The roaring echo of squeaking sneakers, the thump of a ball being dribbled down the court, claps, whistles, the overwhelming confusion and feelings of self-consciousness as I walk through double-doors trying to figure out an appropriate place to sit and blend in with everyone else. I feel people watch me as I walk around the court. I am overly aware of myself, my body, my clothes and even the path I take getting to a free seat. The basketball game has already begun, I am late as usual, slowed by the group of 18 year-old boys who were hitting on me as I walked into the facility. The difference between 1997 and now is I am talking on my cell phone and drinking diet coke out of a can as I walk in…oh yes, and I am also 31.
Sitting in the bleachers watching my students play a City League Basketball game is the “DeLorien of Nostalgia” for my high school years. Quickly I find myself gossiping with my colleague and friend, Marta about the players on the other team, “Who is that guy? He looks like a corn puff. Why are they being so mean? That kid is a douchebag, thinks he’s Rudy Fernandez—and you, sir, are NO RUDY FERNANDEZ.”
I realize that I should probably keep my voice down, and I have to pinch myself to keep from yelling the usual profanities that seem to sparkle from my mouth like lip gloss (the really goopy stuff that the boyfriend struggles to peel off after we kiss, the kind that congeals around the rim of my Pint glass making it easily identifiable when perched on the bistro table of the local watering hole). I realize I am surrounded by other students, parents of students that I have come to know over the years, and younger siblings of students who are constantly watching us vacillating the notion of continuing on, only to have me tell them to pull up their pants for the next four years of high school. (<—If anything, high school teachers are trying to keep students from looking like complete bozo’s when they enter “the adult world,” and frankly, having your pencil holder peeking out of your skinny jeans is an open invite for ridicule, unwanted sexual advances and unemployment.)
There is cheering, support and the usual comraderie of the crowd as we harass the referees for doing their job, and the occasional look at the coaches to see some sort of outwardly emotional response as the game rolls on.
The boys lose their game. It’s the season opener. We try to overcome our disappointment by making disparaging remarks about the other team “I mean seriously, your mascot is a quaker? Should you all be reading and not throwing elbows?” “That kid needs to ease off on the corn-finished products. Time to embrace the kale, my friend.” “Who is #10? Is he on steriods? I don’t like him one bit. I’m going to find out his name and call the principal of their school on monday and tell him what a little douchebag his student was being on a Saturday afternoon.”
I wave goodbye to the students and their families as they load into sedans and decide whether to get subway sandwiches for dinner, or just hit up Hot Lips Pizza. I get into my car, polish off the last sip of my diet coke and make plans with my best friend to carpool to a dinner party so we can drink our weight in red wine and get driven home by her boyfriend. Deja vu.
