One Friday night in July, I walked out of the tunnel and onto the floor of Madison
Square Garden moments before the New York Liberty basketball team did the same.
I was aware of the lights behind me flipping on to illuminate the way for the players
and the television cameras. I saw the electrical wires criss-crossing down the tunnel
and underneath the hardwood floor. Only steps ahead of the team, I watched the fans
look beyond me to the players they paid to see. There was fanfare. There was noise,
but it was not for me and it never will be. I am like a ghost forever hovering at
the edges of the tunnel, riding the shadows of the players, trying to grasp the
ball as it slips just out of reach of my fingertips.
Over 99 percent of all basketball players never have the opportunity to play professionally,
and I am one of the majority. Nevertheless, since my father bought me my first basketball
at the age of six, I dreamed of being a superstar. Twenty-eight years later, not
much has changed. Some nights when sleep eludes me, I hear the sold out arena chant
my name, “Bak-er, Bak-er.” As a prayer, as a wish, the voices collectively urge
me toward that sacred place of glory I still vividly envision.
Sadly, the reality is that a sold out arena will never chant my name. An Olympic
gold medal will never be gently placed over my bowed head. Not every one of us is
chosen for that kind of glory, but between the lines are thousands of quiet superstars.
We play because we want to. We work against the odds of height or build or natural
ability because we want to better ourselves, because we have a profound love of
a game. We have, each one of us, those moments to treasure after practice in the
empty gym. Those hours after dark in the playgrounds and backyards across America
are ours and ours alone.
I might never be a professional basketball player, but the court will forever be
my home. Basketball is in my blood. It’s in my heart. When I play the game, I am
at my happiest and most confident. I play because I love the sound of a leather
ball slipping elusively through a chain net. I love the crack marks in a blacktop
court where the weeds poke through. I love the sound sneakers make on a shiny indoor
court. I love the competition and the camaraderie. That’s why I play. Why do you?