The Walk

a simple story of a first experience.

      In the center of a relatively petite group of girls, stood our captain, Christy. A celebrity in town, she towered over the rest of the team, commanding our attention. Like paparazzi, with the twinkle of our eyes flashing at her, we listened to and took mental notes of each word that came out of her mouth. One simple glance silenced us. One small gesture left us in awe. One encouraging pat from her incited grade school girl squeals. Around our leader, we lost all composure. Her presence was simply overwhelming. With her big, broad shoulders and defined calves, she rarely missed an opportunity to score. And when Christy did, she retained perfect poise and remained calm. Effortlessly, she drifted across the gymnasium and shot the basketball. In her hands, the ball remained under control. Prior to a smooth release into the basket, she palmed the ball similar to my brother�s T-finger technique. The long, slim fingers of her right hand secured the ball while those of her left hand supported its eight pound weight. Her right thumb spread out horizontally, perpendicular to her left thumb which stood upright. She aimed at the basket, and tapped the ball into the air. What skill. I admired our leader for many things�focus, drive, sportsmanship�and her unparalleled confidence never ceased to amaze me. Christy was never nervous.
      My heart skipped. Each beat alternated with violent sighs of frustration. No one paid attention to the pudgy, Asian girl who sat at the end of the bench. I was that girl, relieved to be the designated bench-warmer. Staring at my size-five sneakers, I noticed that the left knot was loose�loose enough to potentially cause me to trip and fall in front of hundreds of unfamiliar faces. I quickly re-knotted the shoelaces. Moving upwards, I adjusted my uniform and smoothed the wrinkles of the shorts that tugged around my thighs. The green and gold St. Sebastian�s jersey fell on my lap. I waited. Desperately, my eyes wandered for something to busy my hands and mind with. I noticed three strands of hair which fell on my pink cheeks and hurriedly tugged my ponytail pulling back my long black hair the best I could, just in case the coach needed me for some reason. And waited, and waited, and waited.
      Warm and toasty, my seat on the bench was almost perfect�close enough for me to listen to the coach, but far enough to avoid contact with the other girls. They rarely made an effort to associate with me, and I lacked the confidence to approach them. Though the team was predominantly fair with blond hair (with several sightings of redheads) and eyes some shades lighter than mine, I had never considered myself different. I felt comfortable.
      That was, until one incident at the water fountain. After a long evening of intensive drills and continuous sprinting, the coach dismissed the team. Aware that my brother and father waited for me downstairs, I raced to the fountain. Not too quick on their feet, the other girls trailed behind. I approached the metal machine in hopes of satisfying my thirst, but to my dismay, several teammates shoved their way in front of me. Others followed. Robbing me of a sip of cold water, the girls knew my passivity and sneered. I missed my turn and walked away in dire need of fluids. Rather than seeking revenge, I took mental notes of the small things that bothered me during practice. Little by little, I searched for evidence that would reveal the team�s collective shortcomings and luckily, I found some. Ill will was disguised by pretentious words and smirks, hidden by fake smiles. Pats on the back were insincere. Believe me, these girls maximized their bragging rights. Funny, how the indifference I felt towards the team slowly transformed into resentment during the past two months. The girls didn�t like me; I wasn�t too fond of them either. We shared one thing in common, and that was basketball.
      Drops of perspiration trickled down along my chubby cheeks. Uncertain of whether to anticipate performing in front of this crowd for the first time or to dread appearing on the court in front of more than one hundred pairs of watchful eyes, I placed my hands between my knees. The warmth alleviated some worries, though instructions raced through my mind at a horrifying speed: Run in the right direction and don�t fall behind. Focus. When I realized that Coach had called my name, my heart leapt. I trod slowly, wincing at the thought of my position on the paint as a substitute guard. My feet, ignoring the initial instinct to run away and hide, inched across the newly polished gymnasium floor. I stared at its reflection. My self-image revealed a small girl, squirming and twisting with every step she took, her cheeks bright with light hues of pink. I tugged at my uniform one last time and bit my lower lip.
      We ran back and forth several times, but neither team scored a basket. Of course, being the overly ridiculous, anxious player that I was, I dashed in the opposite direction�enough times to receive amused grins from those sitting on the bleachers. Short of breath, I brushed the funny faces aside and panted. Instead of chasing a ball I would never be able to touch, I hoped for small miracles. Watching Magic Johnson and the Lakers on cable television would be a blessing. Reading the latest book from the Francine Pascal�s Sweet Valley High series would be pure bliss. Raking leaves on the front lawn would be fun. Perhaps if God had blessed me at that moment, I would have been home eating Mama�s meal.
      Yet here I was, at the St. Sebastian�s gymnasium. No one guarded me, and I was open. I hated making decisions, especially if they affected other people. In most cases, my indecisiveness was cut short by irrational instincts. Though not knowing whether the impulse was good or bad, I flapped my arms wildly to call attention to myself. In center court, a girl who looked quite familiar (maybe because her uniform was identical to mine) spotted me. She bounce-passed the basketball and it soared into my hands. I clasped it. Drowned by the intense beating in my chest, the coach�s orders were muted. Her lips moved, yet her words remained inaudible. The murmuring crowd hushed as a sheet of haze settled in my line of vision. To refocus, I gazed at the wooden planks that tiled the glossy floor.
       Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a pair of pale, lanky legs trampling towards me. The great escape began. I knew that I had to do everything I could to get this ball into the basket, even if that meant making a lay-up, the most fundamental move in the sport, to score my two points. Holding on tightly to the basketball, I pulled the orange, spherical keeper of my fate close to my chest. With ball in hand, I ran towards the basket and stopped, close enough to shoot it against the backboard. I aimed and shot the ball, releasing the burden into the air. What a relief. I exhaled. Everyone inhaled and stared, hundreds of pairs of eyes filled with disbelief.
      Piercing the silence, the referee blew his whistle and motioned his arms as if imitating a rolling tire. �TRAVEL!� he barked. It was my turn to stare with disbelief. I had committed the worst crime known on the courts: I had walked. A proper lay-up consisted of three things: dribbling, running, shooting. The most basic of skills utilized in basketball was dribbling, which I obviously had never practiced enough. The crowd, on its feet, pointed at me. Uproarious laughter erupted. Prepared to protest and deny, I opened my mouth, yet no words came out. Lips pursed and legs weakened, I decided to remain silent, fully absorbing the embarrassment. As nausea surged in my stomach, blood rushed to my face. Flushed, I scanned the crowd, only to find my brother and father laughing too. They were no different from the sea of unfamiliar faces.
       My cheeks burned bright red. My heart ached with shame. My protective shell grew thicker with each second that crawled by. With my back turned against the court [I loved so much], I retreated to my spot on the bench. Oddly, the seat was unwelcoming. I felt foreign. If miracles occurred and prayers were answered, I would have disappeared from that unwanted spotlight, right then and there.
      Though none appeared and no one answered, I still waited.
      I waited for the second half of the game to finish. I waited for my coach and team to slap my back, reassuring me that everyone made mistakes. I waited for brother and father�s hour-long laughter to subside. As we reached the bottom steps leading into the parking lot, I smiled my first smile of the day�a tiny, crooked smile. I knew Mama�s warm meal was waiting for me at home. Then, we walked home.