It was my sophomore year of high school when I found the true essence of \sports."" I was riding a high only the slightly athletic and somewhat-coordinated in this world ever understand: I had made the team. Named All-Appleton West Junior-Varsity Third-Team Honorable Selection (that's the nice way of saying ""garbage time""), I was the third-string center on my high school's JV basketball squad. I couldn't be happier.
While many of my bench-warming cohorts yearned for more playing time and a more glamorous role on the team, I was content with my position. That isn't to say I didn't try hard to get better or push my teammates, but because just being part of the team meant so much, frivolous recognition as ""one of the top players"" meant so little. And that is why what I will reveal to you next was so incredibly painful -teen-drama-hour-on-the-Family -Channel-painful.
It was a game toward the end of the season. In our conference, the JV game was played immediately before varsity tip-off, so while the gym would be sparsely populated at the start, the place would be packed for the game to follow sometime during our third quarter.
We were losing pretty badly by the time the seats were filled to capacity, and that meant only one thing for both teams: scrub time. I went in, glad just to have some time out on the court.
I hadn't scored a single bucket all season, and I didn't expect that to change, but for whatever reason I put up a clunker that went in. The entire crowd, my teammates and my coach went wild. I was ecstatic beyond words.
Surging with that special power that makes some men faint and some men lift trucks, I hustled back on defense and got down in my ready stance, hands-up, prepared to guard. The opposing team passed the ball around for awhile, and it finally went to my man, who looked about as pathetic as my basketball skill.
Instead of rushing up to him and shadowing his every move like a pro, my legs decided 16 years of listening to my brain was enough, and I plowed right into my opponent. And when I say ""plowed,"" I really mean speared the kid head first like I was Chuck Cecil.
As I helped the victim of my adrenaline freak-out up off the floor and returned his glasses to him (that's how bad it was), the crowd let out a huge collective gasp, the referee blew his whistle while making a T-sign with his hands, my teammates' eyes shot to the floor and my coach put his head in his hands, slowly shaking in disapproval. ""There goes the NBA,"" I mumbled to myself as my heart sunk to my high tops.
I was totally crushed. Little did I realize, however, that at that moment I had forged a connection to athletic competition that only happens once in a lifetime, never to return again as long as I play any sport. I was the LA Clippers. I was the XFL, the Milwaukee Brewers and Bill Buckner. I was every shanked over-time field goal, every winless season, every missed putt for par and every sudden death penalty shot that bounces off the post. I was sports.
So while most people wish their kids the best in their athletic endeavors-school records, state championships and even scholarships-I hope my kids can one day truly connect with what ""sports"" really is, just like I had during that fateful, embarrassing game.
But when that time comes, I'll be in the parking lot warming up the getaway car.
Peter N. Long is a junior majoring in journalism and history. His weekly column will return to the features page next Wednesday. He can be reached at pnlong@wisc.edu.com.
