Dreams

My first day of high school, grade eight, I wore DC skate shoes, skinny jeans and a pullover hoodie that said “Trying, but not trying too hard.” It was all about fitting in, but not so much that no one notices you. The right balance is hard to find. For me, I knew exactly what that balance was going to be. It involved a ball, a hoop and some popular athletic teammates that could draw me into their social circle. Being a part of the basketball team would mean being a part of something between the walls of the giant school. It would mean acceptance and inclusion: everything I wished to have in this new school. Basketball would quench my social thirst for approval but it was more than just a gateway to popularity. I really did love the sport. Playing since grade four, where I wore blue leggings and a sparkly pink t-shirt to my first practice, I considered myself an elite player. I could do a layup with my right or left hand and dribble without looking at the ball; I had this in the bag (or hoop.) Although this high school had six times as many students as my elementary school, I new I could achieve my one athletic/social goal. They always said it’s hard work that gets you there; and determination runs in my veins.

November 29^th was the day of the tryouts. Despite my confidence, nerves shook my body, all day as I went to my classes and then walked down to the gym after school. In the change room, I stripped my school clothes and slid on a baggy t-shirt as well as my Nike basketball shorts. I laced up my fresh-out-the-box basketball shoes and tied the laces tight as if my hope itself were being strung together by that string. I could feel the pressure building as I walked into the gym and saw 50 other prospective grade 8 girl basketball players. My confidence shrunk like a deflated balloon. My legs wobbled and my skin tingled. My entire beginning of high school life balanced in this moment. I picked up a ball to warm up. My fingers traced the black lines circling the ball. Imagined the orange globe floating from my fingertips, arching through the air before swishing cleanly through the tattered net. I imagined scoring the winning free throws in our first game and my newly befriended teammates cheering and talking about it at lunch the next day. My mind returned to the tryouts and the nerves evaporated. I was ready to play my heart out.

In the group warm up I looked around. I knew I wasn’t as athletic as a lot of the other girls, but that’s where my skills would have to shine through. We started with sprints and shuffles and that’s where it dawned upon me that I wasn’t just “not one of the fastest” but I was one of the slowest. My legs burned like lava was being pumped through them instead of blood. I pushed myself to my absolute limits, but there was an invisible wall holding me back. Everyone else was faster. Everyone else was better. When the fitness portion finally came to an end, I approached my water bottle in the way a beached whale would return to the sea. The coaches were making marks on their clipboards and I told myself that I had to step it up. Even in its numb, exhausted state, my body would have to break free of its limitations and prove that I was deserving of a position on the team. We returned and the coaches evaluated shooting, dribbling passing: all the things I excelled in. The ball was a part of me; as familiar as an arm or leg, it felt right. The grooves in the ball fit to the bones in my hand and each shot I released fell like it was flying. It was my time to shine. I could feel myself glowing by the time the two hours was up. All there was left to do was wait. The list would be up the next morning. 

I had a case of nervous insomnia that night but by the time I was falling asleep I was dreaming of jump shots and jersey numbers.

When I got to school the next morning, I walked a straight path right to the P.E. hallway where the list was posted. I felt fire again, but this time it was a hopeful, excited burn. It felt good. I could see the games, the practices, the recognition, the inclusion. I approached the list; my heart pulsing in my chest, making the ground shake and the walls tremble. I scanned the list once… twice… three times. I stood and stared until my gaze bore a hole into the wall. I didn’t make the team. The world suddenly became too big and all at once, I shrunk into oblivion. A weight grew upon me and I dissolved along with my confidence and my chance of acceptance and importance. This was the end of basketball and the end of my social promise. I sat alone that day and learned that rejection is something that is faced alone.