I remember only two occasions in my entire life that I ever played basketball. And on both occasions, I was forced.
The first one was in fourth grade. There was an upcoming athletic meet that time and I was dragged to the try-outs for the school team. I had a feeling my mother asked the coach, who was my grandfather’s friend, to look for me and have me checked over if they have a use for me. I knew something was off that morning when the coach came by our classroom and called out my name. My classmates were jeering at me since they have never seen me play basketball before. And because peer pressure was too much, there was no escaping. I proceeded to the court where the other boys were. All eyes were on me and I got so annoyed and conscious. Like what the others did, I dribbled the ball three times and aimed for the ring. Of course I missed. I never heard from the coach.
Six years later, I played my second and my last basketball game. My friends Mao, Doc, Jimboy and I were playing in the rain one stormy afternoon. We were just moving around town on our bicycles when we passed by the court in the town center. They wanted to play two-on-two basketball and, sensing that they needed one more guy and there was no one else there, turned their peering eyes on me. They pushed and shoved me to the court until Mao passed me the ball and I had no choice but to play along. They ended up having a really hilariously entertaining game that afternoon, one that I’m sure they will always remember since they spent more time clutching their sides as they laughed so hard.
I have always known that basketball will never succeed to tame me and I can never learn to love it. For one, the seemingly endless and senseless action of running back and forth trying to chase the ball just doesn’t appeal to me. I see more challenge in bait fishing or trekking tricky mountains or in perfecting a pasta sauce.
Having said all that, I’d like to confess that I really intended not to learn to play basketball as a form of protest. I never understood why it should become a tool to discriminate people -- that you’re definitely straight if you master the rhythm of dribbling and shooting and likely to be gay if you’re completely oblivious of it.
Since when basketball rightfully depicted one’s personhood?
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