The Roar Of The Crowd

My five inch afro bounced to the pulse of the pep band’s bass drum. I stood at center court and watched our high school’s blue bleachers slowly disappear under 2,000 fans eager to watch a high school basketball game between cross-town rivals. I did my best to appear nonchalant while I stretched - as if my stomach wasn’t the steroided rollercoaster of nerves that it was. 

I watched our band teacher’s cheeks redden as his trumpet belted piercing high notes to a Spencer Davis Group cover.  I stole a few glances at our opponent. They were talented. And cocky. (irony noted) I stared at their fancy warm-ups and thanked God our colors weren’t purple and gold and that our mascot wasn't a lambkin. I grabbed a ball and hoisted a few three pointers before tip-off. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the woman I’d end up marrying five years later walk alongside the court.  My next shot was an air ball. 

I started coming to these games when I was in fourth grade. I marveled at the players - Jeff Brubaker and his crafty drives to the hoop and Matt Clark’s flawless jumpshot. I dreamed about the day I’d get my chance to take the stage. Dream no longer, the time had come. 

Our coach huddled us up one last time, He glanced quickly between the five starters seated on the bench while shouting last minute instructions. Eyes cut with intensity and focus locked with mine and seared confidence into a boy hungry for proving. Years of anticipation and hours of practice poured into the moment. For the next 90 minutes my world was contracted to the orange lit numbers on our gym’s scoreboard. 

I adjusted my gray headband hidden under a mop of hair and bravado and looked around the gym. The bleachers were packed to capacity forcing people to stand three rows deep in the gym’s corners. The referee forgot we were rivals and said he wanted a good clean game. And with that empty phrase, he bounced the ball twice, and tossed the ball in the air.

Game on.

The other starters were four friends I’d played with since fifth grade. Years of experience had taught us a silent language. Casey could sense without seeing Trevor sprinting up court after a rebound and quarterback a one armed throw right to him in stride. Tayler would shoot threes till his heart was content, but the left corner was his favorite spot. Everyone knew I preferred to drive left, even thought I was right handed. Our skills had improved exponentially and we all had grown and gotten stronger since grade school. Even so, we still played the game with the same excitement born nine years earlier on our elementary school playground. 

Years later it still strikes me funny that fans would come to our games, to any sporting event really. What a confounding thing - that others would celebrate you playing a game. And that this play was the subject of giving, or withholding applause. The intersection of childish play and adult performance. 

I’m 33 now and rarely play basketball. I’ll gladly pick up a ball if given the chance, but the sport that was central to my childhood has now faded to the margins. But my pursuit of applause hasn’t moved. Made baskets and literal cheering have been exchanged for productivity and people pleasing. 

David Whyte writes, “Can you have the bravery to let go of your patterns and be open to be nourished in a new way?” 

The roar of the crowd on a Friday night game affirmed the countless hours poured into practice, and it confirmed my hope that I had something to offer. The applause of others was a needed space of nourishment for me. But the pursuit of applause quickly turned into a way to navigate life that I was dependent on, a pattern that filled me but was not deeply sustaining.

What spaces of original nourishment have turned into patterns that need to be released? 

Jesse French
Restoration Project Chief of Next Steps