always stayed true. For so many years, it was my only release other than writing, and at other times, a basketball was my only companion.

I have incurred many injuries from the game, countless twisted ankles, ruptured my kneecap during an outdoor pickup game, and even a fat lip from an errant elbow thrown by ex-professional Canadian Football player, Tracy Ham. I have played until there was no one left to play with and then I have stayed around to shoot on my own. I have played when no one else wanted to play, when the court was empty and devoid of life, flipping the ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

I have played basketball all over Canada and even parts of the States: In the Rockies, both North and South, in the coastal mountains of Whistler, the farthest western regions of Vancouver Island, Halifax on the East Coast, and in a national park on the Island of Newfoundland. Flipping a ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

There are so many things I love about the game. The no-look-pass that sets up a teammate for a rim-rattling dunk, the-length-of-the-court-mad-dash to lay the ball softly in the net, and the defensive steal that leads to a fastbreak and score on the other end. The aggressive play under the hoop, arms-all- entangled, battles of strength and brawn, and the resounding slap of my hand on the balls surface after winning the hard-won rebound. All these and more.

But, what I love most about the game comes from childhood memories that I have taken into my latter years. Times when I had no one but myself to share company, times when I knew not a soul, and times when there was only a hoop and a ball. It is during those times when my love for the sport shines. There is no one around to see me score, to hit seven or eight consecutive shots, or to see the smile on my sweat-drenched face.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

And nor do I care if they do. I only care for the flip of a ball that bounces back to my hands, the caress of leather as it spins in my palms, the quick juke to free up space from an imaginary defender, and the step back to jump and release the ball from over my head. Watch it float through the air to snap the mesh from the bottom up, and the sureness that I only need to grab the ball again to play some more. Just flipping the ball to myself then catching and shooting...catching and shooting.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish.

Behind me, the sun sets over an ocean inlet, a lighthouse from the turn of the century lights the way for wayward sailing vessels, and a young boy from Newfoundland does what he has done for as long as he can remember. He flips the ball to himself then catches and shoots...catches and shoots. In his mind the clock ticks away, the score is tied, and the ball is headed his way. He catches the pass, shakes his defender with a quick movement, then steps back, and lets loose from about fifteen feet out. The crowd is screaming in his ears, his heart is pounding like a jackhammer in his chest, and his chance at immortality is floating through the air on the way to certain victory.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Clang.

Damn...missed. Oh well, I guess I will just have to keep shooting until I hit.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Twish. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.

"Even when I'm old and gray, I won't be able to play it, but I'll still love the game."

- Michael Jordan