Read Online The Thing About Life is That One Day You'll Be Dead by David Shields - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Shields
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ask forâand I was money in the bank.
Throughout my freshman and sophomore years, the JV coach told me I had to learn to take the ball to the basket and mix it up with the big guys underneath. I didnât want to, because I knew I couldnât. I already feared I was a full step slow.
The next summer I played basketball. I donât mean I got in some games when I wasnât working at A&W or that I tried to play a couple of hours every afternoon. I mean the summer of 1972 I played basketball. Period. Nothing else. Nothing else even close to something else. All day long that summer, all summer, all night until at least ten.
The high school court was protected by a bank of ice plants and the walls of the school. Kelly-green rims with chain nets were attached to half-moon boards that were kind only to real shooters. The court was on a grassy hill overlooking the street; when I envision Eden, I think of that court during that summerâshirts against skins, five-on-five, running the break till we keeled over. I played in pickup games, for hours alone, with friends, against friends, with people Iâd never seen before and never saw again, with middle-aged men wearing college sweatshirts who liked to keep their hands on my ass as they guarded me, with friendsâ younger brothers who couldnât believe how good I was, with College of San Mateo players keeping in shape during the summer who told me I might make it, with coaches who told me the future of their jobs rested on my performance, with the owners of a pornographic bookstore who asked me if I wanted to appear in an art film, with my father, who asked me whatever happened to the concept of teamwork.
I played on asphalt, but also in gyms, in my mind, in rain, in winds that ruled the ball, beneath the burning sun. I wore leather weights around my ankles, taking them off only in bed, so my legs would be stronger and Iâd be able to jump higher. I read every available book on technique. I jumped rope: inside, around the block, up stairs, walking the dog. Alone, I did drills outlined in an instructional book. A certain number of free throws and lay-ins from both sides and with each hand, hook shots, set shots from all over, turnaround jumpers, jumpers off the move and off the pass, tip-ins. Everything endlessly repeated. I wanted my shoulders to become as high-hung as Warriors star Rick Barryâs, my wrists as taut, my glare as merciless. After a while, Iâd feel like my head was the rim and my body was the ball. I was trying to put my head completely inside my body. The basketball was shot by itself. At that point Iâd call it quits, keeping the feeling.
My father would tell me, âBasketball isnât just shooting. Youâve got to learn the rest of the game.â He set up garbage cans around the court that I had to shuffle-step through, then backpedal through, then dribble through with my right hand, left hand, between my legs, behind my back. On the dead run, I had to throw the ball off a banked gutter so it came back to me as a perfect pass for a layupâthe rest of the game, or so I gathered.
Mr. Rossi, the varsity coach, was wiry and quick, and most of us believed him when he alluded to his days as a floor leader at Santa Clara. He never said much. He showed a tight smile, but every now and then heâd grab you by the jersey and stand you up against a locker. Then heâd go back to smiling again.
The first few games of my junior year I started at wing for the varsity. In the first quarter against a team from Redwood City, I got the ball at the top of the key, faked left, picked up a screen right, and penetrated the laneâa rarity for me. My defender stayed with me, and when I went up for my shot we were belly-to-belly. To go forward was an offensive foul and backward was onto my butt. I tried to corkscrew around him but wasnât agile enough to change position in midair. The Redwood City guyâs hip caught
Throughout my freshman and sophomore years, the JV coach told me I had to learn to take the ball to the basket and mix it up with the big guys underneath. I didnât want to, because I knew I couldnât. I already feared I was a full step slow.
The next summer I played basketball. I donât mean I got in some games when I wasnât working at A&W or that I tried to play a couple of hours every afternoon. I mean the summer of 1972 I played basketball. Period. Nothing else. Nothing else even close to something else. All day long that summer, all summer, all night until at least ten.
The high school court was protected by a bank of ice plants and the walls of the school. Kelly-green rims with chain nets were attached to half-moon boards that were kind only to real shooters. The court was on a grassy hill overlooking the street; when I envision Eden, I think of that court during that summerâshirts against skins, five-on-five, running the break till we keeled over. I played in pickup games, for hours alone, with friends, against friends, with people Iâd never seen before and never saw again, with middle-aged men wearing college sweatshirts who liked to keep their hands on my ass as they guarded me, with friendsâ younger brothers who couldnât believe how good I was, with College of San Mateo players keeping in shape during the summer who told me I might make it, with coaches who told me the future of their jobs rested on my performance, with the owners of a pornographic bookstore who asked me if I wanted to appear in an art film, with my father, who asked me whatever happened to the concept of teamwork.
I played on asphalt, but also in gyms, in my mind, in rain, in winds that ruled the ball, beneath the burning sun. I wore leather weights around my ankles, taking them off only in bed, so my legs would be stronger and Iâd be able to jump higher. I read every available book on technique. I jumped rope: inside, around the block, up stairs, walking the dog. Alone, I did drills outlined in an instructional book. A certain number of free throws and lay-ins from both sides and with each hand, hook shots, set shots from all over, turnaround jumpers, jumpers off the move and off the pass, tip-ins. Everything endlessly repeated. I wanted my shoulders to become as high-hung as Warriors star Rick Barryâs, my wrists as taut, my glare as merciless. After a while, Iâd feel like my head was the rim and my body was the ball. I was trying to put my head completely inside my body. The basketball was shot by itself. At that point Iâd call it quits, keeping the feeling.
My father would tell me, âBasketball isnât just shooting. Youâve got to learn the rest of the game.â He set up garbage cans around the court that I had to shuffle-step through, then backpedal through, then dribble through with my right hand, left hand, between my legs, behind my back. On the dead run, I had to throw the ball off a banked gutter so it came back to me as a perfect pass for a layupâthe rest of the game, or so I gathered.
Mr. Rossi, the varsity coach, was wiry and quick, and most of us believed him when he alluded to his days as a floor leader at Santa Clara. He never said much. He showed a tight smile, but every now and then heâd grab you by the jersey and stand you up against a locker. Then heâd go back to smiling again.
The first few games of my junior year I started at wing for the varsity. In the first quarter against a team from Redwood City, I got the ball at the top of the key, faked left, picked up a screen right, and penetrated the laneâa rarity for me. My defender stayed with me, and when I went up for my shot we were belly-to-belly. To go forward was an offensive foul and backward was onto my butt. I tried to corkscrew around him but wasnât agile enough to change position in midair. The Redwood City guyâs hip caught
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