In my nearly 21 years on this earth, sports have been my life. To get even more particular, basketball has been my life.
Over the years, my love for the sport has grown, but yesterday may have provided me with my greatest experience with the game.
I made my way down to Allen Fieldhouse yesterday in the late afternoon with the original intent of interviewing some of the women’s basketball players about their upcoming game against Iowa State. Unfortunately, practice ended a little earlier than expected, and I made the trip for what I thought was nothing.
With the Fieldhouse practically empty, I joined a couple of the guys from media relations to go shoot some hoops. After about 10 minutes, the other guys left to either go home or back to their offices, leaving me on my own with one ball, two baskets and the ghosts of basketball greatness.
To understand where I’m coming from, you have to understand me a little bit.
I grew up as a lifelong Michigan fan. When coming to Kansas, I never appreciated the tradition of Kansas basketball, and my status as a fan had all but dwindled to being a critic. My experience as a journalist and the rumors afloat over the past three years about those in the Kansas basketball program had changed my outlook on sports from being a spectator to a critical snob. Basically, I had been involuntarily stripped of my innocence as a fan.
Kansas basketball, until yesterday, had never really meant much to me other than going to watch the Jayhawks play from the student section or covering games and not being allowed to be a fan.
When I was left to myself in the house that Phog Allen built, I grabbed the ball at center court and just looked around. It was like the first time I saw Soldier Field or Wrigley Field with my dad. It makes you feel so insignificant in the world, but as though you are in the presence of greatness.
As I began to shoot, all of the reasons why I used to love basketball came rushing back to me. As I dribbled the ball through my legs and started to hit some shots, I was suddenly back to being an 11-year-old kid on the driveway pretending to be Michigan legend Jalen Rose. I could see in front of me my old best friend, Adam Goldkind, who would always beat me at one-on-one.
I hit 3-pointers from the same spots where Paul Pierce did. I brought the ball up across the same half-court line as Jacque Vaughn. I hit hook shots in the same places on the floor as Wilt Chamberlain had.
It was my 45 minutes in heaven.
There will be many high points of my life. Eventually I will be married and settle down with my family in a nice suburban home, hopefully with a job that doesn’t make me dread heading to work everyday. No matter what joys lie in my future, nothing will bring the sensation as seeing one of my long jump shots hit nothing but the bottom of the net at Allen Fieldhouse.
Before I knew it, I could feel perspiration going through to my collared shirt. I looked at the clock and saw that my deadline at the Kansan was nearing, but none of that mattered.
More than anything, yesterday afternoon taught me that there is no reason not to be a fan while I still have the opportunity.
At 5 p.m., I realized that I did not want to sour the experience, so I told myself that hitting one more shot would satisfy me.
I pulled up from the wing, just as I had seen Jeff Boschee do hundreds of times, and hit the perfect 3-pointer. Grabbing the ball, I looked up at the banners and scoreboard, then down at the legendary floor and realized that this is what life is all about.
For 45 minutes, I forgot about my busy life. For 45 minutes, I truly had a first-hand experience of the authenticity of Kansas basketball. But most importantly, for 45 minutes, I saw life and what is truly important to me in its purest form.
