Sports Addiction
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| My alma mater |
It has been almost fifteen or so years since I played sports competitively. I still consider myself an athlete. Crazy, right? I'm not nearly as athletic. But the desire is still there. I had to walk away from my favorite sport, basketball. And I couldn't look back. LOSING BASKETBALL WAS LIKE LOSING SOMEONE I'D LOVED ALL MY LIFE.
I remember the day like it was yesterday. We were running drills in basketball camp. And in an instant it was over. I blew out my knee. If it weren't me, it would have been kinda funny to see how it happened. One of the coaches would roll the ball down the court, with increasing velocity. We'd have to catch up to the ball, grab it off the floor and shoot a jump shot or a layup. Well, I outran the ball...it rolled up under my foot, and I flipped up in the air.
I lay there, with all kinds of wild thoughts in my head. I couldn't feel the pain. I just laid there...in a daze...wanting to get up. Wanting for that moment to be erased. I tried to stand, with help and I couldn't...my knee began to swell to the size of a honeydo melon. And I CRIED...not from the pain...but from the reality that the invincible me was hurt.
But guess what? I got up and tried to play on one leg. No seriously. One leg. And I couldn't. I was angry! I had a brace on my leg for the rest of the summer because I refused to get surgery. My knee would slip in and out of place, shooting pain up my hip. But all I could think about was getting ready to play again.
So it was almost that time. I think it was some kind of AAU tourney or something. I don't remember. And I tried to play...my other knee went out. I was devastated. And I QUIT. I told everyone I quit because I didn't need basketball to take me to college. The truth was I was scared, I was hurt, I was depressed.
I didn't go to any more basketball games. I couldn't stand it. I picked up a basketball for the first time when I was probably 4. My uncle would hold me over his head and let me shoot. My dad and I would go on Saturday mornings to practice at the city park. My friends and I would play pick up games. My best friend was also my teammate.
I was competitive. Practices would darn near kill me, but game time was my time. The thrill. The rush. It was like a drug. I anticipated long road trips to play teams that we couldn't match with talent. My fondest memory is blocking the shot of the number one player in our conference at the time. I remember the boys up in the stands going OOOOOOOOOOOO...and falling all over each other... Yelling cheering...screaming out my number.
THE DRUG... same affect...it made me high...it made all of us high...it drove us. That's why I can understand why the guys on shows like Football Wives continuously go back to the game. They launch themselves at each other like turbo missiles. They risk their bodies, their families, their lives for the game. It's a drug. The adrenaline is a drug. The triumph is a drug. The competition is a drug. It calls you, like crack called Pookie.
They need a 12 step program for athletes. I quit cold turkey. But every once in a while...it calls me too...
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