I miss the dreams I used to have in grade school. I miss driving around in my car listening and singing along to music. I miss living in the world I had created. I miss the stories I would write and never finish. I miss the old music I would listen to over and over again. Sometimes when I get drunk enough, I'll somehow remember an old favorite song. I'll quickly listen to it and remember the exact feelings I felt while listening to it when I was younger. Those memories don't stay though. They come and quickly go.
I miss how great it felt to be alone, to not have to share myself with anyone. I miss running up and down the stairs in my parent's house without feeling pain in my knees. I miss playing basketball alone. I had created a way to love myself in a way that didn't involve anyone else.
Most of all, I miss the innocence. There was no more pure a time for me than when I was innocent. I played basketball by myself today and there was a young asian boy playing basketball on the other side of the court by himself. He was maybe 9 years old or so. I abruptly stopped playing and started to watch him.
His back was facing me and I evaluated his play. It seemed to me that nobody was teaching him how to play, and he wasn't naturally gifted. He was shooting the ball with great form and was trying to keep the ball low on his dribbles. I could tell he was intentionally doing these things. I could tell it wasn't comfortable for him. To me, he just didn't have the look of a boy receiving coaching. I guessed he was copying the basketball form of someone he had seen play. He was trying really hard. I could tell he wanted to get better. I wanted to go over there and show him a thing or two, but I didn't. His mother was watching him intently from the bench. She was so excited whenever he made a shot. She was so happy. She came onto the court and gave him a big hug when he was finished playing. He looked embarrassed when his mom hugged him with that smile of hers. After some obvious irritation, he let his mom hold his hand. Like any kid, I'm sure he would have wanted to avoid the attention in public from his mother. But I saw this smile come onto his face. He let his mom hold his hand and gave her this smile. They walked off the court together with his mom sort of leading him out.
When the boy was walking out of the gym with his mother, I pretended not to look at them. But I was. I was taking shots on one side of the court purposely so I could watch them. After they left, I about emotionally lost it, but you'd never know it. I had already been in the gym for about an hour and a half and was exhausted as hell from playing, but I decided to play extremely hard for the next 10 minutes. I wrapped my headphones tighter around my ears, selected my favorite Paul Keeley song on my phone, and played hard. I preformed quick crossover dribbles followed by quickly released jump shots. Despite the increasing pain in my knees, I decided I would jump higher on all of my shots. My concentration level became extremely high, and a certain desire was fueling my play. I made almost every shot. Something like 23 out of 25 shots. I would run around to the top of the three point line, take the shot, then quickly hustle to the basket to retrieve my made shot. I wanted to get myself as tired as possible and still make everything. I wasn't thinking about basketball at all, I realized. I was trying to prove something to myself. I was thinking about the joy that little boy must have been feeling after showcasing his basketball skill to his mother.
After about 10 minutes had gone by and I was physically exhausted, I paused to think about what I had just done. My shots had been pure. Ridiculously pure. I was shooting the ball with complete ease. After finishing, I noticed the 7 people who had stopped and sat down on the benches to watch me. While looking around, I could feel the looks from the people above me running laps on the track. I then became sad, as I realized what I was trying to do. I was trying to emulate the feelings of that boy and his mother who weren't there. In a way, I was playing as that boy. That boy had given me strength. He had somehow fueled my desire to play harder.
I became angry with myself. What weird feelings I was making up in my head. What did it matter if they were there, anyway? It wouldn't have mattered. I was trying to prove something. "But what am I trying to prove?" I thought to myself in disgust. I pounded the ball onto the hardwood floor in anger and then left. The people watching me must have been so confused.
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