What it really means to play 'the game'

We entered the Nassau County `B' Classification tournament seeded second out of 16 teams. We boasted a 15-3 overall record heading into the quarterfinal round against the upstart 10th seed. We were confident, and we were looking ahead to a shot at the county championship. We lost that game. But in the end, it wasn't losing that bothered me the most. I missed the chance to put a triumphant end to an otherwise perfect winter season and had effectively ended my interscholastic basketball career forever....

My transition to college life was not nearly as difficult as I thought it would be. I was immediately able to get involved in activities, meet people--all of the issues one worries about during the August before freshman year. The only thing about high school that I reflect on and recognize as an emptiness in my life here at Yale is basketball.

I do not hail from small-town Indiana, where basketball is treated as gospel. I went to a public high school on Long Island that was considerably more concerned about its academic excellence than its athletic reputation. But the basketball team was different. As the school's only successful spectator sport, we routinely played home games in front of large, rowdy crowds eager to support a winner.

My attachment, however, ran deeper. Beyond the fans, the victories, and the accolades--which included being named an All-County player my senior year--I just loved the game. I loved going to practice six days each week and working myself to the point of exhaustion. I loved the feeling of camaraderie that I shared with a group of guys I probably never would have known had I not been on the team. I loved sitting in the coach's office after every game of that final season--the two of us picking apart everything that had gone wrong, even after a 20-point victory.

Basketball was my release. While on the court, the veneer of perfect rationality and order that characterized who I was in class and in other extracurricular pursuits dissolved. The three hours every day that I spent pouring all of my emotions and concentration into the game allowed me an opportunity to completely separate myself from worries about this exam or that activity.

At first, basketball was been just another thing that I did. I wrote for the newspaper, I played in the band, I participated in model congress, and I played basketball. My second year of high school, I was the only sophomore selected for varsity squad. If ever there was a defining moment in my basketball life, it came in my first real varsity game. I replaced our starting center midway through the second quarter of an away game in which we held a slim lead.

Our first offensive possession with me on the court resulted in a quick turnover, and I was faced with the challenge of being the lone defender in a three-on-one fast break. I stood my ground, took an offensive foul from the other team's best (and biggest) player, and was literally knocked 10 feet backwards and off of the court. As our loyal contingent of traveling spectators cheered and my four senior teammates rushed to pull me off the floor to congratulate me, the passion was forever implanted in my heart.

At some unconscious moment, however, I decided that my college life would not be guided by athletics. Though I was recruited by a variety of Division III programs, I applied Early Decision to Yale, and was locked in. Though I had met with coaches Kuchen and Jones while I was looking at the school, I elected not to try out for the Yale squad in the fall. Maybe it's because I was satisfied at the time, and wasn't willing to devote my life to the game. Maybe it's because I was afraid of having someone tell me that I couldn't devote my life to the game even if I wanted to.

I still play ball, of course. I started every game for the JE a-hoops team, and I manage to squeeze in some shooting between DS reading and a myriad of other commitments. There is nothing in my life, though, that can substitute for those months in the gym. I know that this is a common Yale phenomenon. People who were lead actors and actresses in high school find themselves unable to get a part in a play; former student body presidents cannot win a YCC election.

But my case seems different, special to me. This story does more than just incorporate a superficial account of the transition from high school basketball star to intramural athlete. It's about feeling as if I have lost some part of my essence, a part that I can hope to compensate for, but will never replace.

I sat on the bench and cried as the final seconds ticked away in the playoff loss. After shaking hands with our opponents, I put a towel over my head, and sat back down for a full 10 minutes. My teammates and coaches, parents, some of our fans, and even some random strangers came up and patted me on the shoulder, congratulating me on an excellent season. I thanked them as politely as possible, silently suffering through both the loss of the game, and my impending loss of the game.

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