Nothing But Net
The ball hit the rim. Stopped. And teetered. A hero would be made — or not — depending on which way it fell.
My high school phys ed teacher, Ms. Carter, coached all the girls’ teams. She was tall and lean; black-rimmed glasses framed her angular face. Her silky brunette hair bounced as she strode around the gym, slightly pigeon-toed.
Wanting to strengthen my college admission application, I had signed up for the girls’ basketball team.
Tryouts started. About twenty girls gathered on the smooth wooden bleachers in the high school gymnasium. Ms. Carter marched from her office, sneakers squeaking as she crossed the floor, and planted herself in front of us.
“Girls, thank you for coming. I have good news,” she said. “If you want to play basketball, you’re on the team.” There were not enough extra girls for anyone to be cut.
Backyard court
Later at home, I dropped my books on the living room coffee table and walked into the kitchen.
“Guess what?” I asked my mom, kissing her cheek.
“What?” answered Mom as she stirred tomato sauce over the stove, her forearms glistening with sweat.
“I made the basketball team!” I said, dancing a little victory shuffle.
“Oh?” Mom asked.
“Ms. Carter said it would be good if we could practice more than just at school. She looked at me when she said that, but I think she meant everyone.”
Mom was silent.
“So, I need a basketball net.” I studied her face for mood clues. “And basketball sneakers.”
After midnight, my dad arrived home from working his second full-time job. Muffled voices floated up from the kitchen vent to my bedroom. I snuck out of bed and put my ear next to the register, tiptoeing so the worn floorboards wouldn’t creak.
“I don’t think Wendy needs this,” I heard my mom declare.
“It’ll be fine,” my dad answered.
Mom persisted. “This is just a short-term thing. It’s not like she’s getting a scholarship to play in college.”
“Go get a hoop and a basketball,” Dad said. “Her sisters can use it too.”
Mom uttered an exaggerated sigh. “Where are you even going to put it?”
Dad replied. “On the walnut tree.”
My lips parted in a tiny smile.
The next week, Mom took me to buy a basketball hoop and net. She made an outing of it, taking me to McDonald’s after we also found a pair of high-top Chuck Taylor sneakers. Her way of saying “yes.”
I floated.
Fall winds had torn the leaves off the craggy black walnut trees near our farmhouse. Their massive canopies offered respite from the sun; their green hulls stained our fingers. This farm girl had read many books under their branches.
Saturday morning, while my younger sister Val and I cleared the lawn of fallen nuts, Dad set about mounting the basketball hoop.
Grabbing a ladder, he climbed up and used a hatchet to notch a line in the bark. He created a backboard by nailing several six-inch weathered boards next to one another and then securing two cross pieces on the back side. Flipping it over, he screwed the metal hoop onto the front.
He attached the unit to the walnut tree with long steel spikes. When finished, he leaned the ladder against the back side of the tree, then picked up the leather basketball.
Taking a step back — whoosh — he sank a floater. Grinning, he retrieved the ball and threw it to me.
I hugged him around his middle. “Thank you, Dad!”
“You girls have fun!” he said, grabbing the ladder and heading off towards the barn.
We started taking shots. The yard, being soft and uneven, didn’t make much of a court. A simple layup could result in serious injury. You risked a twisted ankle by tripping on the spreading tree roots or skinned elbows by slamming into the rough-barked trunk.
I tried a jump shot. The ball hit the rim and ricocheted toward the road.
I dribbled. It refused to bounce on the thick grass.
Giving up on drills, I decided to focus on practicing my underhand foul shots.
Put me in, Coach
Ms. Carter assigned me to the JV team. No surprise there. At our twice weekly practices, she concentrated on teaching us shooting techniques.
We attempted twenty-five foul shots each practice.
“Boring is good,” Ms. Carter would say, pencil tucked behind her ear.
Before the first game, we were issued our uniforms: red satin jerseys with “Smyrna” embroidered across the front, baggy shorts, and long socks. I stood taller.
Our team possessed height and speed. And Mary Lou. The girl played like a fiend. Everywhere all at once, she commanded the floor.
In contrast, if bench-warming was considered a sport, I would have lettered in it.
Near the end of the season, we played the Cape Henlopen Viking girls.
The game was close. Mary Lou, aggressive on defense, fouled four times.
In the last quarter, Ms. Carter signaled time out to the ref.
“Mary Lou, I’m going to pull you for a few minutes.”
“Wendy, I want you to go in. Feed the ball to any of the forwards. Just don’t shoot,” Ms. Carter charged.
My brain buzzed — I was in the game!
“Put your hands in,” said Ms. Carter. We stacked our hands and shouted: “One, two, three… Goooo, Eagles!”
I jogged to center court. The other guard threw the ball in from out of bounds.
To me!
What do I do?
Frozen, I looked around. My teammates were nowhere and Vikings were everywhere.
“Pass!” Coach yelled.
Pain tore through my arm as an aggressive Viking scratched for the ball. I twisted my body, holding onto the ball with a vise grip. She wrapped her arm around me.
Tweet!
The ref whistled, raised his hand, and pointed to the girl.
I glanced at Ms. Carter. Her face had turned crimson as her pencil hammered the clipboard.
“Foul shot!” she cried out, gesturing repeatedly towards the net.
Blood pulsing in my ears and my arm stinging, I put my toes behind the foul line.
Preparing for my underhand shot, legal in girls’ basketball but rarely used, I spread-eagled my legs. Ball between my knees, I squatted like a hen laying an egg.
Taking a deep breath, and fixing my gaze on the basket, I threw. Then held my breath.
Swish.
It went in!
I screamed in disbelief, then turned and ran towards Ms. Carter.
“I made it!” I yelled.
Ms. Carter shouted. “Go back! You have another shot!”
Several girls snickered.
My friend Bonnie clapped and gave me a thumbs-up.
I returned to the foul line. The ref handed me the ball. Crouching again, I tossed the ball in a high arc. It hit the rim. Stopped. Teetered. Go in, go in, I pleaded silently.
Then it fell to the floor.
My stomach sank.
The buzzer sounded and Ms. Carter gestured for me to come out. Mary Lou was going back in.
But we were now up by one point. I watched the rest of the game like a hawk. We won.
We lined up and said “good game” to the other team, even though we didn’t mean it.
Ms. Carter gathered us on the bench and squatted on the floor in front of us.
“Nice work, team,” she said. Then she pointed out everyone’s contributions — who scored the most points, who had the most assists, and who had the most defensive plays. Mary Lou had all of those.
“Wendy, you made a difference. Just keep your head in the game next time. Good job.”
And then… Coach Carter smiled.
I finished the season without playing in another game.
I’m ready to play
Seven years after that basketball season and a senior in college, I answered the phone ringing in my dorm room.
“Wendy, your father wants to talk to you,” my mom said.
Dad never called.
My reflection stared from the wall mirror. Pale-faced, mouth slightly open.
“What?” I asked, trying to swallow but couldn’t.
Dad spoke. “Well, we have a letter here. Your mother opened it and we thought you needed to hear this right away.”
“Go ahead,” I choked out.
“Dear Ms. Hawke: We would like to inform you of your acceptance into the Georgetown University School of Medicine Class of 1982,” he started. He couldn’t finish the letter, his voice cracked.
Silence. And a sniff.
“Isn’t that something?” he said, recovering.
“I couldn’t have done it without both of you believing in me,” I said, hot tears blurring my eyes.
How did I get here? I thought as I hung up the phone. My mind blurred with images. One stood out — my dad’s nothing-but-net shot off the old walnut tree.
He never saw me play high school basketball.
Maybe he heard the swish.
I hope he knows.
