It’sa dark, cold rainy night where raindrops slap our face like sand pellets.Dressed in gym clothes and clutching basketballs, we dodge invisiblepuddles racing to the truck. The world seems small in the darkness thatcomes with shorter days. We drive across town to aneighborhood Brian used to know well. It’s the part of town whereBrian’s grandma took care of him, he was popular and one of the few Caucasiankids around.
Thereis a lack of streetlights and the road narrows to the width of a goodairplane seat. We laugh when the truck jumps from hitting potholes,as we make our way into a large, dark parking lot. Before us shines thebeacon of this diverse community – a Christian grade school with a basketballgym.
Aswe step through the large steal doors to the gym, the sound of bouncingbasketballs roars through our bodies, followed by a symphony of squeakingshoes. Yells of “Over here” echo through the room to the constant drum ofrunning feet. These sounds make my heart race. There is nothing finerthan a basketball gymnasium.
Thegym is as old as I am, back to the days Sonoma County was mostly farm country.Its aged caramel colored wood floor, high water-stained wood vaultceiling and steal chairs remind me of when I was a little girl. Longwide lamps suspend from the ceiling by long steel cables, which give the gymthe feeling we have stepped back in time. Before I make it to thesidelines, Brian has removed his sweatshirt and run out on the gym floor.
Brianhas decided to play basketball.
Hisnew coach, the man who holds the top scoring record in Sonoma County, greetshim. He has returned to his roots and is coaching kids "from thewrong side of town". Brian is twisting inhis skin so hard fromexcitement I am sure his basketball pants will drop. I take a seat on oneof those old hard steal chairs that were probably made during World War II,fondly known as "butt-numers".
Thegym smells of aged wood, sweat and lost dreams of long ago. Behind thescoreboard is stored boxes and school supplies. I realize the gym ismade from an old airplane hanger and we are on the grounds of the originalSonoma County Airport. Years ago, I took my first twin engine flight fromthis place.
SinceBrian is the first to arrive (because he can nag you to death to leave for practice)the coach starts working with him on his shots. Brian's dad has arrivedand I am anxious as to how he is going to behave. I already have argued with my x overthe fact that I feel Brian is good at basketball. He is convinced this isnot a sport for Brian. My x was not a basketball player and resents thefact I dated a prominent player back in my pre-Rich college days. Basketball is not our best subject. At least he showed up.
Hesits about 20 feet away and we both watch Brian interact with his coach. A couple of other boys arrive and they recognize Brian from his oldschool. Long shorts, big shoes and sleeveless shirts abound. Theyrun up to Brian and are caught up in greeting each other. The coachruns several basketballs up to their feet to gain their attention. Brianis grinning from ear to ear.
Thecoach starts the boys running around the gym, while they split the court withthe junior high team, who is deep in an intense half-court game. Everyoneis having a good time, as the rest of the players on Brian's team arrive, withtheir parents pulling out a butt-numbing chair to watch practicetoo. Already, I can't feel the back of my legs and I am cold. Thereshould be no question of our love for our kids.
Wheneach new arriving kid recognizes Brian from when he played soccerand wentto school on this side of town, Brian is pulled into conversations,whichresult in the coach rolling many balls to him. The coach is anice guyand clearly sees the bonding of his new team. He sends the boyson morerunning laps to bring their excitement down to a manageablelevel. When it gets really bad, they drop to the floor for tenpush-ups. They are doing quite a few push-ups...
Muchto my x husband’s amazement Brian is making a great many of hisshots. The coach gives him praise and eyes Brian's size. Hehas afootball player on the basketball team. Can anyone saydefense? Myx is drawn in as Brian finds his own sport. He isn't being aback-stage dad. I open my latest book, dawn my glasses and beginto read.
Fora time I am able to put aside my worries and fears and forget aboutevery day life. A large man comes in late with hisdaughter. His sonruns out to Brian's team, and of course he stands and plants himselfright in front of my view. Since he is way bigger than me, andlooks like something from prehistoric, knuckle-dragging times, I pickupmy chair and move over a foot. Then,this man (who's chest is the size of a plasma TV) begins coaching his sonfrom the sidelines. He starts yelling and trowing his arms up...um... this is P R A C T I C E Mr. Cavedweller. Can I justnot get away from this? Is this my sign? Can a redhead not read a book in peace??
Iglance at my x husband who is giving me the "see I am not THAT bad"look, then switches to the "dear God you aren't going to say somethingto him" look. I try to re-focus on my book but this mans yellingis starting to piss me off, so I get up and go to him, gently tap hisarm and say, "Hi I amCatherine, Brian's mom ... so you are a coach here?" My x islooking at me with this "sh** now me and sumo wrestler man are going toget into a fight because I am going to have to save your ass" look, butI feel I am handling this fine. The other parents are grinning atme. He responds, "Uh no ma'am I no coach". "Ohreally?" I continue, "Because I know how much everyone hates it when aparentcoaches from the sides - we do have chairs if you would like one" Ismile and point to the stack of nasty medal chairs. "No, is ok, Idon't need one, thank you" I turn and go back to my seat. He turns around and surveys all the parent sitting quietly behindhim. He takes his daughter, grabs an extra basketball and goes toa far corner to play with her. Problem solved.
Myx looks at me, grins and rolls his eyes. It is just like ourmarriage ... I take care of everything while he watches. Brian ishaving a blast and doesn't even notice he has parents. I canalready tell he likes basketball better than football. Although, the sporthe is really dreaming of is baseball. Well of course he is ... soI can sit near his father for thousands of games outside, in all kindsof weather, for hours and hours and hours and hours on end waiting through 1000000000000000000000 innings. A sort ofpergatory.
I guess I will get a lot of reading done...
Until next time-
C
