Ballin'

I have been itching to buy a basketball for months since there is a hoop across the street from my apartment (and since this song gets randomly stuck in my head sometimes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-3Ds1p5r48).  There's just something about the sport that's so expressive and nostalgic for me. I love that I always played on these very imperfect "Catholic Youth Organization (CYO)" league teams. I have so many memories of having to guard opponents with awkward protective eye gear, "trendy" sweatbands and matching braces. By seventh grade I had joined a more competitive travel soccer league in order to "prepare" for high school soccer, but basketball was always pressure-free and, frankly, hilarious. Having younger brothers, I had a gender-role-crossing level of aggression for my age; that is, I actively sought to steal the ball from my opponents (and I may or may not have fouled out of a game once or twice). In an amateur middle school league, this is quite the exciting move. Or at least my mom made it seem exciting even when I'd consistently miss the breakaway lay-up: "GO KATHLEEN! WHO LET THE DOGS OUT??!"

Eighth grade basketball was the ill na na. I was in a league with a few friends from soccer, and we were all playing on two soccer teams, six or seven days per week. After intensely structured practices with international trainers (#NYsoccer), we'd let loose in a local basketball league that included players from 5th-8th grade. I didn't fully grow until junior year of high school, so it was nice to have a developmental advantage for once. I still remember how exciting it was to play in a packed gym and to hear the impassioned words of Coach Alan Krause, a 4'10" retired deli owner and youth basketball enthusiast. The games were sloppy and awkward, but real and fun. No pressure, no...high school scouts, no angry parents. Lots of characters. I remember the last "official" game I ever played: ten seconds left, two close friends from soccer on the opposing team, championship game, down by one point. My fourth grade teammate (who slipped under the radar for the 5th grade cut-off) scored her first basket in the last minute of the game. She and her mom started crying, but then we had to remind her she couldn't celebrate with her mom until after the game; this was serious stuff. Back to those final ten seconds...My two fingers were jammed, but I was driven. In reality, I probably had one partially jammed finger, but we'll stick with two. Nine seconds left. I towered over the sixth grader under the hoop and grabbed the defensive rebound after a shot from the opposing team ricocheted off the rim (or maybe she shot an air ball, who knows?). I just remember dribbling towards our side of the court with intensity and then getting fouled at the three point line. I missed the first shot; Coach Krause cringed. I didn't know it then, but this was the last competitive basketball game of my life. Or maybe I did know it then? My mom was silent (a rarity). Three seconds on the clock. I made pretend I had a superstitious pre-foul shot ritual because that made my moment seem more dramatic. I spun the ball and took a deep breath. Swish. First shot in. My mom screamed; Coach Krause did not. He knew we were only tied, and he did not want to mess up my fake superstitious ritual for the second foul shot. I spun the ball and took a deep breath again and banked it in. Still three seconds on the clock but no 5th grader or 8th grader could pull something off in that amount of time, and everyone in the gym knew it. The only thing they would be pulling off was their pinnies (I think I just tried to trash talk...).  Coach Krause went nuts; it was the last game he would end up coaching, as he told us after the game. That moment was so important, imperfect, and sincere. In hindsight, I feel really bonded to my mom, my friends and their moms...and, even to Coach Krause to have shared that experience with them. My mom especially; we would get such a kick out of the players, coaches, and crazy antics of the game.

So I have been wanting to buy this basketball because the sport has always been fun for me. I also used to attend basketball camp at a local high school during the summer, and my brothers and I played in a local summer league. No pressure; mostly games instead of practice; fun drills. It was also a way to meet new people and accumulate more free T-shirts. Lastly, I have so many memories playing basketball outside with my little brothers since we had a hoop outside our house. I remember when I used to foul my brother and he would call it I would say something like, "This is street ball; there are no fouls in street ball." But yet somehow I was still able to call fouls on him... We also used to take shots from faraway--from "downtown, Jimmy Brown." Or there was the time my brother thought the hoop was too low and then my mom somehow confirmed this after shooting an air ball: "Oh yea, there is definitely something off with this hoop. I can tell."

My love for the sport came full circle when I worked in a middle school last year in San Jose, California. Each day, I supervised several recesses and activitiy periods in which I played "knock out" or shot around with the students and some teachers. The school even hosted a mock "March Madness" tournament. The students took it so seriously; their whole school cheered them on. The games mattered; hustling mattered; team names mattered. And it was still all in good fun.

