Last week, a freshman from an area high school committed suicide. He was a popular young man as well as a great basketball player. The staff said he displayed no warning signs. His friends and family are going through hell trying to put the pieces together.
I recently attended a girls' basketball game at my old high school. The usual suspects filed in to the bleachers: supportive parents (\It's OK, you will get it next time.""), hostile parents (""Come on! Four offensive rebounds-are you kidding me?""), grandparents, younger siblings and disgruntled older siblings. It was a night taken from the people's history of ""ordinary.""
Then, he walked in. The star of the boy's basketball team sauntered into the gym to watch the game with some friends. A murmur crept across the bleachers as everyone started saying the same things at once.
""Did you see the dunks he made at the last game? He is going to be a superstar"" or ""We're going back to the state tournament for sure-as long as he is with us.""
The hero, dressed in mortal's clothes, sat down on the bleachers in the student section and, after the subtle fanfare, the game continued. The girls ended up winning and everyone was pleased, except the hostile parents (""I want to see more hustle out of you next time!""). Fans got up quickly and custodians started taking down the bleachers. Parents waited around, some for daughters to come out of the locker room, but mostly for the superstar to come over and chat with them.
He slowly got up from his lounged position and took to the parent's section. He exchanged pleasantries with them as if he were at a press conference. Adult faces lit up when he spoke, as if activated by the presence of this wunderkind. The state title was on the thoughts and minds of everyone in the small group. Parents trying to relive their own high school days, coaches trying to establish respect and consistency, friends trying to get a day off for the big game. The dreams of a school are resting on his not-so-broad shoulders.
He answers their questions with a wide grin and casually catches up with his friends for the trip home. Once he is gone, the parents and remaining fans slowly trickle out of the auditorium. I hear whispers of questions that went unasked, ""Do you think he can handle the intensity of the postseason?"" and ""What about college-is he really going to stack up against the big guys?"" or ""And if he makes it to the NBA, will he really be able to live a life under a microscope?'
As they left, I wondered what the kid feels when he walks into that gym. Does he still feel the spark of playing prep ball, or does he feel the pressure and the need to succeed? Maybe we're pushing him too hard-or is that just practice for the rest of his life?
My questions hang in the air, wedged next to thousands of unanswered wishes, prayers and questions for the young man who will never step foot on the court again.
Eventually, we need to get those questions down from there and ask them of ourselves so we can prevent another tragedy.
erincanty8285@hotmail.com.
