Madison Square Garden was literally shaking.
Grabbing yet another rebound, I turned and fired an outlet pass to Walt Frazier. Hustling up the floor, I was in position to pick up the loose ball when Clyde's pass for Bill Bradley was deflected away. I took a dribble, stutter-stepped, then blew past a beleaguered Jerry West for what seemed like the tenth time. When Wilt Chamberlain took a step in my direction I fired a one-bounce, no-look pass to our captain, Willis Reed, who banked in yet another unmolested lay-up.
Not satisfied, I darted in behind West and intercepted Chamberlain's careless inbound pass. I was immediately converged upon by two angry, frustrated Lakers. Dribbling twice, I stepped back and tossed up an off-balance, high-arcing two-hander as I tumbled backward. "Yessss..and it counts!" said Knick broadcaster Marv Albert, screaming just to make himself heard over the din created by the sellout crowd. The roar continued unabated as the visitors called time out, but when play resumed I went on driving the lane at will, slashing in for acrobatic lay-ups. When the defense collapsed on me I coolly found Dick Barnett and Dave DeBusschere in their favorite spots for 18 foot unmolested jumpers. Defensively my quick feet and pickpocket hands were making the evening a nightmare for West, a perennial all-star. Then without warning I heard a distinct voice. It was that of a young male.
"Mr. Young? I didn't know you played basketball."
Deflated, I thudded back to reality. It wasn't 1970, I wasn't destroying the Lakers, and we weren't in Madison Square Garden. It was 2008 and I was in the Kennebunk High School Gymnasium at 6:45 AM, firing up jump shots without opposition. The only sounds other than those created by my dribbling were an occasional "swish," but more often the "clang" of yet another one of my rotationless attempts caroming off the back iron. If that weren't sobering enough, I quickly remembered that Chamberlain and DeBusschere are dead, Bradley is a decade or so removed from the U.S. Senate, and everyone else involved in my 1970-era fantasy is in his dotage.
I had no idea that anyone else had been in the gym. A boy who had been a student in my class a couple of years ago had come in through a side door to use the weight room. He had made his comment because, well, he hadn't known that I played basketball. And why should he have? As far as he knew I was just what he had observed in the classroom, which was a middle-aged man who talks a lot about books, pesters young people to care about their writing, and demands that they get their assignments in on time.
It's good to step back periodically and assess how others see us.
Twenty five years ago I was coaching three different sports at my old high school. Some of the kids I was working with were younger siblings of people I had graduated with only a few years before. My daily attire consisted of sneakers, white socks, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and an omnipresent whistle around my neck. I was universally addressed as "Coach," and assumed that anyone mentioning "Mr. Young" was referring to my father. I played basketball every moment that I wasn't working. The reaction I got last week from the boy who was surprised when he saw me in the gym before school was similar to the one I'd have gotten a quarter-century ago if one of the kids on the junior varsity baseball team had discovered me reviewing a copy of The Merchant of Venice. More than likely he’d have exclaimed, "Gee Coach, I didn't know you could read!"
Conversely, the sight of me playing basketball 25 years ago would have elicited the same response from the people who knew me then that seeing me pore over The Autobiography of Malcolm X does from my colleagues today, which is to say none at all.
Occasionally imagining that we are who we'd like to be is a healthy thing to indulge in once in a while, provided that the fantasy involved isn't illegal and/or harmful to others.
I wonder if Walt Frazier ever fantasizes about being a high school English teacher in Maine?
Andy YoungReturn to main page
Font size: