Basketball? Who knew?

I started playing basketball completely by accident.

I remember arriving at freshman registration for high school full of enthusiasm and certainty. I felt confident academically, comfortable in my body, and excited that my friends and I would finally all be together. I had a plan.

I just needed my mother to sign whatever parents sign to make high school official.

Then we happened to meet a staff member who recruited students for certain sports.

A brief conversation occurred.  Before I fully realized what occurred, I was signed up for basketball!

My mother was enthusiastic.

The staff member was excited.

I was devastated.

Despite my height, I had never played competitively. Many of my friends had been playing for years. I fancied myself a future track star, thank you very much—aside from a brief softball phase (inspired by the 1992 film,  A League of Their Own). I was preparing myself for the 400-meter race and as many relays as they'd let me run.

Basketball was absolutely not part of the plan.

And yet, somehow…it became the one sport that I played all four years.

I loved my teammates.  I would meet some wonderful, thoughtful coaches over the years (one who inspired my love for Psychology).  I would sharpen skills I didn’t knew existed and would condition my body in ways that felt empowering and supportive.

I was never a particularly strong shooter—starting freshman year probably didn't help—but I discovered a rhythm defensively.

And then there was something else I loved.

Basketball gave me one of the only places in my life where I could be physically aggressive and have it be completely acceptable.

More than acceptable.

Celebrated.

Setting picks. Taking hard fouls. Intimidating an opponent just a little.

Glorious.

Years later, I found myself back at my undergraduate college, taking my daughter to a basketball doubleheader.

I intended to sit quietly and enjoy the game.

That lasted approximately no time at all.

Soon I was cheering loudly, completely absorbed, celebrating beautiful moments of athleticism.

And somewhere in all that excitement, I had a thought I'd never considered when I was the young athlete on the court.

Playing sports requires tremendous courage.

We talk about skill, conditioning, discipline, repetition and muscle memory. But athletic performance asks for something else, too.

Trust.

Trusting your body to do what you've trained it to do.

Trusting yourself after a mistake.

Trusting the next movement before you know its outcome.

And often, doing all of it while people are watching.

That last part stayed with me.

I started wondering what athletic performance might feel like for the introverted or highly sensitive soul—or simply for anyone who becomes deeply aware of being observed.

As a young athlete, the presence of a crowd could become mental noise for me. Part of my attention was playing the game. Another part knew I was being watched.

Looking back, I wonder how much energy I spent trying to perform correctly rather than simply allowing myself to play.

And suddenly I knew what I would tell that younger version of myself if I could sit beside her before a game.

Have fun.

Be free.

Make mistakes.

It's okay if it isn't perfect.

Trust your body.

Let the noise become noise.

And play.

Because this won't last forever.

There will come a day when you sit in the stands instead of running onto the court. You'll watch another generation of young athletes take risks, miss shots, recover, trust their bodies and try again.

And you'll realize that perhaps the precious thing wasn't getting everything right.

It was getting to play at all.

A Gentle Offering

May we loosen our awareness of the imagined audience and return our attention to the life happening beneath our feet. May we trust what we have practiced, allow ourselves the freedom to make mistakes, and remember—while we still have the chance—to play.