Little sneakers stand on the black line. An unwanted concoction of glue, rubber, sweat and dust fill my itchy nose. Twenty-three wiggling bodies wait for their name to be called. I hold my breath. Heart thumping fast that my name will be shouted next, cheeks truing pink that it won’t. Three little bodies left. Two. Just me. The team captains argue over who will get me. The sport today?
Basketball.
How many of us have complicated memories of Elementary School Gym class? Author note: Did you know it is called PE now? Fail to call it by the right name and my son will correct you. Do you think of that time with fondness? Favorite time of the day, right? Or, if you are like me, maybe not. Hello, book readers on the stage. I see you!
Remember the square shaped scooter thing with the wheels that pinched your fingers if you weren’t careful?
Maybe you found your love of a certain sport and maybe, just maybe some of you may have sought counseling. No judgment here.
Now, before I am cast out of the club, please note that this non-athlete had all the little boys beat at the rope we pulled ourselves up to the ceiling. There was a bell at the top, right? And that wood contraption with the wooden pegs and holes mounted to the gym wall that we moved up on with your arms like a monkey? I mastered that thing with all the little open mouths looking up at me from the floor! (Hear me inwardly cheering?)
Why am I telling you a story from elementary days?
Well. Wouldn’t you know. The Lord saw fit to bless me with a boy who loves basketball. And football. Any sport that is currently on the television. Yesterday, he watched women’s Lacrosse. At least I think it was Lacrosse. The players had these net things on long poles…
Daily he begs me to come outside and play basketball with him. And football inside, which never ends well. He seems to enjoy throwing me passes and tackling me when I am not paying attention.
Outside, he request that I draw a large half rectangle on the cement around the basketball goal. I write down the numbers one through twelve, in colorful sidewalk chalk. It is our version of around the world.
Toes on Number One, stand to the left side of the basketball hoop. Swish. I can usually make the shot from chalk spot Number One. The Two spot takes more tries. Number Three, even more. By the time I get to Number Four, on the corner, it can take me up to NINE tries to get that darn orange and black ball into the hoop with the metal chain net. Now, does my son cheer me on, “Go mama, go!?”
No. But neither does he get impatient with me, or give up, or leave, or ask to play a different game. He chases down the ball each time I miss (which is very often) or rebounds the ball when I actually make it. He bounces the ball back to me and insists that I finish. Why couldn’t he be my gym, ahem, PE teacher?
Today, I held the ball in my hands. Once again stuck on Number Eight, my eyes caught the joy on his face. Just to be outside. Just to watch his mama “play” basketball with him.
He gets a real kick when my husband comes out to play. “Mama! You start on Number One! Dada! You start on Number Twelve and see who makes it around the world first!”
Who do you think makes it around the world before I can even make a basket on Number Three?
Never did I expect to be on a driveway basketball court with a son who loves basketball, who can most certainly beat me every time. (We will talk about football another time.)
Today, this cement court is most definitely my Someplace Else. How often do we have the courage to do something we never thought we would do? How often do we attempt to do something in which we know we will most likely fail? Are you currently doing something in life you never expected to be doing? I would love to hear about it!