A Story for Father's Day

I have two recurring dreams. The first is a nightmare—I have long hair to my waist, I’m playing basketball, and I don’t have a rubber band to pull back my hair. I humiliate my team as I repeatedly can’t catch the passes thrown to me from my teammates. My coach chews me out and I am ashamed—the worst player on the team. The second dream is quite the opposite—I am the star of my team. I make every shot, grab every rebound, and my coach and teammates love me.

Although it has been a long time since I played basketball for my high school team, the feelings, emotions, and memories linger with me constantly. Indeed, I am amazed at what an impact playing basketball had on me. I suppose you can’t underestimate the psychological power that hours and hours of practices, drills, games, and tryouts can have on a person. I never play basketball anymore, but it is in my blood—a part of who I am.

One of those defining moments came when I was a senior playing center for the Frankfurt International School Warriors. It had been a disappointing season for me. I’d had to sit out for two months of the season due to a foot injury. When I came back, I was slower and not fully recovered, yet it was time for the final tournament where International schools from all over Europe would battle for the championship. For me, this was not just a final tournament. This would be the end of my basketball career and I meant to end my disappointing season on a high note.

I’d never been a star player. I played my role, which meant getting rebounds, playing defense against the biggest player on the other team, and being in the right place at the right time. My playing might have been improved had I not been afraid of making mistakes and taking risks. I played safe—which earned me a starting position but not a lot of attention. In fact, the only real attention I ever got was from my number one fan—my dad.

My dad is not a spectator. He likes to be involved in the action, and whatever he does deserves his complete participation. And so during each of my basketball games throughout the years, it was his voice I heard above the others, encouraging me, cheering for me, reprimanding the referees, and making sure the scorekeepers were doing their job. At the end of each game, he would congratulate me, pointing out the strong points of my game. I remember one game in particular. I was in sixth grade and had not scored a single point. I rode home sulking about my perceived failure. Dad would not let me stay gloomy for long. He told me I needed to change my attitude and he pointed out all of the good things I was doing for my team. He was always good about noticing a great rebound, an intercepted pass, or a clever defensive maneuver—things that don’t show up on the scoreboard.

And so, it was my final game: Frankfurt versus Paris. When I ran onto the court for warm-ups, the crowd’s cheering sent chills of excitement through my body. And even in the midst of hundreds of people, I heard my dad’s clear voice, calling my name. It made me happy to know he was there, rooting for me.

The game was a good one. Both teams played with their greatest intensity and each possession was crucial as the lead changed several times. I played most of the game, too engrossed to think of my throbbing foot, focused only on giving it my all. It was a physical match-up and I fought for every rebound, dove for loose balls, and did my best to keep Paris from scoring down low. In the remaining few minutes of the game, the score was close, the outcome uncertain, and I had a chance to shine. I was fouled and had to shoot free throws. This was the kind of high-pressure situation I had hoped never to be in. Some people want the ball in their hands at the end of the game, they thrive under pressure. I’ve never been confident enough. The game was on the line and all eyes were on me. The opposition chanted, squealed, stomped, screamed. Surprisingly, I felt calm and focused. Swish, two for two. I was fouled two more times, and both times I made every foul shot. A minute later, we won the game. It was over.

The crowd rushed the floor, my team celebrated, jumping and squeezing each other. In the midst of all this, I found myself crying. Joy and sadness clashed and I couldn’t contain them. Suddenly I saw my dad, running across the gym towards me with open arms. “You were wonderful!” he said, hugging my sweaty self. He held me there, crying, and for the first time since childhood, I felt myself let go. Everyone was happy and I mourned the end of a chapter in my life. My dad understood. In fact, I think he felt the same way.

A few short months later, I moved on to college, and from there, I married, got a job as a teacher, and am now staying home to raise my beautiful baby girl. Funny how time just keeps going, leaving ever-fading memories in its wake. When I think of my basketball playing days, I can hardly remember the specifics. The shots I made and didn’t make, the plays we ran, it’s all a blur to me now. But what I will never forget, is the love I felt from my dad as he hugged me in the middle of a crowded gym. And this is a chapter that I will never have to close.