EX's and Ohs Redeux
I bet you thought when you read the title that I was going to dish on my ex-husband or something equally salacious. That's the beauty of a good title, it grabs your attention. But no, this piece isn't about a marriage that went extinct over twenty years ago. Today's musings have to do with the consequences of a global pandemic and events in the current political climate, that it would appear, have international intrigue--a 21st century criminal probe that a fiction writer on their best day couldn't imagine. Thus proving the old Mark Twain quote, "Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to the possibilities; truth isn't." It's been hard to keep my head screwed on straight and focus over the past few years. Much of this has been brought to you by social media--that really isn't so social as much as it is perversely sad. That combined with the aftershocks of the pandemic seem to continue driving wedges between us and what is true.
So what to do with all this anxiety flowing freely around us all? I am firmly in the camp that believes the best way to deal with an uncomfortable truth is to avoid it. Right? If I don't acknowledge it, poof, it will go away. And so it follows that I need a sweet diversion that allows me to fantasize that the world still is as it was prior to alternate facts, the deaths of millions, Ukraine/Russia et al. To whit, a time we could predict with some certainty what tomorrow, next week, or next year would bring. (Probably the reality is that we never could predict anything, but it was comforting to think I could.)
And I do have a diversion. *As my nephew from Texas once said on his first visit to my home, "Auntie, there're hoops everywhere here." Yes indeed. My escape and probably the escape of many red-blooded Hoosiers is basketball, and for me specifically college basketball. For those who aren't familiar with the Indiana State Religion, I will tell you that chapels and cathedrals to basketball exist all over this state and are filled to overflowing every Friday and Saturday night. In popular parlance, it's a thing, and has been ever since I was in high school back in the dark ages.
In those days my Friday and Saturday nights were spent in gymnasiums all over the countryside. Every small town had a high school, and that high school had a team. When that team played the entire town of one thousand or two thousand turned out to cheer them on to victory. There were Hornets, Red Ramblers, Mustangs, Trojans, Warriors, Knights, Bronchos, and my own Red Devils. The names of some of the teams still tickle me: Frankfort Hot Dogs, Delphi Oracles, and Klondike Nuggets. Some of those schools still exist with their colorful monikers, and others were sucked up in the rounds of school consolidations that occurred in the years after I graduated, The consolidations created new teams and names which in their own time have attracted just as much attendance as the schools that graduated 50 in their senior classes in the years before. For anyone who's not experienced a small town high school gym packed to the rafters with fans of the team roaring at each made bucket, working the refs, and that moment of silence that hangs in the air before every free throw, you missed something special; a slice of Americana no less specific to our culture than a baseball game, apple pie, or Mom.
The season culminated in the state tournament. It was a sports Cinderella competition open to every team. There was no class basketball back then. Small teams competed with the giants from the cities and every once in awhile David slayed Goliath. It happened just often enough that everyone believed they had a chance; the moment of possibility was breathtaking.
Hoosiers don't restrict their basketball passion just to high school teams though. College hoops is intensely popular. When I began dating my ex husband I suggested we take in a game at the back yard university. He looked at me as if I had grown two heads, He was from a football state, You Buckeyes would know what I mean, "We are going to watch the real sport, the important one," I told him. From the look that crossed his face I could tell he thought I had lost my mind. He learned. Apparently he had never been in a steel framed/concrete building that literally rocked when the fans were working up a lather. Like their high school counterparts our college ballers are christened with nicknames, Big Maple, World Star Dave, JJ, Smooge, C-Boogie, Cowboy, that's how much we love them.
I still follow that same college team. While I don't have an extreme connection to the institution itself, an institution I attended, the basketball team always hooked me. This year's edition has been particularly satisfying. There are two types of athletes. (I can speak from authority on this as I have two athletic daughters-one of whom took her skills to her college team.) Type 1 is the person who is gifted with natural athletic talent. They excel at their sport due to what God gave them-add hard work and you have a very special athlete. Type 2 is the athlete with some athletic talent, but has to work to develop their abilities in order to have a crack at a higher level than high school. (Which I suppose is true of many things.) You'll find type 2 at the gym or on the field constantly working at their game often to the exclusion of everything else.
