Love, Basketball & Over Time

forty-one seconds left in regulation, down by 5, after some lame attempts by the Jazz for three's, the game seems to be slipping away...they start to pull it together, with 10 seconds left, down by 3, Okur steps inside the 3-point line scores 2, down by one, a foul, missed shot, the Jazz tie it up--OVERTIME!

In the first 58 seconds of OT the Jazz take a five point run, stay on top and come out 127 to 117! Fisher who was in New York this morning when his little girl had a tumor removed came in to help them out. The reporter had the nerve to ask him how he divides his loyalties--he said without hesitation "my family and my faith come first."

I stood by the bar in the Cheesecake Factory in South Florida and was the only one going nuts over the game. I think all the men thought I wanted them--no--I wanted the game. Which I proved as I politely, but with a just amount of annoyance ignored the multiple attempts to find out "what brings me to Florida," and "why I like basketball." Another word to the wise: Men, if a girl is into her game, and it's a push in regulation and then overtime--LEAVE HER ALONE--talking to her will only bother her--that is why there are commercials.

The fast fury of mixed emotions that buried me can be pretty well summed up with my game tonight. Sometimes you miss some crucial shots. Sometimes it feels like you're playing one man down, sometimes it seems like you just can't hit the clutch shot. Sometimes your head and your heart are not in the game. Today was a losing day. I was still in the game, but just hanging on by a thread--down far enough to feel the pressure of the clock and the fans and the other players and the media looking at me thinking--man what was that?

I love that Fisher shows up straight from the airport with his family in toe and gives the team the "emotional lift" they needed to pull them through the difficult time. Those emotional lifts were all around me tonight--with the exception of the time spent around a kid I ?dated? who doesn't know how to read the gray tones in my eyes that say, "I'm sad, be gentle, I may cry," no, he's so self-absorbed that he wouldn't notice another person's pain if Yanni wrote a song about it and played it for him on the Yacht.

There was the good friend who showed up at just the right time, or came to find me when I ditched the 18 people we were with and bailed to a balcony for some fresh air, it was a funny text from a friend at that precise moment in time, another friend who knows the week has been brutal and is going to Gainsville this Friday said I could catch a ride with him if I want to go to Orlando and visit the happiest place on earth ;)[I love that it sounds like DisneyWorld...]

From a book on surviving: "take it a day at a time and if you can't handle a day at a time, take it an hour at a time."

Let's just say that the hour broke into minutes, the minutes collapsed into seconds, the seconds seemed to drag like the clock in overtime. You could cut them into pieces and each one came with the conscious decision to put one foot in front of the other and breathe--and each breath had to be forced past the heavy constricted sinews of sadness and anxiety that grasp both body and spirit. *memory: when I was training for the St. George Marathon, and I called Scott to complain that it was hard and my legs hurt and i didn't want to do it anymore, and he said, "Remember Ash, it's just one foot in front of the other..." and then characteristic of him, in his little sarcastic aside, "it's just like running to your friends house--only you're friend lives really far away, do you have any friends." Of course by then, I'd forgotten that my legs hurt.

I woke up not knowing which way was up. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I picked up a book about God and started to read. I figured he suffered everything, so he's probably a pretty good source to turn to when I feel like no one understands, or when people tell me to "get over it" or "just snap out of it..." After reading a while and still feeling pretty despondent, my phone rang, and it was my angelic neighbor Maria who was calling to drag me out for a walk with her. It was a good reminder that God loves me and is aware, even if the pain can't just magically disappear like so many think it should. We live in a world where everything nearly-- everything is instantaneous--guess what--somethings require time and patience and just plain endurance.

I thought about that as I faced my daily option of the stairs or the elevator. I take the stairs about 7 times a day--I live on the 7th floor--that's a lot of stairs. Today i was tired and I just wanted to take the easy way up. But as I thought about it, I realized that although the stairs are not the quick fix, they require effort, it's hot, it takes time--such exercise also conditions. It strengthens, it enhances, purifies and in the end--I am better off for having done them.

