The light from the television illuminated the living room like fireflies in the night sky. I set the timer on the microwave and darted away to take a peak at the game. The Clippers were playing the Suns. I had one hand on my hip, the other was clutching a fork.
“Let’s go Kawhi!” I screamed at the screen, rushing to grab my spaghetti before another commercial break. I sank into the sofa and twirled my spaghetti around my fork. My brother unlocked the door. He wheeled his suitcase into the living room and stared at me, confused.
“You watch basketball now?”
“Yep.” My eyes were still glued to the screen as he spoke.
“What? Who’s your favorite player?”
“SGA.”
“She even knows the initials…” My brother smirked and shook his head, sitting down on the sofa next to me. My mom joined us with a Dr. Pepper in hand. She cracked open the soda can with her fingernail and took sips from it while watching the game.
My brother asked, “Shaliyah watches basketball now?”
My mom laughed, “I know. I don’t know what happened.”
I couldn’t blame them for being in shock. I don’t know what happened either. I held my first basketball when I was three. I’m sure there’s a picture taped to our fridge door somewhere. I was born and raised in the gym. That meant my weekends were spent watching my brothers train and play basketball until the sunset. If they weren’t training then they were playing in a game and I took the liberty of cheering them on as their little sister. I learned how to dribble a basketball when I was five and by the time I was six, my mom signed me up for an AAU team. Not just any AAU team either. It was ran by my uncle. I’d get up every Saturday morning to practice basketball drills with my team in Boston. With a dad that got drafted to the NBA in ’83 and my mom who was a force to be reckoned with on both ends of the court, I was terrified of playing.
It was the day of my first basketball scrimmage. I was six years old. My stomach was in knots. I was silent on the entire car ride to the gym. I walked closely behind my mom as the rest of my family filed in behind me. Everyone was there. My parents, uncles, and cousins filled the stands and I sat on the bench, crossing my fingers, hoping I didn’t get put in the game. I was one of the starting five. I double knotted my laces and ran onto the court like the soles of my basketball shoes were on fire. I was a lost puppy on defense, scrambling for a steal or rebound. One of the kids zoomed past us, took two steps, and scored a layup. I ran back on offense, assuming the stance that I was taught during our basketball drills. I was wide open. Someone passed the ball to me. I adjusted my fingers on the basketball like my dad showed me, flicked my wrist, and swish. I made my first three-pointer. My family cheered. Then things took a turn for the worse.
My uncle yelled numbers at the team, “Now you’re the 1. You’re the 2. You’re the 3.” I shuffled around the court, unsure of whether I was playing shooting guard, point guard, or center. I resembled a crab trying to catch it’s first shrimp. Once the game was over, I took off my jersey, set down the basketball, and never played competitively again.
Ten years later, I cranked the volume on my headphones up to tune out the world as I did a shoot around at my high school gym. It was one of my favorite ways to blow off steam. The basketball varsity coach saw me and said I should try out for the team. I wrestled with the thought of playing basketball again. I was sixteen. Things were much different than when I was six. I started training with my dad after school.
“For every missed free throw, you run a lap around the gym.” My dad said, alternating between bounce and chest passes. I nodded, out of breath from shooting so much. Beads of sweat fell into my eyes as my dad called at me after each shot, “Remember to follow-through!”
We practiced drills like these for a few weeks. I was completely worn out. This wasn’t for me. I couldn’t play competitively. I didn’t even like watching basketball anymore. While the world was asleep, I thought I’d never have the drive I needed to play let alone watch it ever again. And here I am, ten years later, with the daily NBA schedule memorized, a Shai-Gilgeous Alexander jersey, and lilac basketball sneakers.
It was the first day of spring. The scent of pancakes and caramel coffee filled the air as I walked into the kitchen. I placed my phone on the table and rubbed the crust from my eyes, yawning before unscrewing the lid to my water.
My brother walked into the kitchen and turned to my mom, “What games are on today?”
My mom shrugged, “I don’t need to check the time of the games anymore. I just ask Shaliyah.” I laughed as my mom continued talking. “She just woke up one day and started liking basketball. I think she might be obsessed.”
“No, I’m not. I’m not obsessed.”
“Yes, you are. If your friends invite you somewhere but OKC is playing, would you still go with them?”
“Well….” I buried my face in my hands and started laughing. I couldn’t answer her.
“See! You plan your schedule around the games.”
“Isn’t that normal?”
“No, that’s not normal.” My mom and I erupted into laughter.
Everyone in my family plays basketball. Except me. And I’ve learned to be okay with that. I’m becoming just as passionate as my family is about basketball. It’s funny how things have panned out. I went from averting my eyes from everything basketball related to watching NBA games every single day. Even though playing competitively wasn’t in the cards for me, I’ve built my own path with the things I’m passionate about. One of those things happens to be watching basketball games with the people I love the most.
From a suburb in Massachusetts, SHALIYAH DIXON crafts each of her stories using vivid imagery. Her work stems from everyday life, focusing on themes of growth, belonging, and identity.
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