Our college team has those type two athletes, not to mention our school makes it even tougher by expecting them to be students too. Our athletes have to have a passing acquaintance with the inside of a textbook which is why I love this team so much. At a major university level it is not easy to maintain grades and play a sport. Most people are unaware of the sacrifices these kids make. I develop a relationship watching the transition from gawky freshman to polished senior. Those who follow schools who rely on the one and dones don't get the benefit of that connection, One sided to be sure - the guys on this team don't know me from a kumquat in the fruit bin at the supermarket, but I feel like I know them. Of course much of this is changing with the portal and NIL, but this year's team is still old style--as recently written up in the New York Times this week. They think our team is quaint and opined about our old fashioned make-up; not a lot of flash, big guy in the middle, offense through him.. That's okay-it's working pretty well so far.
We had a two and done who left last year for the NBA. We loved him too and hated to see him go. No one predicted that we would have appreciable success without him. To the surprise of just about everyone our guys began winning, continuously winning. This distraction from my daily dose of reality was a welcome relief. Twice a week I could lose myself for two hours in round ball, take my aggression out on the refs, yelling at the television. "That was a charge, you idiot! Fletch was set!"
After not being ranked pre-season, they won and won and won some more. They moved up in the standings - commentators began talking Final Four, we fans all held our breath, we are breathing rarified air. Seven weeks ranked as number one, then the unthinkable yet inevitable happened, they lost, then lost again, and yet again. All of a sudden escape from reality was a reality of its own, and not a good one. What goes up must come down. Having been the parent of an athlete I felt for the team. I know they work hard to fix what's broken.. I have seen first hand how difficult it is when you are doing your best and it isn't coming together. I get angry at those who are critical and criticize the players and the coaches. Coaches aren't infallible. Yes it is their job to diagnose and try to fix what's wrong. And, if they don't fix it, they can lose their jobs. It's about winning and these days and it's about big money. Big money messes up everything. There is incredible pressure. Fans have no idea what is going on inside the team dynamic. Its best we remember they are human beings and young ones at that.
So what to do with all this anxiety flowing freely around us all? I am firmly in the camp that believes the best way to deal with an uncomfortable truth is to avoid it. Right? If I don't acknowledge it, poof, it will go away. And so it follows that I need a sweet diversion that allows me to fantasize that the world still is as it was prior to alternate facts, the deaths of millions, Ukraine/Russia et al. To whit, a time we could predict with some certainty what tomorrow, next week, or next year would bring. (Probably the reality is that we never could predict anything, but it was comforting to think I could.)
And I do have a diversion. *As my nephew from Texas once said on his first visit to my home, "Auntie, there're hoops everywhere here." Yes indeed. My escape and probably the escape of many red-blooded Hoosiers is basketball, and for me specifically college basketball. For those who aren't familiar with the Indiana State Religion, I will tell you that chapels and cathedrals to basketball exist all over this state and are filled to overflowing every Friday and Saturday night. In popular parlance, it's a thing, and has been ever since I was in high school back in the dark ages.
In those days my Friday and Saturday nights were spent in gymnasiums all over the countryside. Every small town had a high school, and that high school had a team. When that team played the entire town of one thousand or two thousand turned out to cheer them on to victory. There were Hornets, Red Ramblers, Mustangs, Trojans, Warriors, Knights, Bronchos, and my own Red Devils. The names of some of the teams still tickle me: Frankfort Hot Dogs, Delphi Oracles, and Klondike Nuggets. Some of those schools still exist with their colorful monikers, and others were sucked up in the rounds of school consolidations that occurred in the years after I graduated, The consolidations created new teams and names which in their own time have attracted just as much attendance as the schools that graduated 50 in their senior classes in the years before. For anyone who's not experienced a small town high school gym packed to the rafters with fans of the team roaring at each made bucket, working the refs, and that moment of silence that hangs in the air before every free throw, you missed something special; a slice of Americana no less specific to our culture than a baseball game, apple pie, or Mom.