I biked for a couple hours and walked until I'd wandered around long enough, and spent some time just soaking in as much sunlight as I could, then I read a book. My mind wasn't really in it, but it made me feel like I could label the day almost productive. I did a few nice things for my neighbors to try and boost my spirit (I know kind of selfishly motivated, but if you know me, you know my love for serving other people runs just as thick through my veins as the pain that propels me through life right now. I wrote my mom a little note, I miss her, I wish I could take away her pain--especially as Mother's Day approaches. I don't like holidays anymore and I hope I can get to the point where i do--as of now they just make me want to have my brother's over and cook for them and together eat a ridiculous amount of food and then go play "fat dog" in the living room while the little ones watch Bambi or Brother Bear for the 4th consecutive time.

By now it was time to go to the church for institute (gospel instruction). And from there we went to the Cheesecake Factory to celebrate this months birthdays.

While I wish that the Jazz win yields pure bliss--I watched and was overrun by a myriad of emotions. Scott would be at the game. Scott loved the games. I used to give him so much crap because of the obsession with the sport--I mean who names their little boy Stockton? I just want him back. It's the first post season game I've watched--the pain is so much--the void is so real--he's not here to watch them with me. All the memories too new to be dead, and a death so new they're still sharp jagged memories. Like last season when we're at the game and both Brad and Scott get regulation warnings that are on record with the NBA for yelling at the refs, or the time that Scott yelled at one player that he wasn't as good as his play station character, and then another one that he wasn't even on PlayStation. The time that Sydney was sitting on her daddy's lap on the court and the Jazz bear came up to say hello and it scared her so bad she peed all over Scott's lap--so he bought her a cheerleader outfit only they didn't have any underwear to go under it ;)--she fit right in! Or the time Scott took Syd to build-a-bear at the Gateway to make her mom a mother's day bear and she had it all dressed and frilly in pink, then they went to name it and she pointed to one, and when Scott read it as Carlos--Syd quickly changed the bear into a Jazz uniform and said that it needed to be Boozer. Or how about the 2 tickets Scott gave me every year for my birthday--the game closest to November 26th (unless it was a really good team--then it was one ticket and he kept the other, and I was OK with that! Or the time he gave me 4 near court side and I couldn't use them--I was just a senior in high school--that was a lot of money to waste on fake high school friends-- so I took a date and he brought the girl he loved (who later became his wife). We picked up my date and he had on a black, ribbed, turtle neck sweater--exactly like the one my brother's wife was wearing with her leopard skin pants. Cause that's not embarrassing. Scott asked him if he could just take off his shirt. Or how the kids used to cuddle up beside their daddy and watch sports center--or whatever game was on. Sydney knows more about the NBA then most men I know (most, Robbie, I said most).

I survived another day of regulation ball. I'm sure one day I'll look back on these highlight reels and see that I learned the most amid the trials and tears--and even if I can't see those lessons beyond the pain, even if I never feel like I was able pull ahead in OT, at least I'm still in the game. To be proven. To be tested. To endure in faith. To love and serve God. To look beyond myself and help another.

Right after Scott died, there was a sign beside the highway by my apartment in Utah that had an injured basketball player and was advertising the local hospital and it read "get back in the game" I'm trying. I really do love the game. I love the players. I love the emotions. I love the sounds. I love the excitement.

After the excitement of the game tonight, I got into my car and away from it all-- my soul grieved the recent losses that were so vividly painted by the Jazz 'win' tonight. I even scrolled through my phone and looked at Scott's cell entry wanting to call him and race through the highlights--he'd have been so happy at the win. But he's gone. A reality that I am learning to walk with. One that will never go away--because no one will ever take his place. As I drove home, the longing for last season overcame me. I know our team didn't do so well--but who cares--all the players were here--isn't that what matters? The people, the relationships, the love?

Then another dose of the good people in my life: a comment from a new blogging friend Pat that inspired me to stay in the game. Real people, facing real life and finding beauty amid pain is what inspires me to stay in the game--thank you.