Thursday, March 25, 2004

There may not be an I in “Team,” but there’s a “me” twisted up in it somewhere…

In honor of houseguests this weekend - the inestimable Tara and the redoubtable Phil - I’m going to share a story of familial bonding, alcohol abuse and physical conflict.

I’ve mentioned PJ and his crew before, but it’s okay if you don’t recall the details.  That’s what I’m here for, after all.  PJ is my sister-in-law Heather’s husband.  By the way, if there’s a better name for that kind of relation than “outlaw,” I’d like to know what it is.  But this is not about relational nomenclature - it’s about competitive sports and being a team player.

PJ is ex-US Army special forces; he likes to hunt with a bow and arrow and he eats what he kills.  He’s tall and lanky and can drink beer all day long and still kick anybody’s ass you’d care to name.  His brother Michael is a firefighter, built like an underware model; the only thing tougher than him is the snowblower that took off his finger (since reattached).  And Murray is a big solid genial fellow, good-natured and funny, and oh yes he’s career defense intelligence out of Langley for the Pentagon.  They’re all nice as you could want them to be but honestly they came from a different world than I did and might even still live there.  It wasn’t that they scared me but I hadn’t known any of them for very long when the events I am about to describe transpired, and I wanted to make a good impression on them, or at least, not to make a bad impression.  Okay, maybe they scared me a little at first. 

Christmas in Wilkes-Barre: cold, but not icy; good drinking weather.  PJ’s crew was around, as were Pat and Phil and me - all of us married into the family.  Cousin Justin was on board too; he hates to miss a party.  Night had fallen in a hail of shotglasses.  We’d been sucking down the Tullamore Dew when suddenly someone decided we’d all play 4-on-4 the next day at the asphalt courts in the park.  Someone decided - it was not me.  That’s not the kind of decision I make.  I don’t play that kind of game.  But suddenly, there were three brawny friendly tough guys, and Heather, talking so much trash that we - including cousin Justin - were baited into accepting the challenge. 

Justin was our not-so-secret weapon - a blackbelt philosopher spidermonkey who could play any sport, climb any wall, beat any scam and befriend any woman he chose.  He evened the playing field, gave me hope that hope existed. Plus we had Pat and Phil, who surely had some sort of basketball skills.  But win or lose, this was shaping up to be about a lot more than basketball for me.  Over the course of the remainder of the evening I convinced myself that my credibility in the family depended on how well I played this game.  Justin was already close friends with PJ, Michael and Murray, and a star in his own right; Pat and Phil had established themselves with athletic careers in school and club play thereafter - not basketball, but sports is sports at a certain level and they’d done their bit for the team in their day.  In contrast, I’d done theater instead of sports, and only exercised physically (when I did at all) in solitude and a non-competitive atmosphere.  And since I lived so far away, I was generally known better by reputation - brainy gourmand - than in person. But at ten the next day I’d have to prove a mettle I wasn’t sure I had.  Basketball.  My nemisis.

Dawn broke clear, despite my prayers and imprecations.  They had two seriously ripped guys, one large solid army intel officer, and Heather - herself, a long-time track and soccer champ.  We had skinny amazing Justin, two earnest and smart weekend warriors, and me.  The game was to 20. Justin got the tipoff and the ball came out to me at the top right corner of the key.  My mates raced to the line, looking for a pass; they were covered.  I wasn’t.  I took the first shot.  It arced cleanly and we were up by 2 - but more importantly, 14 eyes went from that jangling net to my still-extended arm and lithe fingers that caressed ether where they’d once cradled the ball. 

Our opponents’ thoughts could be read in the vapor of their breath in the cold air.  PJ hissed strategic reformulations: Heather was rotated off of me and next I knew Murray was riding my shoulder.  I had earned my place already and the game was barely a minute old.

As we played on Pat and Phil also hit early jumpers, and then we went to our primary strategy - get the rock to Dut and keep his lane clear.  If he could see the basket, he could hit the basket.  But Heather is damn scrappy and all those other boys knew how to establish a defensible perimeter, so the game stayed close and competitive.  Around 10-10 Phil shuffled off to Dut out in left field; cuz began to power over to the launchpad.  Murray was near the left line and scrambled over to stop him.  I placed myself where Dut’s route crossed Murray’s intercept - a simple pick.  My eyes were on Justin but I could feel Murray closing in.  I concentrated my strength into an indentity and let Mur come on.  He had three or four inches on me, packed a lot of muscle and a little extra weight - but he bounced off me like a superball off the back of a substitute teacher’s head, stumbling backwards harmlessly toward the corner as Justin swooped in and made the shot.  As Murray shook off the impact and shrugged to his teammates, it felt as good as if I’d scored the basket myself.

Not long after that I was in the key facing PJ, who had the ball - I was in his face, arms up and out, frustrating his efforts to shoot and to pass.  WIth the ball between his hands he thrust forward at me to scare me off, but instead the ball slammed neatly into my nose, sending my spectacles flying.  I rocked back a little and PJ went into full family mode, solicitous and dismayed, apologizing profusely as he retrieved my specs.  “It’s a game, dude,” I replied.  “Assumption of risk.” We got the ball out of bounds and Dut turned it into another two points shortly thereafter.  The lingering sting in my nose felt good.

Finally, near the end of the game, when it was so close that either team could easily have won, the ball got loose and started rolling toward the center line.  Some guys from the other team began to pursue with tired flatfooted efforts.  I just wanted it more than that and threw myself down toward the ball, scooping it up as I hit the blacktop in a shoulder roll, coming back up on my knees and sending a bounce pass out so we could put the game out of reach. It was a sacrifice of the body for the ball, the self for the team.  It was a demonstration of committment to my teammates, and to our common goal.  It was almost - almost - macho.

We won the game, which truly was incidental to the simple playing of it.  But I scored, blocked out, took physical punishment, made physical sacrifices.  No one had seen me fight for victory before, couldn’t have know how I’d respond to the pressure.  Frankly, I wasn’t sure how I’d respond to it myself.  And afterwards, nothing really changed, but everything felt different.  I had gone from being some guy with glasses who’d married Kel and lived in that distant place with all the weirdos, to being a guy who, when called upon, could perform - not only beyond expectations, but beyond the call of duty.  The respect I sensed was intangible but I could taste it on the cold wind as we walked back to our cars.  I can taste it still.