am nomadic by nature. I can’t seem to settle. A quick run through my places-of-residence log spills eight or nine cities in eight or nine states. I’ve lost track. And I lived in Oregon until I was nine years old.
am nomadic by nature. I can’t seem to settle. A quick run through my places-of-residence log spills eight or nine cities in eight or nine states. I’ve lost track.
And I lived in Oregon until I was nine years old.
So, that’s seven or eight moves in 15 years.
With that in mind I must confess: I am wholly grateful for sports.
Perhaps you’ve found it too: there is always the potential for friendship and belonging on playing fields. Without knowing another soul, one can always, it seems, show up at a baseball field or basketball court and have camaraderie, especially if he or she has even a bit of natural ability.
My step-father was in the military. Until I was 20, that was the reason I was unable to lay permanent roots. Every couple of years brought another Bekins moving truck and piles of that thin brown paper that’s used to wrap dishes.
Our relocations took us from Illinois to Alaska, Utah and Virginia. And places in between.
Thankfully, there was a single constant that for me drew the line connecting all of my homes: basketball. No matter where we went, there always seemed to be players. Good players, too. Military installations are renowned for the ball that’s played at lunch, after work and on the weekends. Many of the athletes I faced there were good enough to play at the college level, but either wanted to serve their country or didn’t want to deal with school.
And so I always had friends.
Basketball broke down every wall. All it took was a game or two of hitting some jump shots, and guys were asking where I was from, if I wanted to hang out.
I suppose the argument could be made that any commonality has the potential to bond people this way. But, from what I’ve seen, nothing greases the wheels of a friendship faster than sport. Or opens one from a level of cordiality to a true bond.
In Florida,where I eventually settled to go to college, there was a particular guy who I didn’t have strong feelings for either way – could have taken him or left him. Then I saw him in the gym shooting jumpers one day and we start talking. About a week later, he shows up for some pick-up ball at an outdoor court by the beach and we talk some more. Turns out we have a lot in common. Six months later, he was at my wedding, worming his way into all the photos.
Basketball – sports in general, actually – has been incredibly valuable to me. Not just for the experiences on the court or the exercise, but for the doors it’s opened socially. And for the lessons I’ve learned of life.
I’ve gained more knowledge of race and culture on the asphalt or hardwood than I ever could have in the classroom.
When I was 20, my step-father was transferred to Langley Air Force Base, Va. Having played many years in air force or army gymnasiums, and having spent plenty of time in the south, I’d been through some eye-catching white/black ratios when it came time to play ball.
About two months after we moved to Virginia, I went to the base’s main gym on a Saturday morning – traditionally the best of the best come out then. I was far from one of the best, however, I did lay claim to one distinction nobody else in the gym could match.
Mine was the only white face. I counted about 120 black faces.
I didn’t care. I’d never cared before. Then I got hot, hit a couple of jump shots on one guy in particular. He tried to take my knees out, pushed me in the back when we went up for rebounds and other fun things.
Finally, he jabbed me in the side during a stoppage in play.
“We get out to the parking lot I’m gonna cut you,” he said.
“What for? We’re just playin’ ball,” I said. “This is a game, man. That’s it.”
He just stared, wouldn’t let go of eye contact. I looked around the gym.
“You want to cut me because I’m white?”
He cocked his head in confusion.
“You could be blue all I care,” he said. Then he pointed to the bleachers. “My girl’s sittin’ over there and you’re making me look bad, messing with my reputation.”
He was waiting in front of the gym when I came out later. But his friends pulled him away.
I relished my time as a minority because sports was proving, on a minor scale, as important as history. My ability to dribble a basketball and put it through a hoop often wiped away color distinctions. Just a bunch of guys out there pursuing a thing we all loved.
The same has proved true here on Kaua’i. The white/brown ratio here is very similar to the white/black ratio I’ve experienced in the past. Yet doors and arms have opened because we’re all playing the same game. And I’ve been lucky enough to form relationships and bonds that might not even have been considered without hoop.
And being nomadic as I am, I’m thankful for that.
