Despite the fact that I grew up in a basketball state and attended a basketball university, I don’t really speak basketball. I admit this. I don’t play it either. My strongest shot (if ever I was to play) was in a game of H-O-R-S-E on the Ilderton’s driveway court. Facing away from the net, using both palms, feet planted sturdily, with every ounce of my core, I’d launch that ball full force. Backwards. Arching, arching. Swoosh. It was my signature move.
But basketball and I have never really played nicely otherwise.
Day one of 7th-grade tryouts found me running some kind of pivot drill with Coach Bill Stewart. He was giving us commands to move about the court in four different directions based on his whistle and hand motions alone. I followed left. Then right. Then as he motioned “forward”, my directionally-challenged brain read “backward” and my awkward little body collided directly with his torso while my friends giggled behind me.
That was my first and last day of basketball practice.
But Coach Stewart and I would face off again. Yes, he and his shiny toupee roamed the halls of Westestcher Academy as Assistant Headmaster. History Teacher. Husband to Geometry Sharon. Dad to Lower Schooler Christopher. Nemesis to sister Stephanie (more on that later). But he and I sat on different benches — no reason for direct contact. I was a mere Middle Schooler. He was in the big league of Upper School.
Until that day in an unattended study hall.
I fouled.
We were in Mr. Craver’s classroom with its four large black top science lab tables with their built-in gas assemblies. We had no teacher. And we behaved thusly. Or at least I did. Jane must have had a test later that day and diligently excused herself from the quiet chaos to a back table. She positioned herself next to Buzz Harris.
No one sat next to Buzz Harris. Not intentionally. Buzz was a kid from my neighborhood. He was official class nerd. Not by choice. He just was. His pale yellow Izod shirts were buttoned up to his neck and tucked pristinely into his belted khakis. His hair was parted perfectly to one side, and he practically carried a briefcase to school. He was likely as clumsy as I on the basketball court, and when we sang, “Up in the AIR, Junior Birdman….” hand motioning the upside-down aviator goggles, it was Buzz we meant.
It was classic 1978 bullying. It was terrible. I think about Buzz often and wonder where he is. I hope he is happy and successful. Mostly I hope he is healthy. And forgiving.
Jane couldn’t have cared less about her table mate. She knew she would be left alone to focus if she sat there. I found it so adolescently and obnoxiously funny that I felt the need to call attention to it and make fun of it. On the equally unattended chalkboard.
(Mind you, I did not affect the semi-perfect circle that Mr. Craver had drawn on the board the year before. That was sacred territory. Out of bounds.)
No, I picked an unoccupied spot to draw my foul:
Jane
+
Buzz
=
F***ing Love.
Clever, Court. Really impressive. Hilarious.
Thought no one.
Then, Dummy, why don’t you leave said unattended study hall and go about your day without erasing said board?
Yep.
He found me an hour later on that same basketball court. This time in P.E. Mr. Stewart and I walked together to his little makeshift wood-paneled office near the girls’ bathroom. Where I found my mom.
Technical foul, defined.
Cute little Wood girl. Youngest of three. Two smart, pretty, popular, obedient, athletic, older sisters. Single mom. And this is how I make my mark?
I can hear her words as crystal clear today as I did that day:
“I am embarrassed to be your mother.”
…the pain and anger evident as her voice cracked on the somber and uncomfortable full-court press drive home.
I don’t recall what my school punishment was. And I don’t think I even sat on the bench at home for that long. My mom had a lot on her plate. The last thing she needed was her little juvenile delinquent teammate to keep dibs on.
That one stupid little move has lingered in my what-not-to-do playbook for decades. Sure, we’ve giggled at it. I still do. I know it came from stupidity and innocence, not malice. But I wrote it.
And she said it. “Embarrassed.”
Wouldn’t it be championship material if I could say that my mom’s words that day changed my entire life? That I cleaned up my act and have never dropped an F-bomb ever again?
You know me better.
“Intelligent people shouldn’t need to cuss,” my colleague recently said. And I don’t disagree, but my simpleton gutter mouth finds great pleasure in the added impact. It is not my goal to offend anyone…but there’s an alley-oop, slam-dunk, nothing-but-net sort of feeling when you deliver a good punch line, yelp in anger, laugh til you cry with college buds, or let down your guard with a colorful expletive.
Hell to the yeah! Ya damn straight!
To Buzz and Jane, whom I thankfully believe remain quasi-unaware of all the drama I caused that day, I am sorry. Mr. Stewart, you were only doing your job. (Steph, I owe ya one for your 1981 graduation payback.)
Mom, your words — and mine — really brought down the house that day. I’m not sure we ever really settled the score, but you taught me a lesson that I think of so often. Words matter. They can wield more power than the most dangerous weapon. Take care when you deliver them. Erase them before they hurt. Apologize when necessary.
And laugh your ass off out loud often.
Thank you for the smile! Our parents' generation got a lot of mileage out of the word "disappointed!"
I f%$ing love you.