This weekend McKay and I attended our very first NBA basketball game. We watched the Trailblazers barely hang on to a win against the Hornets, and best of all, I got myself a huge cup of frozen yogurt that was dee-licious. We had a great time.At half time we were sitting there, enjoying the atmosphere and said frozen yogurt, when I had this flash of a memory long forgotten.
In grade school I tried just about everything. Softball (I ended up the equipment manager when coach finally tried to break to me gently that I stunk), drama (I don't mean to brag, but this was my one claim to fame. I was one of the principle's in Peter Pan. John, to be exact). student council (I lost the grounds commissioner race to the smelly kid), volleyball (I just wanted to get some of those neato knee pads), and of course--basketball. I was about 4'9" and maybe 80 pounds, needless to say I was not much of an athlete. Plus, I'm a wuss. Anytime I saw an object headed in my direction, it wasn't my first impulse to run up and intercept that object moving at high velocity. Unlike many of the other girls on my teams, I frequently tried to get out of the way.
Now, anyone who attended a Clovis Unified school knows that when it comes to sports, there's no messing around. Athletics are the bread and butter of that district, and there will be no losers. Which is why the team system they came up with was quite ingenious. You see, there were three teams. A, B, and C Teams.
The A-team was the cream of the crop. The girls who at 12 years of age were already 6 feet tall and in contract negotiations with the WNBA. The A-team girls were a class all to themselves.
"That's Ashley...she's on the A-team." A hush would fall over the crowd. It was serious business.
Now the B-teamers, they were pretty darn good, too. Not quite at the caliber of the A-teamers, but still nothing to scoff at. They could hold their own. And best of all, they got the real deal jerseys just like the A-team. A REAL team.
And then there was C-team. Now, I can't say anything disparaging about the C-teamers because I was one of them. We were the riff raff. We knew we sucked, we knew to be branded with the C-team name meant social suicide, but gosh darnit, we were gonna play some basketball. And so what if we didn't have jerseys. We had...uh...well, they gave us a ball! And court time! Right after the A-team and B-teams had played all of their games, we had the prime courts! Yessiree. And despite the fact that that usually meant our games started somewhere around sundown, when the school was practically deserted and our cracker-jack coach was somewhere by the snack bar drinking soda and taking a cat nap on the bleachers, the C-team was too legit to quit. We stayed until every last game was played. And usually lost.
While I respected my C-team sisters, I found myself growing restless after my fourth and fifth grade years. I decided that sixth grade was going to be different. Oh yes. I had one last year to get it right, and I wasn't going to screw it up. Or so I thought.
Turns out, the extra practices, the "perfected" jump shot added up to a whole lot of nothing, and for the third and final year, I ended up back on the C-team. This was most discouraging. Disillusionment set in, and I became the most jaded and bitter C-teamer Mickey Cox elementary had ever seen. Maybe.
Game after game I played half-heartedly, as I dreamed of what could have been. The blacktop is always blacker on someone else's blacktop. That's for sure.
As the season drew to a close, and despite my pain, I decided for the final game of my elementary school basketball career, I would give it all I had. I would try my best, and I was sure that there would be some life's lesson I would learn from all of this. Perhaps I would make the winning basket. I would prove to be an asset to my teammates. The A-team and B-team coaches would look on and scratch their heads, wondering how they could have let me slip through their fingers that season. This was going to be my game.
I waited and waited for our team captain to let me in the game. It felt like an eternity, until I finally had my chance. My moment to shine had finally arrived. I took my place and played my postition like nobody's business. Amazing defense, smart offense. I was on fire. I recall like it was yesterday what happened next. My opponent, who I should have been defending but by some miraculous phenomenon had gotten past me, was passed the ball and was heading for the net on the opposite side. I scrambled after her, with the whirlwind of frantic little girls trailing behind us. We got to the net, she took her shot and, I swear, I saw it go in. I thought to myself, "Don't let it get you down, Manda! Get back to your position! Be ready for that next opportunity!!" I made a mad dash down the court to the opposite side. When I made it back to my position on the court, I turned quickly to find the ball. As I turned I felt instant, searing pain. I had twisted my ankle. Really, really twisted it. Paaaiiiin. And just as I was coming to the realization of this pain, I came to another realization. Everybody else was still on the opposite side of the court. The ball was still in play and I was all by myself, on the other side of the court. I had twisted my ankle all on my own. I couldn't even blame it on the chaos of the sea of girls around me... seeing as how I was far, far away from the action. There was no escaping this humiliation.
I hobbled off the court in shame, looking up to find a perplexed look on my coach's face. "What were you doing?," he asked in genuine confusion. I don't know. I just don't know.
Needless to say, I did learn a great life's lesson that day. Sports are definitely not for me.
As I sat with McKay at the Trailblazers game on Friday night and relayed this story to him, we both had to shake our heads. What is the deal with childhood? I guess it's a good thing memories like these usually only come back when you're old enough to be able to laugh at yourself.
