"If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about those."
The Counting Crows (Mrs. Potter's Lullaby)
Somewhere in my mind I hear the squeak of my basketball shoes on the gym floor. That is the strongest memory I have of my pathetic little athletic career. I love that sound. I'm not so sure I loved it back then, but I desperately love it now.
During practice we would spit on the floor, then rub the treads of our shoes in the saliva to get the perfect bite from our hightops. We did this all practice long, hundreds of times a day. It was like some sort of giant microbial cesspool, a TB experiment gone horribly wrong.
When we got too dry, we would dribble water from our mouths at the water fountain to make a good puddle on the ground, then squeak our way through that. Truly excellent traction!
For games, we somehow found our manners, and would lick our fingers and wipe the bottoms of our shoes. I don't see professional players do this. Do they maybe have somebody who licks their shoes for them? I would probably do it if I could be in Sam Cassell's posse. Maybe their shoes are just a little bit better than mine. That would figure.
Nothing was better than the feel of a clean basketball floor and a leather ball perfectly inflated. The gym empty and only partially lit, with the bleachers pushed back into the walls. The extra goals would be hanging down screaming, "We Play BASKETBALL Here!". Every dribble would bounce perfectly and echo forever.
I own Danny Fortson's shoe. There, I said it. His right shoe, game-worn. I know this, because it came with a piece of paper that tells me so. I don't think he got to play much in that game, because the shoe looks pretty fresh. It is a big shoe and it is signed, but it is not superhuman big—maybe a 15 or 16. It is the centerpiece of my living room. This shoe sits in a glass case between my two tvs.
You do know who Danny Fortson is, don't you? I hope so. Nobody else seems to. They all just think I'm weird for having it.
Memories are strange. I remember the squeaks on the floor and the ballgames and everything was happy. I rarely think about how much I dreaded practice every day. How these men that were supposed to be teaching me about sport and life instead just taught me that if I wanted to play the game I loved, first I had to survive. I HATED almost all of my coaches. They took the fun out of basketball, which I thought was impossible. At the time I thought the things they did to us bordered on abuse. Approached the line of cruelty.
I'm not entirely sure anymore. But maybe I am.
When my brother was in ninth grade, one of the coaches lined up four of the kids (including my brother) and began swatting them with a big paddle as part of a "Kangaroo Court". It was supposed to be funny.
The next day my brother and one other kid could barely walk because the backs of their legs were swollen with hematomas and their skin was split. Everybody still thought it was kind of funny. My mom didn't.
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