She has the ball now. She's crossing mid-court. Kate Starbird is streaking down the right lane. She has a step on her defender. Wideman sees her and fires a pass up the court.
LAY-UP, STARBIRD. ASSIST, WIDEMAN.
It may all seem quite familiar, a replay from a worn-out cassette or a nostalgic memory, until the announcer breaks through the cheers and lifts the veil of time.
CANASTA. ESTA-BEERD. ASSISTENICIA. ZHAMEELA WEEDAMIN.
The uniforms are red, but not cardinal. The numbers on the back aren't quite right. Our trusty ponytails, Jamila's and mine, are absent. Instead, we both wear goofy-looking headbands to hold back our now-short hair. That streaking motion down the lane wasn't quite as lightning fast as it used to be, and Jamila's foot fire doesn't mesmerize with such a high frequency. We're not 21 anymore. In fact, we're not even in our twenties. We're both 30 and we're in Spain. Jamila survives on a bottle of Advil, while I opt out of every other practice, substituting pool work-outs and hour-long stretching sessions in instead. Jam holds her team huddles in Espangles. I yell out "bloqueo" when she's about to get nailed by a screen. We're a long way from Stanford, in both time and distance. But, I still have my old knee-pads, though they are a bit more hole-y now, and Jamila still drives the opposing point guard up the wall with her smothering defense, which I now recognize as 100% pure effort. And we're still playing this game we love so much.
We live in Ibiza, Spain and play for a club called, "Puig D'en Vals." Our town, Santa Eularia, is about 20 kilometers north of Ibiza city. It is a tourist town, and pretty darn quiet now that the summer season has ended and the German and British sun-seekers have all packed up and gone home. Our apartment sits over the now empty boardwalk and our balcony looks out onto the Mediterranean. A few palm trees offer the only obstruction to our view. Through our open windows, we can hear the waves hit the small stretch of beach below.
The situation is close to being both perfect and poetic, two former Stanford teammates reunited on a court in an island paradise. I can't say I ever imagined my life turning out exactly like this, but I offer up no complaints. Who could?
I can't pretend to know exactly how or why Jamila ended up here with me, but I know why I'm here. Luck. Amazing luck. And luck that I didn't always recognize as good until I began to sit back and enjoy the ride I've been on since I showed up for my first day on the Stanford campus, limping. This game has been a journey as well as its boat. It has introduced me to amazing people and transported me all over the world. It has directed me and defined me, pushed me down and picked me back up again. I have allowed it to take me to great heights and suffered when it let me fall. I have cursed it and called it ugly names. At this moment, watching a thunderstorm release its fury on my idyllic Ibician horizon, I recognize it all as a road that led me here, both in physical and mental space, and I know that this game has been one of the great gifts of my life, and I am thankful for both the journey and the very moment I have.
We have practice tonight at 7. It should be pretty tough, because we lost this weekend. We'll warm up, stretch (and I take that oh-so-seriously now), then run our legs off for almost two hours. Afterwards, we'll be drenched in sweat from the combination of effort and the soupy, wet air in the gym. My t-shirt will actually be soaked through, my lungs sore from the burn. I'll stop off for a massage in the training room, a daily necessity for my old, aching back. It will be after 10 before I get home. I'll make myself a quick dinner and write a few emails home. Then I'll hit my bed and fall asleep to the sound of the waves rolling into the shore.
I am 30 years old and still playing basketball for a living in Ibiza, Spain. Not a bad deal.
-- Kate
No comments:
Post a Comment