On not being good enough

Photo by Михаил Секацкий on Unsplash

When I was 14, I loved two things, and I loved them deliberately. The first was basketball, and the second was the stage. 

I’m not sure which love came first, but I remember wearing my Kings jersey to middle school, tacking up a Mike Bibby poster to my bedroom door. In my stereo, burned Broadway soundtracks with accompaniment music played on loop so I could practice for auditions.

The two things are not so different if you think about it. An audience to watch. Pressure to perform. Uniforms, costumes, sweat dripping on Nike leather, staining ballet satin. Your heart thumping in your ears as you run, dance, leap, sing. Everyone is watching, yet it’s not their eyes you crave; it’s how your body feels so certain at the center of the stage, in the middle of the court. 

My love for basketball is so odd to think back on now. I mostly remember myself as a creative and imaginative child, tearing through chapter books and filling journals with moody poems and so…