In any case, so back to this basketball I bought. Basically, I just broke down one day and bought it. I say "broke down" because I kept thinking it was a silly purchase since my roommates aren't interested in playing. With whom would I play? Fourth graders? (Again?) But Saturday was the perfect day for some bball. It was hot, and I had two hours to kill. The nets on the hoops had been fixed, and no one else was playing on the court. I threw on some gym clothes and headed outside. Talk about a walk down memory lane. Or more like a sprint. I got so excited and nostalgic I ended up running "suicides." I also found myself sprinting to the ball to try to save it before it went out of bounds: I would sprint to the sideline, abruptly stop, reach out and grab the ball, and tuck it in as if I just saved the game by keeping the ball in my possession. I wouldn't be surprised if I motioned the "time-out" signal when this happened in the corner of the court...

I missed a bunch of shots, but I also made a bunch. Sunk them. Nailed them. Swished them. Banked them. Most people prefer the "swish" of the net, but there is something beautifully harsh about the rim-rattlers. "I shot that with force, and I knew I was going to make it!"...I thought to myself. I'd make one shot and do a little nod: "Okay kadd, not bad." A double nod for making the second shot: "Eighth grade ain't too long ago, aye? Still got it!" Third shot in and I want to point to people on the street: "Did you see that? That was the third shot I made. Six points, baby!" It's a good thing I did suicides to keep my ego in check.

In any case, I really wanted to write about the experience because it sparked so many memories. Sometimes I wonder if I lack certain "rich" memories because I was often a really studious, rule-following kid and our family didn't have any cultural rituals or family traditions (weird reasoning). But things like basketball, soccer, Irish step dancing, Catholic schooling, camps, and all the characters and crazy thoughts and observations in-between return me to myself and to those unique, meaningful, imperfect, fun experiences that have formed me and will always be a part of me.

This song has nothing to do with basketball, but, much like basketball, it reminds me that life is good :): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWDPcz-xWqQ.

"Vocation": A Global Perspective

I spend a lot of time wondering (and worrying about) what I want to be when I "grow up." How can I channel my skillz into the ultimate career? Or, from a faith perspective: how can I best use my gifts to serve others? We see this emphasis manifested in career centers, discernment retreats, lectures, career counseling, etc. One can become obsessed with finding the perfect job: what degree will get me where I want to be? What kind of profession allows for the ideal work/life balance? If I want a family, how can I make x career work (and still maintain my feminist ideals)? What salary level do I need for my projected lifestyle choices? People consider similar questions in the act of faith-based discernment, for they are relevant to real human anxieties.

Sometimes I try to eliminate my "practical" concerns when discerning how I can be the the most loving version myself. For example, I have always wanted to work in South America. I have a desire to drop the paper-pushing and 40 hours of sitting, and I think I would be more inspired by exotic flora and fauna than the pigeons and industrial buildings across the street (no offense, pigeons!). There is something romantic and exciting about taking such a risk, and that can render other choices safe and boring. Furthermore, office culture can seem exceptionally disconnected from that which is real and human (no offense, laptop!).

But what I have only recently realized is the extent to which my view of "vocation"--whether secular or faith-based--has been limited by my particular experiences. My sage-like friend, Micah, pointed out that my vocational anxieties stem from something that most people in the world don't have when it comes to careers: choice. Agency. Control. In this light, the question at the heart of discernment is not, "What am I called to do?" Perhaps this is still an important question to ask, but it cannot be the ultimate question since it is a question of privilege and it only applies to a limited number of people. Instead, Micah suggests that vocation ought to be centered on "being" instead of "doing." Who am I called to be? How am I called to live?

Of course, practical concerns and aspirations ought not to be neglected, but this perspective challenges anxieties that stem from "doing" and "achieving." Personally, I find it difficult to focus on questions of 'being' after having become accustomed to a routine. I often evaluate the present in terms of what I'm  'doing'; I am immersed in a particular job; I am in a transitional phase of life. How can I all of the sudden focus on "being" and self-improvement in this realm of life? I can read some Thomas Merton and consider enrolling in a course about Paul Tillich (check!); I can try to be more intentional about bringing life to the workplace and to my relationships (maybe I'll bake pumpkin bread next week and smile more?). But sometimes it's hard to break routines of thought and ways of being. How does one have a "conversion" of being given the oft mundane reality of the day-in, day-out?

This post is charged with the faith-based language of 'calling', but I intend for it to apply to secular, career/life decision-making as well. We have good days and bad days, but what does it take to transform our everyday selves? How can we best seek to focus on that which is most real and human, and, thus, important? In general, change can spring from an array of things, such as: Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, love (encounters with and experiences of), travel (I prefer somewhere pigeon-less!), prayer/contemplation, yoga (?), mentors, new relationships, opportunities, education, etc. But I wonder: is something deeper or more specific required to change the way one 'is' in the world--and to sustain that change?

The call to be a person of integrity--to be consistent, whole and loving no matter the place or circumstances--is demanding and profound. I am convinced, though, that it matters most.
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Props to tschmall for sharing the inspiring (and related) reflection below (!):

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.