It’s just one of those awesome feelings. Running down the right side of the court, closest to the spectators, I’m the one closest the the basket. I see three defenders heading my way, but they don’t really know what’s happening as the ball goes over their heads and into my hands and I stop slightly under the backboard and to the right side of the basket. I stop my momentum and duck my head as I hear them coming. I feel one go by, out of control, thinking I was ready to put up the lay up. A second follows, the nails of three or four of his fingers scrape against the back of my neck. I know there’s another coming from the left, but he doesn’t have a chance as I put the ball up against the backboard with my right hand.

A few possessions later, we have three defenders working to get back on defense as two of their players push the ball up the floor. I instinctively get into the paint, practiced time and time again by the coaching of my high school basketball coach. One of my teammates picks up the guy with the ball and tries to force him to take a bad shot, but has to step out of the way to avoid fouling him. As he steps out of the way, there I am, about four feet away from the basket, sliding in, setting myself for the charge. It’s too late for the young man with the ball, as my defender moves away I move in, and he’s going full speed. I turn my head to the left and bring my right arm up to cover my head as he makes contact and we both head toward toward the floor. The whistles are blown, the crowd is riveted, and I just assume that my slide in paid off in an offensive foul. A teammate lends a hand and helps to pull me to my feet.

I don’t smile, but I’m satisfied. In the next four or five possessions I swat away two shots. A couple more possessions later and I post up on the left low post, and a teammate feeds me. I could work for the shot, but I have a guy on my back and another guy coming to double me. Wait… a guy coming to double me… I glance over my left should a see a teammate that’s not much taller than five foot nine inches. I hook pass the ball over my shoulder to him and he steps in to put the lay up in.

Watching guys fly by thinking they’re going to get a piece of that ball; placing your body in the way of another to collect the offensive foul and possession; blocking a couple shots and dishing to the wide open guard…

I don’t smile when it happens. I don’t rub it in. It’s a game, and needs to be kept that way. Yeah, it feels good, but it’s just a game, and what I am, what I can do, is not because of anything I could ever do, but because of what He’s allowed me to be and to do.

I miss small Christian school basketball. Intramurals, for those twenty-five minutes, help bring me back just a bit to it. Playing with guys I know. Having to respond correctly to calls. Having spectators cheer as you hit a shot while falling backwards to the ground. It brings it back a bit, but not enough.

I still miss playing in that gym, with spectators gathered all around the railings above. Having the chants of cheerleaders fill the room with energy and impressing parents and grandparents with what I’ve learned. Being in a huddle, being yelled at by my high school coach, one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

I can’t play there any more, not in a real game. I can watch from the railings, but I can’t put on that uniform. I no longer jump for the opening tip. But I still take the skills that I learned on that floor with me. I may use them when I play pickup ball and intramurals here at college, and most of all I use the character and strength that my coach instilled in me each day as I live this life.