The season culminated in the state tournament. It was a sports Cinderella competition open to every team. There was no class basketball back then. Small teams competed with the giants from the cities and every once in awhile David slayed Goliath. It happened just often enough that everyone believed they had a chance; the moment of possibility was breathtaking.
Hoosiers don't restrict their basketball passion just to high school teams though. College hoops is intensely popular. When I began dating my ex husband I suggested we take in a game at the back yard university. He looked at me as if I had grown two heads, He was from a football state, You Buckeyes would know what I mean, "We are going to watch the real sport, the important one," I told him. From the look that crossed his face I could tell he thought I had lost my mind. He learned. Apparently he had never been in a steel framed/concrete building that literally rocked when the fans were working up a lather. Like their high school counterparts our college ballers are christened with nicknames, Big Maple, World Star Dave, JJ, Smooge, C-Boogie, Cowboy, that's how much we love them.
I still follow that same college team. While I don't have an extreme connection to the institution itself, an institution I attended, the basketball team always hooked me. This year's edition has been particularly satisfying. There are two types of athletes. (I can speak from authority on this as I have two athletic daughters-one of whom took her skills to her college team.) Type 1 is the person who is gifted with natural athletic talent. They excel at their sport due to what God gave them-add hard work and you have a very special athlete. Type 2 is the athlete with some athletic talent, but has to work to develop their abilities in order to have a crack at a higher level than high school. (Which I suppose is true of many things.) You'll find type 2 at the gym or on the field constantly working at their game often to the exclusion of everything else.
Our college team has those type two athletes, not to mention our school makes it even tougher by expecting them to be students too. Our athletes have to have a passing acquaintance with the inside of a textbook which is why I love this team so much. At a major university level it is not easy to maintain grades and play a sport. Most people are unaware of the sacrifices these kids make. I develop a relationship watching the transition from gawky freshman to polished senior. Those who follow schools who rely on the one and dones don't get the benefit of that connection, One sided to be sure - the guys on this team don't know me from a kumquat in the fruit bin at the supermarket, but I feel like I know them. Of course much of this is changing with the portal and NIL, but this year's team is still old style--as recently written up in the New York Times this week. They think our team is quaint and opined about our old fashioned make-up; not a lot of flash, big guy in the middle, offense through him.. That's okay-it's working pretty well so far.
We had a two and done who left last year for the NBA. We loved him too and hated to see him go. No one predicted that we would have appreciable success without him. To the surprise of just about everyone our guys began winning, continuously winning. This distraction from my daily dose of reality was a welcome relief. Twice a week I could lose myself for two hours in round ball, take my aggression out on the refs, yelling at the television. "That was a charge, you idiot! Fletch was set!"
After not being ranked pre-season, they won and won and won some more. They moved up in the standings - commentators began talking Final Four, we fans all held our breath, we are breathing rarified air. Seven weeks ranked as number one, then the unthinkable yet inevitable happened, they lost, then lost again, and yet again. All of a sudden escape from reality was a reality of its own, and not a good one. What goes up must come down. Having been the parent of an athlete I felt for the team. I know they work hard to fix what's broken.. I have seen first hand how difficult it is when you are doing your best and it isn't coming together. I get angry at those who are critical and criticize the players and the coaches. Coaches aren't infallible. Yes it is their job to diagnose and try to fix what's wrong. And, if they don't fix it, they can lose their jobs. It's about winning and these days and it's about big money. Big money messes up everything. There is incredible pressure. Fans have no idea what is going on inside the team dynamic. Its best we remember they are human beings and young ones at that.
As I write this today, we are on the precipice--a number one seed in the Big Dance for the first time since 1996--all so unexpected. The team that was supposed to be rebuilding. What would I do if I was the coach? I'd tell them to remember why they play. Play for the joy of this beautiful game and for your teammates. This time will never come again, soak it in, reduce it to it's purest form. You do that, you'll be okay. Please be okay. I need you guys to provide my escape valve for the next few weeks. Sometimes reality can be too much to bear.
*Aforementioned nephew went on to have his own college basketball career, was a grad assistant with Baylor Basketball during their championship year, and now works with the Denver Nuggets organization. I like to believe he was totally infected with basketball fever that first time he visited Indiana.
Comments
Post a Comment