I hate writing something and feeling like there was just a vacuum that sucked out all of the eloquence, coherency, and poignancy I was hoping for, but it is an unfortunate result of writing that we sometimes all encounter. Oh well.. here we go:
Being emotionally flattened is an interesting thing. From what I hear, it is common with people who have gone through long phases of depression.
I’ve talked about being emotionally flattened quite a bit– it was well chronicled in that year long period where I was incapable of tear shed, and though I had numerous events that should have drawn tears, everything was muted. Firstly, as if it weren’t evident enough (especially by my mid-February, 4 am meltdown of tears and vomit in my yard), I emotionally three dimensional again (mostly). The thing that has sparked this current thought line is not the depression I’ve waded through, or the emotional steamrolling I’ve recovered from, but more of a reflection.
I realized, perhaps more fully, just how flattened I had become. My emotions were like paved asphalt, just a highway for a soulless machine to go through the motions.
I am not a particularly lucky person. I have few recollections of winning any type of contests, drawings, raffles, sweepstakes, or anything that could be heavily luck based, but one of them sticks out if I think about it.
Most sporting events run intermission based contests and activities for fans. Belmont was no different. The most famous of which is the half court shot for tuition that takes place at half-time for the men’s and women’s basketball games. It is funny I mention my luck, because a few of my friends and I always made a point to go to as many games over winter break as possible, because the attendance is thin while everyone is home for the holidays, and it is favorable to get drawn for the tuition shot. In all those times, and the other games I went to, I never got my number called for anything, not even the small contests, of course, until that changed (so dramatic, I know).
It was 3 basketball seasons ago already, the biggest game we play every year– The Battle of the Boulevard. I showed up late, near the end of the first half. I went alone. I was still dating Kara at the time, and I don’t remember if she didn’t want to go, couldn’t go because she wasn’t feeling well, or if I just kind of snuck off and went by myself to get some time away from everything (I fear it was likely the last possibility), but alone I went– just an invisible observer of the game. I have trouble being an audible fan if I’m alone, or not in the right crowd. It is easy for me to slip into my ‘lover of the game’ mode and just try to process everything, almost objectively, rather than just a passionate fan. Regardless, I took a ticket for the contest drawing, they insist upon it when you enter for a big game like the Belmont – Lipscomb game.
I have a number of quirky paranoias. One of which revolves around public restrooms. I have to give the signs multiple passes. When I was in 9th grade, I didn’t pay attention, and, as insignificant as the event was, I entered the wrong restroom at a basketball tournament, got laughed at by two cheerleaders, and credit it as the most embarrassed I’ve ever felt (I’ve since matched it with a similar scenario). Ever since then, when I approach a bathroom, I check the sign, then with each step, I wash over what I just saw with a layer of skeptical disbelief.
“That said men? It couldn’t have said men. Check again. No dress? Are you sure? You should learn to read the braille.”
I continue this cycle until I enter the restroom and immediately check for urinals, and it is only then, that I really feel that I saw what I saw.
Take that concept, and apply it to having my number called on my ticket. The half was about to end, and suddenly I found myself reading a random group of digits instead of watching the game, until I mustered up enough confidence, certainty, and faith in my ability to be lucky at least once in a lifetime to actually go up to the table they hand out the tickets and proclaim that I am the chosen one.
For most people, it isn’t every day that you find yourself the focal point of a few thousand people. For some people, it is as terrifying a meeting death in a dark alley, while for others, it is as invigorating as jumping out of an aircraft and free falling at terminal velocity. It was really neither to me, but it should have been. I just remember seeing a person or two I know yelling out my name, a ball, an event coordinator and two baskets. The rest was shade.
The object of the contest was that I had to make 4 shots. I had to start on one end of the court, dribble the ball to the other end and bank it in (lay-up). I had to do this for my first 3 shots, coast-to-coast, and on the final shot, I had to shoot a 3 pointer and bank that in. If I did this successfully, I’d win $500. Big crowds are foreign to me, but I rarely mind talking in front of audiences, so I wouldn’t expect it to really intimidate me, and I knew that making the 3 layups was going to be a cakewalk. Essentially, I had good odds at getting a shot to win $500. I should have been wired. I wasn’t.
Getting back to the actual event– I infused a bit of drama into the whole affair. The clock started and they sent me off. I will admit, I had plenty of adrenaline fueling me at that point. Adrenaline works wonders for your legs. I was jumping well, so I took off from pretty far out and glided into my first lay-up. I was feeling cocky at this point, but I was excited to be interacting with a basketball with people actually watching.
Adrenaline works wonders for your legs. I might have,very literally, been flying. I was running too fast. I am a fast guy, but I am not always used to using all of my speed. I got to half court on the way to my 3rd layup. PLUNK! That may not have been the sound, but that was the feel of my shoe meeting ball, and kicking it 20 feet in front of me. I chased that thing down like a greased pig at a hoedown. I remember feeling a collective gasp from an arena full of people as it looked like I had horribly self-destructed. To them, I’m sure it was like watching one of those acts on auditions for Idol or America’s Got Talent that bombs. You can’t bear to watch, but you don’t want to look away.
Adrenaline works wonders for your legs. There I was, hunched over awkwardly, like some poorly designed, malfunctioning robot. My arms outstretched, reaching toward the ground for the ball, stick-like body at a 90 degree bend, while my legs propelled like I were the road runner, all the while, this ball skids beyond my reach like I were the guy who was always the butt of every joke. The ball passed the out of bounds point, and subsequently the goal, with myself in tow. I finally lassoed the darn thing with my hands, back tracked, then, if I remember correctly, missed an awkwardly attempted reverse lay-up, rebounded it, and got up to the rim to make sure I got it in. Things looked grim for me.
I must have had about 6-7 seconds left at that point, maybe less by the time I got headed toward my final shot attempt, but wait a second, I am a terrific athlete and basketball player. I wasn’t worried about getting that shot attempt off. I became the dark horse. I sped back into the mix of things, crossed half-court to the infamous sound of, “Threeeeee, twooo…,”
And right as my time of being lucky expired on me, I lifted a runner into the air. Let me note, it is actually a shot I usually am known for, and being a guard, it is important to have in your arsenal. Left leg like a pole vault, right knee rising into a perpendicular state beneath the right arm, bent, then extending at the peak of the jump and release. Really, it is a hard shot to not at least have on line. The buzzer sounded– SWISH
The crowd ignited into cheers– first we are playing our rivals, next, we get a buzzer beater contest, everyone thinks I just won $500 bucks. I didn’t bank it though, I knew this, but in retrospect, it is still flipping awesome. It should simply be impossible to not be excited, elated, caught in the moment somehow from that. How many chances do you get to hit a buzzer beater in front of a large crowd and do it– even if it doesn’t win you money?
I felt… almost… nothing. To this day, I can see and hear a lot of large bits, but it doesn’t arouse my emotions in any way. There is no nostalgia. There is just a memory that only makes me smile off of mere logic.
For the record,we lost the game, which I’m still bitter about, but they were all so excited about the shot that they still gave me $100, yet I just can’t get over thinking about it; the perspective. I can’t believe how emotionally flattened I was. Some things just ain’t right. This is one of them. What a travesty.
May I never be so paved again.
May I, at some point, be so lucky again. I’d much like to feel enjoyment from it this time around.
So say we all.