Then and Now--1970 and 2007

The crowd roared as I was fouled again and stepped up to the line for my 12th free throw attempt of the game. Except for the first attempt, I had not missed and was about to hit my 11th and 12th in a row, much to the chagrin of the other team and to the delight of my many fans cheering loudly for my success. I was a good player and found success at the free throw line. I went home after the game feeling refreshed and happy, and awoke the next day anxiously awaiting recess and an after school practice game.

Rarely are fouls called and there is no free throw shooting. Most of the playing is geared toward managing to stay on your feet from the body smashes as you make a poor attempt to drive toward the goal, or to prevent the other guy from scoring. It is brutal under the boards and not for the faint of heart (although fainting does seem like a viable option at times!). I go home totally exhausted, and the next day brings with it aches and soreness in virtually every muscle and joint identifiable, and some that did not previously exist.

The constant affirmation built confidence, and I felt myself bursting with pride with the high fives and the encouragement from the coach and the other players. Mistakes were overlooked and the slightest good was elevated to heroic status. Even the other team members would shake your hand at the end of the game. How you played the game was more important than the final result. Your effort was rewarded with "good hustle" or "way to go."

There is no affirmation, only criticism. The slightest moment of pride is quickly and aggressively destroyed by college students intent on making the old men look bad. Only a final victory is respected and nobody cares how you just played. The goal is to win. Granted, the college students have a different purpose from the college professors whose primary desire is to have fun and get some exercise. Still, testosterone pressure inevitably sets in and winning becomes the secret desire in the end. Your effort only means something to you, nobody else cares.

If you get hurt, there is someone near to help you, a coach, mom and dad, another parent, a teammate, or a friend. There seems to be an unlimited supply of bandaids, hugs, ice, and TLC for every challenge encountered. Of course, we all had knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist bands which not only protected our bodies but were quite fashionable and necessary for personal success. Our clothes were clean, shiny, and our shoes were all white.

You are not permitted to get hurt or to show pain. If you fall, get up. Nobody will help you. If you can't play anymore, get off the court, someone wants your spot. Stop sniveling and play. Wear what you want to wear, but no pads allowed. Fashion means nothing. Of course, in my case, I wear an old, faded Dennis Rodman jersy. It is to send a message that I am a rebounder, unfortunately not a good one, unlike the real Rodman. No, before you ask, I am not covered in tattoos, nor am I interested in riding a motorcycle wearing nothing but my birthday suit.

We extolled the virtues of Jerry West, Pete Maravich, Wilt Chamberlain, Lew Alcindor (soon to become Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Oscar Robertson. Of course, being from El Paso, the name Nate Archibald was on every tongue, and the Harlem Globetrotters were without question the greatest players on the planet. We argued in practice and didn't always like each other, but Dad was always around to offer some valued wisdom after practice, wisdom and an arm around the shoulder fixed all problems.

The college professors are past the hero worship stage and are painfully, or maybe joyfully, aware that their career path is not basketball, but the college students seem to have a kind of latent inner desire to be picked up by the Spurs or the Mavericks. We occasionally argue, and nobody offers any wisdom, but when the game is over, our natural maturity takes over and we leave our problems on the court--okay, for the most part anyway.

After basketball season, we got out our baseball gloves, found the balls, asked Dad to play catch and started getting ready for baseball season. We bought some new cleats (before you could screw them on and off), we asked for a new glove and a new bat (before there were $200 bats), and began to extol the virtues of Johnny Bench, Willie Mays, Al Kaline, and Tom Seaver.

We play basketball all year when we can get away from the office. The college students play all year and hope no teachers show up. If teachers do come, the students give each other the glance that says, "Now is our chance, let's get the old guys." We, the teachers, show up anyway and play hard until we cannot move, then we return to our offices in misery. We remind ourselves that it is good for us to get some exercise, and we know we will return for more punishment. In truth, I am a less than average player and rarely score. I give up points, lose the ball, get confused, worn out, and having little to no ability, nobody wastes the effort to cover me. Yet, I love the game and enjoy the opportunity. It would be nice to be 10 years old again, but 47 isn't too bad either!