Crossovers

As I explained in my first report from Spain. I am here seeking growth. My hope is that Lady Spain will gather me in her dusty arms, that she will mold me in her brown dirt, and wrap me up tight in her ancient arms. If I am lucky, she will grant me a nourishing kiss and I will flourish upward, gripped by new strength.


The other day I was walking in Madrid behind two young boys playing with a soccer ball (futbol) and one kept repeating a certain move with his feet. Moving the ball around with your feet in soccer is calling dribbling. This reminded me of one of my first loves, basketball. I have documentation (pictures of me, topless and shooting hoops) of my relationship with basketball back to when I was 6 but I believe that we had been courting (pun) each other for some time before then.


Dribbling: When I was very young I just smacked at the ball. I would lift my stretched open hand up high and then swing downward as the ball was fighting to reach its apex. This was not very successful. Slowly I began to cup the ball more, relax my hand, and have faith in the CO2 in the ball. I gently guided the ball toward the ground by bending my wrist and tenderly held hands with gravity. White people need to make friends with gravity if they want to play basketball. :) I potently remember beginning to crossover dribble between my legs. When I first tried, at a very young age, it was very awkward. I would hold the oversized ball in my left hand and prepare my mind and body and then hesitate and then I would drop it between my legs, moving slightly up out of fear for my manhood, well boyhood back then. I would practically spin around trying to catch the ball with my right hand. It was painfully difficult. I practiced tirelessly, taking a bball with me everywhere I went. My dad once had a nightmare that we went to Detroit and I got out of the car to practice dribbling and he accidentally drove away without me. I wonder if he remembers that. Anway, slowly I got better at the crossover. One day at the Brooks´, a graduation party or something, I was dribbling around. A woman stopped and said, ¨You really have that between the legs thing down pretty good.¨ I beamed with pride. Then she said, ¨can you do it with your right hand?¨ My heart sunk, ¨not yet¨ I said. So I worked harder and practiced more. Eventually I could walk a mile passing the ball between my legs each step. I could walk tall and upright or crouch low, moving like a theif in the shadows.



I have not had much time to play basketball recently. No matter how long I have been away from the court however, when I start dribbling I have great control. When I pick up a ball in mere second my mind silently calculates the weight, grip, size, shape, and air of the ball. My hands get the demensions from the brain and adapt. Like two people that are in love playing with each others hands, the ball and I move in harmony. We patiently anticipate each others movements and know what the other is thinking and feeling. Now I dribble with my finger tips instead of my palms and crossover with great ease.



Slow, gradual, frustrating, painful, efficient, and worthwhile: this is the growth I know.