Finding Purpose In Basketball – Part 1

Why are we here? What is our purpose on this Earth? Today’s culture begs us to try to find fulfillment in the things of this world, but as I alluded to in last week’s blog, no matter how successful people are, no worldly pleasure ever seems like enough. For me, my “thing” was sports – it became my identity and it is my reason for existence. Needless to say, this mindset led to a hard, fast downfall. In this post, I am going to cover a little bit of how my 8th grade basketball season went and the effect that putting my identity into the sport made me an anxious wreck.

It’s pitch black, 35 degrees and pouring. Any sane person would be inside, avoiding hypothermia and pneumonia. Unfortunately, on this day as well as the previous 3 months, I am not inside. I am outside with a flashlight, shooting a waterlogged basketball. 

8th grade. Yuck. I hate remembering my middle school years. All the cliques, the hormones, and the lack of self confidence – all while trying to figure out where I fit in in the world. Contributing to my insecurity was my extreme discomfort with with my body (I was really tall at a really young age, hitting my current height, 6’3, by freshman year and already being 5’11 by the end of sixth grade, always outweighing my peers by a good 30 pounds) making me extremely uneasy. All of this self consciousness culminated to an extreme desire to be liked and to fit in. I wanted to be cool, and I needed to have something to prove that I was a worthwhile person. That something ended up being basketball.

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As the ball bounces over the fence and into the other yard, I badly want to go inside and chill out. I want to get my homework done and watch a show. But I know I can’t. My brain simply won’t let me. As the February rain continues to pour, I rationally know I am not going to gain anything from making another shot, but I can’t let it go. I NEED to see the ball go into that net again. 

I wanted people to know that I was a starter on the basketball “A” team, that I was one of the leading scorers, that I was good. This attitude that I played for adoration, to fit in, slowly but surely squeezed the remaining childhood joy I had out of the game I once loved. It began to affect the way I played the game too. The 8th grade basketball year had almost come to a close, but during the season, it had become glaringly obvious I was not willing to take shots consistently. I was so caught up in impressing the high school coaches and evaluating and re-evaluating my form to make sure it looked good that I was extremely tight and rigid at practice and during games. I couldn’t just go out on the court and be me; the more I pushed towards perfection, the more confidence I lost in my ability. I focused so hard that I couldn’t make shots I had been making since I was 5. I couldn’t even warm up the way I wanted to during open shootarounds because I was scared what other teammates would think if I missed too many times. So, instead, I began passing the ball. I wanted to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

5 free throws in a row, then a miss. I have to do it all over again. It has to be perfect. 10 in a row, then another miss. Still not good enough. I never knew when my mind would be satisfied enough with my performance that I would be able to go in. I wanted so badly to be perfect because every missed shot was an affront to who I was as a person.

I remember one practice in particular where my coach made me shoot from half court when we were scrimmaging the 7th grade team while the varsity team looked on. Because he threatened to pull me out of the game if I didn’t, I reluctantly shot it and, somehow, it went in. I should have been elated, but after a moment of relief and pride, I felt hollow inside. I didn’t want to be viewed as that kind of selfish player or have the spotlight on me. One time wasn’t enough either. “Again” my coach yelled at me, channeling his inner Herb Brooks (for any of you that ever watched Miracle). This time I missed.  He wanted so badly to help me get over my fear of shooting, that he pushed me to do things I was uncomfortable with. Although this strategy may have helped some kids, it did the opposite for me. This was the turning point: Being forced to do something on the court took all of the fun out of basketball. I dealt with my performance anxiety because of the joy that basketball gave me. Now that joy was completely and totally  gone.

I  lie awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about my performance at practice that afternoon, and dreading having to go to the next day. I am barely surviving.

Check back next week as I pick up with my basketball story and how making my purpose in the sport turned out.