the Change I Wish to See

Words never issued by a man before:

I wish I had been an athlete.

And not one of those lame ass contenders, but a champion of a sports league that crowns you “World Champion” when it knows full well there isn’t a single team based outside of the US.*

But I was raised on music.  Sweet, sweet music.

I actually did start on the violin.  Moved to trumpet… then guitar: all irrelevant.**

I wanted to be a baller.  My hero?

My wish never came true.  I had great hands.  But I wasn’t allowed to play football, when I asked in middle school.  My younger brother did get to suit up, when he asked in elementary school.

The best I could do?  A couple years of basketball and baseball with my neighborhood buddy, my PAL: the Bergenfield Police Athletic League.

Didn’t have one in your small town?  Well, then think Little League baseball, but with much less talented children.

This was a huge hit on my pride.  I was awesome.  And everyone knew it.  When it came time for gym, name the sport, I’d kick your ass at it.  Indoor hockey on the basketball court?  ”Hi. My name is ‘Gretzky.’”  Soccer?  ”Me llamo Pelé.”

So being in the P.A.L. was like Michael Jordan being relegated to the D-League.

But I put up with it.  Even when they broke us down according to grades and I got to join the 6th and 7th graders basketball league.

Awesome?

Balls no.

I was in 8th grade.  But since my birthday is in November, I missed the totalitarian age cutoff and had to play with the babies.  I wish I had our team photo.  Remember the “one of these things is not like the other” bit on Sesame Street?  Yep.  It’s funny how much pubertification can occur between 7th and 8th grade, making you noticeably not like your teammates.

Anyway…  Our games would usually be right before the 8th grader games.  Which means what?  Yep: my friends – and girls my age – waiting for the “real men” game to start, while watching me play alongside their younger brothers.  You can’t ask a girl out if her 11 year old brother blocked your shot.***  I don’t care how old she is.

As you can imagine, that does wonders for a boy’s confidence.  It also shattered my nerves.  Every game, each time I took the floor, I was playing for my future high school standing.

One sad day, it was us against the Monstars

I was trying to lead a fast break.  Without the ball.  And so I ended up at the other end of the court, ball-less, trying to draw attention to myself.

me: DAMION!  DAMION! (at the top of freaking lungs)

Everybody stopped.  Why?  Because Damion was standing next to me.  My teammate at the other end of the floor was Aurelio.

Have you ever had a game stopped due to idiocy?  I have.  It was a small league.  The refs were always the same.  They were our neighborhood cops.  They knew us.  They’d been to our classes for D.A.R.E.  They were my brother’s football coaches.  And so even they knew the kid’s name wasn’t “Damion.”  They stopped the game because the widespread confusion I caused meant we didn’t get the ball across half-court in time.  My chunky brain-fart of an outburst caused a backcourt violation.

My playing days were over before they really started.

And this was public failure #17, at the ripe old age of 12.

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*I’m talking to you, MLB and NFL.

**If you give piano lessons, there’s this contact tab at the top of the page…

***Little bastard fouled me.  He got all wrist.