Personal Essay

I’ve always loved basketball but I was never that good at it. Every game I played, from driveway pick up to organized team games, I’d max score only one or two baskets. This glass ceiling continued until the summer before high school when two of my friends called me out to play “21” at the park. Now, 21, as every baller knows, is a game of perpetual two on one, inherently unfair.

It was on the rough-baked concrete of Bicentennial Park’s outdoor court, with unforgiving iron rims, that I learned something about the content of myself. 21. It was a game in which I would have no teammates to rely on. I would actually have to score for myself. I was frightened, to tell the truth. 21? I had never scored more than 4.

My mom dropped me off at the park. “Just be home in two hours,” she said, for she was very strict about suppertime.

It did not go well. Every game felt like I was trying to beat my own record for least points scored. Every time my friends double teamed me, I felt almost betrayed. I lost game after game. Connor and Will laughed and high fived with each of their victories.

This went on for about two hours, and I was now feeling stressed about the suppertime deadline — but even worse about my confidence.

“One more,” I said to Will and Connor for the tenth time.

We played until my phone rang so much (Mom calling me for supper) that I felt it would fall out of my pocket. I was exhausted and humiliated but not going to give up. I layed the phone down out-of-bounds.

Game after game my energy drained but my determination strangely grew. Every loss fueled my desire for achievement, and every missed shot made me want to win even more. I was not playing against Will and Connor. I was warring against Shame and Humiliation.

I felt that if I won just one game, that I could somehow redeem myself, that I could experience the pride that can sometimes only be experienced in sports.

My friends begged me to just end the day and go to supper, but I continued to initiate challenges. I silenced the phone that was vibrating out-of-bounds like a June beetle on its back. Mom would have to understand.

“Jus’ one more,” I said, exhausted.

Will and Connor relented and we started a new game. I wanted this win more than any other one in my life. It was as if my entire self-esteem hinged upon this success. But I was down by 10 points . . .

There are those moments that only sports — and perhaps war — can bring out. Those moments where you have to decide with but a final drop of energy whether to go on or to die. I don’t mean to be dramatic, but that is what a game in the park with friends can mean to a teenager.

The sun was going down, the shaggy nets hanging haggard from the iron rims looked like the empty sacks from which harvest fruit had poured out, and my phone was buzzing on the concrete. The punishment I knew my mother would inflict on me would be more tolerable than what I would inflict upon myself if I lost.

I mounted my comeback. I started scoring. 10, 12 . . . 21.

We all three collapsed on the warm grass at the side of the court like fish gasping for breath.

But I felt fulfilled. At the bottom of my tank of myself I found something: my Confidence. And not just about basketball. It’s a feeling I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

“Mom,” I said, panting into the phone. “Be right home. I can explain.”