Brooks

        Sam comes across the basketball court with the grace of a dancer. When the ball reaches him, he flies through the air, putting the ball on the board and into the net.

        A wisp of a smile crosses his face as he acknowledges the cheers from the fans. A few moments later, his teammate sinks a three-pointer and Sam gives him a high five. It is like my son to celebrate his friend's accomplishment more than his own. He is an unselfish player, always putting his team first on the court and on the sidelines.

        The noises and smells, which fill the warm gymnasium, make this game intense. Athletic shoes squeak against the wood floor. The odor of sweat and floor wax are strong. Coaches shout plays and the air horn blares. Fathers yell at the referees while their wives nudge them and shake their heads. The man sitting in front of me is wearing a T-shirt with the slogan “Basketball is Life.”

        Older men look after Sam when he runs by. They can see that he is made for this game. They marvel at the fluid motion of his body and wish they could run like young men again. They remember the power of young legs and lungs, limber spine and well-oiled knees.

        The mothers in the stands watch their sons and wonder how they grew so quickly into young men. Wasn't it just last year that thin arms protruded from low hanging jerseys and the voices of boys rang out from the court?

A kind of madness

        A kind of madness comes over us when we watch basketball games. We behave as though basketball really was life. My husband, a civilized person, says things that he wouldn't ordinarily say in public. I never cared for basketball before, but I am standing and yelling, too. By the end of the second quarter, it seems unbearably important that our team get that ball, avoid the foul, and make that shot.

        When the game is over, I forget why it was so important. I wait in the car for Sam to change and think about all of the things he did this year besides scoring baskets and blocking shots. He played tuba in the marching band. He helped his sister learn how to play video games. He gave his grandmother a gift full of love and compassion.

        Just before basketball season, she fell in a parking lot and broke her hip. She had pneumonia when he was selected for the team in November. By the time he was practicing for his first game, she was in a coma. We knew she would not be attending any of his games this season.

        When we took the kids to say goodbye to her, Sam stood over her, watching the machine breathe for her, seeing the jagged line of her heart's path move across the screen, hearing the awful hiss and sigh of the life support system. He was fighting back tears as he told her about his basketball team and his marching band season.

        Later that night, I could hear him working with a VCR and tape recorder until very late. He copied Tchaikovsky pieces from the video of one of his marching band performances for his grandmother. The next time we visited her, we laid the tape recorder on the pillow next to her head and turned it on.

        While the music played, a single tear escaped from a corner of her eye and ran down her face. We did not know if she could hear her grandson's tuba contributing bass to “Pathetique.” Maybe the music alone reached into her darkness. She died several days later without speaking. Sam took his place among the men of her family and carried her to her grave.

        Sam's grandma was a strong woman; she survived a Nazi camp and came to the United States. She lived a long life, long enough to watch her grandson play music and basketball in Cincinnati. He gave her a gift at the end of her life. It was a small thing really, but it is something I will always remember about Sam — unlike the statistics from his last game. It is the basketball statistics that will make him a hero among his classmates. There will be no applause for the things he does that make him my hero.

        As I watch my son walk to the car, I am reminded of all the wonderful and miraculous things that can happen in a lifetime. Like having a son named Sam. Like learning to love basketball. Like remembering that basketball is not life; it is a game. Life is what happens after he leaves the locker room.

        Tonya Brooks lives in Anderson Township with her three children. A member of Women Writing for a Change, she works at the Welcome House Shelter. Her son played freshman basketball at Turpin High School.

        In My Life is about recent significant moments — big and small — in people's lives. Readers are invited to submit columns, which become the property of the Enquirer. Send to: In My Life, Tempo, Cincinnati Enquirer, 312 Elm St., Cincinnati 45202; fax 768-8330. Or e-mail Nancy Berlier, Deputy Features Editor: nberlier@enquirer.com.

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