Love and Basketball: A Trey Dipped in Prose

There are moments in all athletic pursuits when time seems to simply stop. The adrenaline explodes the experience, vivifying it, creating a vacuum of sorts, a tunnel vision, a zone in which the mind, unfettered from its routine, is briefly liberated from the daily and focuses only on the now. The controlled hurtling of bodies, no matter the activity, is a carnal reminder of a past predicated on a physicality once needed for survival. The sweat cascading down your brow in hot droplets, the rhythm of your hammering heart, the sharp intake of air, your lungs pleading for more oxygen—these are all reminders that you are alive, and in a world of increasing static, sport can shatter the charade of business meetings, formal attire, and superficial first impressions.

There is just one sport among the many whose steps make a shifty dance, and whose sounds pound a breakneck thrum. Each dribble echoes and sliding sneakers squeeze the shrill breath from the hardwood floor. The feel of the basketball’s seams brings to life your stiff fingers, directing the flow of the game as a conductor does with his own.

Within the crush of ten bodies owning the court as they run, one shot cannot be matched. They call it a three for a reason, for behind the arc a player earns more for burying the ball in its nylon-netted home. Standing from deep shrinks the hoop down a size—the distance a valley separating you from the rim, and your only connection is the ball that you send, on an arc of its own.

There are a thousand ways to get to the point of release. Off the pass or the dribble, the screen or the spot up. It can come on a fast break—sprinting up the court only to stop, holding your breath as you rise and exhaling as you release. It can come from a swing or a kick, a back-tapped offensive rebound or a broken play where the ball slips through other fingers to find yours, poised and ready to guide it over the valley.

No matter how it arrives, the moment will come. It starts in your feet, as they push the floor away. Your eyes train on the target. Your mind blinds you from distractions. Your arms rise as the trained muscles fire. You relax. You release, your wrist flicking under the ball giving it its spin, a backward rotation wherein the seams seemingly blur together as the ball ascends.

You track ball against basket with your eyes, but you feel the accuracy more from your splayed fingertips. Players in the paint jostle for position to snare a rebound off an anticipated miss, assuming your hot hand during warm-ups will not withstand the game’s pressure, your defender’s late contend.

Time stops. The ball hangs at its apex longer than a thought. You hold your wrist in its downturned position, showcasing the confidence you feel. The ball is coming down now, moving fastest just before it slips through the net. The ball’s spin splashes the twine like a falling rock explodes water.

You backpedal to the other end of the court, the high of your shot drowned by another sound: your opponent coming your way, looking to keep pace, looking to match your shooting display.

Photos courtesy of Murray State, ricardodiaz11, and logan.hawk, respectively.