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My Father's Basketball
Every time I saw my father’s trophy shelf, my eyes would glance at that old basketball that gave hints of greatness. I had never asked my dad about why it was so special for him, or why would he keep it locked up anyway. I knew he played soccer and basketball when he was younger, but nothing more than that. I decided to take the ball off the shelf and ask him about it. He told me about how great he was while playing for Tec’s representative basketball team, and I just stood there not believing a word he said, mostly because of him not being as tall as me. He laughed for a while and wondered why I never played basketball instead of soccer, and I had no good answer. After a while, he talked to me about his experience as a university basketball player. He assured there was no day when he would rest, day or night, summer or winter, he would grab that same ball and practice for hours before the gym lights went off. He played “point guard” in the team, which I still don’t know the function of, but I guess he was the one who planned plays and shot for triples, given his height. He told me that playing that much basketball had a negative effect on his grades, making him fail three subjects in his first semester. I still think that’s just an excuse for my grandparents not to get mad at him. My dad was that kind of player that would hide his injuries just for the opportunity of playing, and sadly that’s why he had to stop playing for the rest of his life. The championship was on the line, my dad hid a severe knee injury, and was about to play the last game of his life, the championship final. Maybe I was expecting his story about that game to be a bit more dramatic, with a buzzer beater or something, but the game went well for the team, they won by a great difference, but unfortunately my father injured his knee critically in the last quarter. He had to be rushed to the hospital and doctors gave him this scientific term of saying that he could never again play a sport that demands quick physical movement. Now I understand why that ball means so much to him, this ball represents so much for both of us, and I sometimes glance at it from time to time, making sure not to forget who my father is and what is he capable of achieving. The same ball used to win the championship laid in my hands, full of memories of my father’s great career, which I’d like to hear from him all over again.
