Killing the Athlete

I’m going to share a story.

It’s a true story...something I (and a few principal others) experienced some half-dozen years ago. The memory still haunts.

I was running on the indoor track at my community center sometime some early evening. The track is elevated, circumscribing the perimeter of the two full-size basketball courts below. Twelve laps to a mile. Today was “tryouts” for the public league teams. The aspirants faced a simple drill: dribble the length of the court and execute a lay-up. Retrieve the ball and dribble back to the other basket, stopping at the free-throw line to launch a two-pointer.

I wasn’t paying all that much attention to the goings-on. I tend to lose myself in my own breathing. Still, there were the excited cheers and shrieks of happy youth, proud parents and sundry friends to beguile me. Every now and then I’d cast an eye onto the court to follow some paddled-footed, grinning gnome as he did his best despite his youthful incompetence. I’d smile. Who wouldn’t? As my run progressed and the evening wore on, the tryouts continued for the older youth. I saw flashes of talent, dexterity and self-confidence. Yes. Testosterone is powerful stuff.

As I shuffled along my way, I spied a handsome youth at the start line. He was tall and black-haired. Features chiseled and deep-set. Dark eyes burning. He took the ball with a decided nonchalance.
A voice bellowed out: “Show ‘em how it’s done!” That bellow caught my attention. The youth burst into a masterful foray down the length of the court. You could see he was well-coached. You could see that he had practiced...and practiced...and practiced. I was impressed by his talent, humbled in the presence of his athletic grace. But, then, he missed the lay-up! A rookie mistake. His father’s voice careened in anger from every mortified reflective surface in the building:

“YOU IDIOT! YOU FUCKIN’ IDIOT!”

A rage burst forth inside me. An unfamiliar emotion. I stopped in my tracks. Do I rush downstairs to find the slanderer and slap him seven-ways to Sunday!?! I wanted to do EXACTLY that.

As I stood there, I saw the youth retrieve the ill-fated ball and begin a desultory journey to the opposite basket. There was no fire. No flair. Neither excellence nor elegance. He stopped well short of the free-throw line. He sauntered to the painted stripe and casually let loose a dismissive shot, a dispirited shot, an “air-ball” that reeked of surrender and hopelessness. His father bellowed additional pejoratives. I can’t remember his words.

All I remember is their cruelty...and my rage.

My rage had gone full boil. In an interval of mere seconds, I witnessed salted calumny heaped upon a tender soul. I saw a heart broken.
I saw talent surrender to shame beneath the crushing weight of a father’s diatribes.

I leaned over the upper deck railing and screamed:

(well...there’s no point in repeatin’ it ‘cause rage is ugly and I had fallen into a murderous rage).

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Gratuitous Non-Sequitur:

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