First appearing in The Tecumseh Herald, Sept. 20, 2023
As my grandchildren have gotten older, graduated from high school and into the world of “adulting,” I have found myself missing the thrill and pride of going to their sporting events and watching them spike a volleyball or sink a buzzer-beater. My girls attended Adrian so they played Tecumseh at least once or twice in a season and I would find myself in the “new” high school a place that held little in the way of youthful memories, but one that still brought a feeling of nostalgia to my mind.
I remember more than 20 years ago watching a kid trying to shoot baskets in the Tecumseh gym. I was standing on the raised track and he was below me, a small lad who eventually tired of missing his mark, and he began heaving his basketball against the wall, perhaps frustrated, perhaps practicing for the day when he would be tall enough to play above the rim.
Some bigger boys and a couple of girls scrimmaged full-court style, still playmates, caught on the tender edge of adulthood. They were young, perhaps 14 or 15 years old and they raced, sylph-like, back and forth, shouting at each other, seemingly eager to reach that magic age when they could do whatever they wanted. I’m sure their nightly dreams were filled with images of playing on the college or professional stage, surrounded by screaming fans as they sunk a three-pointer or grabbed a rebound.
I remember the sound of shoes squeaking on the polished wood, the shrill sound of stops and starts, quick moves from side to side, keeping play inside the lines. Two men watched from the sidelines, crouched like coaches, eying the technique, planning plays, calling fouls, perhaps sizing up potential. The little guy who had been working so hard was forced off the court as the bigger kids practiced free throws, perfecting the movement of knees and wrists to properly propel the ball gently into the basket. Too much effort, it bounces off the backboard, too little, it strikes the rim and falls short.
I remember thinking how distant their lives were from my own. I was already past 40 then, while these youngsters were standing at the edge of adulthood, their worlds no bigger than the basketball court in the high school gym, their concerns no greater than how much practice time they could squeeze in before going home to take out the garbage or mow the lawn.
I can see that afternoon in my memory quite clearly. I remember thinking how much I missed a summertime filled with games and bike rides and forts in trees, yet as a teen, I could only wish for adulthood. It’s the great irony of our lives, spending the first half wishing we were older and then longing for the sweet safety of playtime, of lying in the backyard staring at the clouds for no particular reason except that it felt good.
We spend a lot of our lives wishing we were somewhere else or with someone else or doing something else. When I think of those adolescents on the basketball court, I hope they grew up not just dedicating themselves to making a better life for themselves and their children, but being able to recall the pure enjoyment they experienced on that basketball court.
I hope they didn’t just make a living but made a life of memories that will sustain them well into their “golden years.” I know I have and I also know how quickly that time goes by.
Life is meant to be savored and enjoyed. As Ferris Bueller famously said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it.”
SQUIBS 