Playing with my shoulder today felt like playing with a broken wing.
Had some tension in a 2 on 2 game. Played against someone I haven’t played before…his friend was on my team and seemed nice but shy, but this guy was a little intense. They were both late 20’s. His friend was tall with reddish-blond hair, gangly and reminded me of Colin so I instantly liked him. This guy was shorter, but pretty solidly built–we collided once and it felt like hitting a machine. He looked like he was either a soccer player or ex-military.
I’d told them I would play but I had a shoulder injury so I wouldn’t play too well or aggressively. Yet surprisingly, I had been shooting poorly and awkwardly while warming up, but my shots were falling in the game like they were being pulled through with a magnet (that’s the way it usually happens–if I make all my shots in warm-up and people are impressed, I tend to suck during the games. I have zero tolerance of high expectations). My teammate and I had good chemistry, so we set a lot of screens and were consistent about getting the ball to each other in good places… he did a great job of getting me the ball where I had the best chance of scoring. So I kept scoring on the guy, and his teammate, who’s played with me before, would keep tell him to watch out…that I’m on fire. I think his ego got bruised. So after one play where I’d faked him into the air and scored, I got the ball on the next play, went up for the shot and he bashed me on my (injured) shooting arm so hard I felt it in my bones.
I’ve been playing basketball long enough to know a frustration foul from an accidental foul, and this was a frustration foul. I don’t think he intended to hurt me, but I think he was pissed and just outletted it into this blow. This foul may not have been intentional, but his emotion was loud and clear.
The way I deal with pain is to move my mind away from it, disown it until it fades. So I walked it off for a few seconds, thinking. I wasn’t upset. It’s hard to get upset during pick-up games unless things are egregiously malicious, because they’re not worth getting upset over. But I think the biggest feeling was…disappointment. There are guys who see another person do well and they think, good for them, because from their life perspective, they see the world as a big enough place to hold success for everyone. Then there are people who live and breathe out of their egos, and take it personally when another person is doing well, particularly when they perceive that person doing well as a reflection of their own failure. People hurt other people when they’re scared or angry, but they don’t necessarily need to know they’re scared or angry to still try hurting someone. I made a mental note. This guy could potentially get dirty.
I walked back and my teammate asked if I was okay, saying he’d dislocated his shoulder once and knew how bad it could be. The other guy wouldn’t meet my eyes. So we played on, but I was really careful of any plays that would allow contact.
Last play of the game, I got the ball in the left wing. Teammate set a great screen and I dribbled towards the free-throw line with my defender caught trying to go over the screen. He’d lost me and knew it. He reached around my guy anyway and tried to grab me, which is highly illegal, but I saw his hand coming and got just out of reach to drive and take a pull-up floater over his teammate. The shot came off my hand so awkwardly that I could even see it in the eyes of the guy trying to block the shot that he didn’t think it would go in. Yet, it went in clean with a snap of the net.
I felt like I’d been getting a magical assist from omnipotent forces all game to play so well, despite, as I said, feeling like I was playing with a broken wing. The entire game had felt unreal. Maybe the universe was using me to create an experience for him, something that could give him a window of insight. Maybe for half an hour, I was playing a part in his movie, not mine. Maybe the universe was challenging his ego and his feelings about women. Maybe part of his personal journey will be how to deal with deep-seated rage. It seemed pretty clear to me the game illuminated a deeper history inside him. A physically abusive dad? Co-dependent mom? You hated your father for his violence and your mother for her weakness in standing up to him, but these feelings are too dangerous for you to consciously acknowledge? What makes you lock your doors when there is smoke inside?
Every personal history is a private mystery. But what is shown to the rest of us is camera obscura–just a reflection on the wall of a cave, but somewhere in the man, a shadowed town anchored by things unspoken at the base of a cliff.
Regardless, I declined playing again, shook hands with my teammate, collected Michael and headed home. Arcade Fire’s Wake Up came on the radio. Again.
I look through the windshield at the full moon in the deep purple sky, floating above mountains and road, the only sign of life i believe in who guides me home.
What does it mean?, I ask it.
The moon treads silently through cloud whispers.
Time.