Ten seconds on the clock. I dribble the ball. No one is open.
Nine, I find my teammate.
Eight, he can’t get a shot. I move above the three-point line.
Seven, he passes.
Six, it’s on me again. Two defenders come to guard me.
Five the crowd gets on its feet. Four, the purple and gold uniform is pulled, as I break free from the defense.
Three, I plant my feet behind the three point line and leave my defender behind.
Two, the ball goes up.
One…the buzzer goes off…. Swish!
Growing up with my grandparents in Nicaragua my grandpa wrote a letter to my mom who, at the time, was living in California with my dad and two brothers. I was in Nicaragua because when my parents moved there were too many “What ifs” in regards to my premature birth.
I didn’t know the letter existed until 16 years later when my mom read it aloud one evening. As I listened, I remembered how my life changed years earlier when I came to the U.S. and found a new passion.
I am about 8-years old, outside in the yard bouncing a basketball. I practiced my jump shots, layups and three-pointers. The ball bounces off the asphalt. I run before it bounces again… Swish, I can hear the ball spring, it echoes. This time I go further, swish, the asphalt sounds like a hardwood floor.
“Come watch a movie,” my brother calls from the inside. He comes outside with a wide smile like someone who just won 600 Chuck E. Cheese tickets in one sitting. "My dad just got HBO, let's go inside and see what movies are on."
"No, thanks, I want to keep practicing.”
"Come on, man. That's all you do, all day, don’t be a loser.”
"Yeah, well, all you do is watch TV all day, so leave me alone."
As he made his way back to the house, I realized we were different. I like sports. He likes cinema. I want to be a ball player he wants to be Spielberg.
I keep dribbling the ball. The asphalt, the bounce and the dirt on my nails and palms become part of a child-like euphoria.
I want to be like Grant Hill and Allen Iverson. That’s all that mattered. No television, no cartoons, just the game.
A few months later, we were coming home. As dad pulled in with our boxy grey Volvo we noticed we couldn’t park. The neighborhood kids were in the middle of a pick-up game. The 5-foot Iron Gate which dad always locked to keep this sort of thing from happening did little to nothing to deter them from hopping over. Our court was the heart of the neighborhood.
"Can you park outside, sir?”
"Sure" my dad said.
"We are about to finish"
"Okay"
After we got out of the car I remember feeling disillusioned. "It's my court, it’s mine. I worked too hard and for too long not to be able to play.”
For too long I’ve wanted to play with them, not watch them or cheer them from the sideline.
It was then when I realized I would never be as good as my ambitions. This sport would only extend its invitation to a spectator, an outsider looking in, and one that would never play but live vicariously only through watching.
Years later I am in the living room. We were sitting down as my mom reads my grandpa’s letter. The closing lines written in Spanish:
Dentro de un mes ira al Kinder lo que nos dará una mayor oportunidad para
ver su desarrollo. En cuanto a su altura nada se puede hacer si tomamos en
cuenta la altura de sus dos abuelas sin necesidad de verlo cualquiera puede
inferir que no podrá jugar básquet con los Pistones de Detroit.
…In English
In a month he will start kindergarten, which will give us a better
opportunity to see his development. With regard to his height, there’s nothing
we can do if we take into account the height of both his grandmothers. It
doesn’t take much imagination to rule out the possibility that he will ever play
for the Detroit Pistons
We live in a parallel universe. My grandfather died just about a year before I picked up a ball.
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