Adulthood: Live Courtside

Stocky build

unbraided, dirty blonde pony-tail

that in its sway makes explicit

the equestrian metaphor.

Purple uniform.

White shoes.

No make-up; just grit.

She makes her way

up and down the court

hustling like her life depends on it.

A constant look of worry upon her face

reflects the internal determination and

excellence she demands.

I watch from the bleachers,

and tears begin streaming down my face

in an arena full of strangers.

In her mistakes and

moments of athletic brilliance

a recognition of my own adolescence

begins to creep in and haunts this otherwise

ordinary recreational event on a Friday night

in a town where people have nothing better to do

than watch high school basketball games.

She misses a shot; I wince and say a

prayer that it won't matter next time

she has an open look.

She sprints the court full length and

makes a block so precise even fans for

the other team cannot help but

applaud her crafty defense;

I stand on my feet and scream her name so loud

you'd think she saved the earth from crashing.

This is the passion of self-referential projection.

From the first moment I saw her

an innocent, pure and protective spirit

began to whisper eternal truths

held in and seen through

the same stories and struggles in

different bodies of different generations.

So I cry in an arena full of strangers

for the adolescence I cannot repeat,

for the soccer player who is locked back there,

the daughter who felt trapped,

the budding sexuality that couldn't find itself reflected anywhere.

I cry in an arena full of strangers

and whisper truths to that stocky pony tail

working its ass off down there on the court

who cannot hear me but is drawn to me

for reasons I am just beginning to understand.

I cheer for the life that is starting to recognize itself

in a game that is rigged and ridiculously open-ended at the same time.

I cheer for the female body that is only allowed to have this

kind of loving and aggressive contact with other female bodies

when its contained by the "appropriateness" of competition.

I cheer for the soul inside that doesn't allow missed shots or

an eleven point deficit to censor its vitality.

And in the midst of it all, this (almost) thirty year old

gets a sense of what adulthood is about.

Adulthood is knowing even though it seems
like that's your body, heart and soul 
down there fighting for its life,
it's not. It's someone else who must 
be seen outside the confines of projection
which is why she fights and hustles so hard. 
Adulthood is recognizing patterns and 
affirming diversity,
simultaneously.

Adulthood is embracing

and re-writing one's own story and struggle

by loving it unconditionally as it unfolds

in those who are too young to know they are

uniquely and typically unfolding. 

Adulthood is wanting to win,

not for winning's sake but

so that look of worry

and the never-enough expectations of your parents

and the never-enough expectations of your coach

and the never- enough expectations of your own standards of excellence

might fade

just enough

for the love of the game to whisper its eternal truth.