The Best American Sports Writing 2014(4)

He had never been coached, and had no understanding of the subtleties of basketball. When he didn’t have the ball, he would shuffle toward the dribbler with his hands out, unaware of spacing, or search for steals on nearly every play. You could almost see the gears turning over in his head as he planned out each move. Nothing was natural.

He tried hard, and hustled, but overall he wasn’t remarkable. Maybe if he had been relentlessly drilled from the age of 10 onward, things would be different, but he hadn’t. Nobody had ever taken his hand and walked him into a gym. Instead, he was just a 24-year-old, stuck in a time that had already passed.

“Don’t you think . . .”—I try to find the right way to say it—“Do you think maybe you should put your energy into something else? Maybe have some other options in case you don’t make it at Rucker Park? Do you have a backup plan?” I ask. “Have you thought about going back to school?”

“No,” he says. His headphones, which he rarely takes off, jiggle audibly as he shakes his head from side to side. “This basketball thing is all I got,” he says, almost pleading. “I’m 110 percent focused on this. People ask me if I have a Plan B. To be honest, I don’t. I think, like, nine out of 10 people with backup plans don’t succeed at their first plan because that backup plan is constantly in the back of their head, and they lose focus on Plan A.”

“But . . .” I began to say, shaking my head. I wanted to scold him, tell him that he’s wasting his time, and teach him, as I’d been taught, to plan your life. The words, however, never came. I turned away, back toward the desolate road, and breathed out.

For me, this trip was nothing more than an adventure, a story I could tell my friends, a chance to laugh about the time I spent half a week on a bus.

But for TJ, this trip wasn’t his Kerouac novel, and didn’t emerge from Steinbeck’s “virus of restlessness.” It wasn’t a modern-day vagabond’s romantic jaunt around the country seeking to understand the ills of America. This trip came from a deeper place. It was his calling: he had to travel 3,000 miles from home on his own. He had to believe in himself and that this lifelong fantasy to be a basketball star was, in fact, his reality. No one else would. To him, this was all there was.

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong to stake everything on this. He’d chosen a different path—a journey deep into the unknown to confront his self-doubts and fears head-on. He had to walk fearlessly inside the gates of Rucker Park and believe it was all worth it . . . then play the game of his life.

His choice to put everything on the line was rare, but it’s not unique. Nearly every culture and tradition has a similar story, real or imagined. When a young man starts his journey, he must be brave enough to take a metaphysical leap of faith. He must be willing to step foot on the bus and travel straight into the labyrinth of his fears, toward whatever awaits him on the other end, even if it may rip him to shreds.

It’s the ultimate gamble. If the young man is successful, he comes home a hero, and becomes important. His life has meaning and purpose. But in order to succeed, he must first completely open up his soul to the consequences of failure, knowing there may be no way back out. This, above all else, is the hardest thing to do.

TJ’s quest reminded me of that of the Athenian warrior Theseus, who journeyed down into the impenetrable labyrinth, leaving only the slimmest thread to mark his path, and then, armed with only a shield and a small dagger, defeated the terrifying Minotaur. He was then able to follow the thread back out of the labyrinth to become king of Athens. He risked all, and gained all.

Or, maybe we all simply live within the confines of our own fears and TJ was just running away from his, afraid of slowly rotting inside a weed den in the Deepest Part of Hell. At least he was on the bus. And at 5:00 A.M., three days after we left, as we passed through Weehawken, New Jersey, and the Manhattan horizon came into view, I leaned over as a ripple of excitement rushed through the entire bus.

“So, are you ready?” I asked TJ.

He smiled from ear to ear. “Hell yeah,” he said. “This summer at Rucker, I think no one’s gonna be fuckin’ with me. Think about it. I’ve been on a bus three days. No sleep. Just think when I go to Queens and get some rest. I’m gonna feel even better. No one’s touching me.”

As the bus hurtled toward New York, there was no turning back. He was going to Rucker Park almost bare, exposed, armed only with his hopes and his overconfidence. His abrasive arrogance—and his 38-inch vertical leap—were his only weapons. It was all he had, and, really, all he had left.