An emotional sanctuary on the court

Written March 5, 2023

Day 12 of 40 in a 45-day period: In the middle of fourth grade my family moved from New Carrollton to Columbia. I was not in favor of this change and it was a bit of an adjustment.

In middle school, after securing the paperwork and neighbor approval, my parents put in a basketball hoop. We played countless games of pig and horse and actual games. In warmer weather we’d play barefoot. This is why I am a significantly stronger shooter from the right side of the key, thanks to the higher probability of grabbing the rebound. Shots from the left side often resulted in a sprint into the street, stepping on a pebble, crying out in pain and limping for the rest of the game.

We rescued basketballs from the gutter at the end of the street and from under my dad’s car, affectionately called The Gray Ghost. When the ball got stuck under The Gray Ghost multiple people had to partake in the rescue effort as it was a 1982 Chevy Impala and approximately 23 feet wide. Baseball bats were occasionally involved.

The basketball hoop was regularly at play year round. As I got older it became a place to calm my nerves and served as one of my favorite thinking spots. In grad school some of my best lessons were planned while shooting baskets. It was also a place to get out any anger or frustration and the square on the backboard served as excellent target practice.

Lately I’ve been missing that basketball hoop sanctuary. We have basketball courts a few blocks away but it’s not the same as being able to walk out the garage door and start shooting what we think were free throws but you never really knew. Finding places to think or get out my emotions isn’t so easy in the city and fire escapes are not considered to be outdoor spaces despite how creatively one thinks.

A while ago my parents took down their hoop. The rust was giving it an unattractive bronze glow and either they would take it down or a wind storm would have done the trick. I miss that hoop when we visit my parents. I hold out hope that one day we’ll pull up to the house and a new one will be there, beckoning me to become a stronger shooter from the left side of the key. We can dream.

Photo credit of The Gray Ghost and hoop in the background to Tom Traber