When I played Basketball

When I was 13, my father got deployed to Korea. Usually that is a lone assignment for a U.S. Army soldier, but because of his rank, we all got to go. It was a land of many strange sights, sounds and smells that we’ll experience together somewhere else. This story is about something another topic: It is the story of how I learned to hate basketball.

I have two brothers. I’m the oldest and still the tallest, but not the most coordinated. They were always better than me in basketball. We spent endless hours playing in the courts at the apartment house down the street. That was back when we lived in Aurora, Colorado, and were occupying a lot of our time with committing small time misdemenors. Reasoning it out, it may have been my parents who strongly encouraged our basketball playing. Maybe in an attempt to keep us out of trouble.

I was never very co-ordinated or fast, but I was tall. That got me chosen in the pick up games. I could shoot a decent three-pointer, but I really belonged posted up near the basket on defense, blocking the sun.

My brothers were fast and co-ordinated and good. They weren’t short, they were just eleven. They were also something I never have been. Competitive. I liked to play, but I didn’t care who won or lost. Or who was better at basketball.

We landed in Taegu, Korea and as a thirteen year-old there was a lot of trouble for me to get into. I had my first beer at a Korean club. The people I was running with had some kind of ties to the Korean Mafia, or at least their parents did. They were the progeny of American Soldiers and Korean Citizens. I guess I was in with a rough crowd. It got so bad my father wouldn’t let me out of the house.

I was not interested in trying out for the basketball team. Baseball was my sport anyway. I was more cerebral and less athletic. My brothers were trying out for the team my father told me I should try out too. I told him I didn’t want to.

So there we were at the tryouts, in the locker room putting up our stuff. They separated us right away into height groups. My group was very small. Koreans are not known for their height. My brothers were in the group with all the other shorties and I snickered at them. I felt special to be in the exclusive tall group. My brothers looked dejected.

The name of our school was Taegu American School. I made friends so easily there. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. It was as if they said, “Hey, we know you’re a weirdo. We understand. We are too.” I had never lived on the Army base before. I didn’t even know I was an Army brat.

The basketball team was not like that. The candidates and the coaches were all out for blood. It was very militaristic, and I was not ready for that.  We probably did about 10,000 push-ups each practice. I remember running down the court on my rubbery duck-walked-to-death legs and then someone passed the ball to me. It was coming straight at my head. I tried to raise my arms but they had become lead weights. I almost got my hands up to my shoulders when the basketball struck me right in the eye.

It knocked my contact out and gave me a shiner.  I couldn’t move my arms. I was not allowed to sit out the rest of the practice. Even in my impaired state, they made me play. My contact was stuck in the northwestern corner of my eye. My whole body was immovable jelly. And I didn’t even know what they were talking about with their positions and drills .

My brothers, on the other hand, were wiz kids. They often looked as though they had been born with a basketball in their hands. Their excellence was fueled by their hatred for eachother, born out of Leonine sibling rivalry. They were gooooood. And full of the perfect, hot blooded jealous rage. I just wanted to get out of there and find some real trouble. When that first practice was over, I celebrated. It was the happiest moment of my life. I just knew I was never going back there again.

When we got home, my brothers were exited and fighting with each other about who was better and who would make the team. My father enjoyed seeing their competitiveness and sporting spirit. It was the stuff dreams are made of. As for me, I was pitiful. I told him I couldn’t go back.

“They’re trying to kill me, Dad! I can’t even move my arms.”

He laughed with deep satisfaction.

He assured me I would be going back. And I would probably make the team. I went back, as did my brothers. The tryouts were over a three day period. It never got any better for me. I was gangly. I tripped over my own feet. I was uncoordinated and lazy. My brothers were sleek and fast and ON THEIR GAME. Here’s a twist for you: after a three day tryout, I made the team. 

My brothers didn’t. I think they cried. I did too. I have always wondered how it happened.

As I write this, I believe Command Sergeant Major Crawford, my father, called the school and talked to just the right person who could make it happen. The Joshua problem was solved. I travelled with the team on a bus to Seoul and other places. I even played a little bit. It was miserable. When the season was over, I was grounded again. You wouldn’t have pegged me for a basketball player huh?