Basketball

The parking lot is empty. A large building sits at the back, lights off.

Quiet.

A key is inserted in the lock and turned. “Click.” The door is pulled open. “Flick.” A switch is flipped, instantly illuminating a rather large room. Lines go up one side of the floor, then down the other. Across the way sits a table; empty chairs keep it company for the time being. A single net hangs roughly ten feet off the ground at each end.

A broom is pulled out of a closet. With a flick of the wrist, the brush silently moves across the floor, collecting dust, dirt, candy wrappers, and a few stray popcorn kernels.

The outside door opens again; a cluster of people enters and walks into a smaller room, laughing, while carrying bags of groceries. Machines are turned on. A member of the group starts to stock the near-empty refrigerator with Gatorade, pop, and bottles of water. Someone else reaches up, flips the lid, and drains a bag of popcorn kernels. Once that task is completed, a jug of butter is opened and its contents poured into the machine. A switch is flipped to “On,” and the person quietly waits.

One by one—and soon—two by two, people enter the once empty, previously silent building. The noise level begins to build as basketballs are bounced, coaches talk to players, orders are placed at concessions, and conversations in the bleachers take place.

Twenty-odd miles away, stripes are pulled overhead. A belt gets buckled over black pants. Running shoes laced, and I’m ready to go. I check my ref bag:

Whistle.

Towel.

Ref shoes.

Ref rules book.

Officials manual.

Case book.

Extra whistle.

Three one dollar bills.

A map containing gym directions.

After I climb into my vehicle, I leave the radio off. Basketball scenarios overtake my thoughts; mechanics, rule changes for a brand-new season, and points of emphasis.

I arrive early at the gym. To me, showing up more than a half hour before game time is being on time. The handle on my ref bag is extended as I make my way from the parking lot toward the gym door; I open the door and enter to pass by the admissions table. Roll on through.

Sneakers squeak. A ball bounces. Numbers decrease on a scoreboard. Fans, shoulder-to-shoulder on the bleachers, cheer. Timeout quiets the crowd. Comrades-in-arms huddle.

The zipper on my ref bag is pulled; my whistle, ref shoes, and rules book all exit the bag. The new points of emphasis are scanned, and I am good to go.

Right Achilles is stretched. Left Achilles is stretched. One last sip of water, swallowed.

The basketball gets tossed into the air, the gym goes silent. Every eye in the gym tracks the flight of the basketball as two hands stretch upward.

The pace quickens. The crowd roars. From twenty feet away, a ball gently drops through the net.

A player falls. Sweat collects on the floor like a puddle after a brief rain shower. A mop quickly wipes up the moisture. Play resumes.

Nets rustle. Coaches implore. Fans encourage. Ball glances off rim out of bounds. Whistle blows.

Time marches on.

A baby laughs. A substitute enters the contest. One pair of sneakers runs down the court, followed by ten more, and finally the last pair.

Men wearing stripes raise their arms in the air.

Mustard is applied to a hot dog. Nacho chips are crunched. A bottle of water is squeezed.

Time marches on.

Horn sounds. One winner. One loser.

I quickly walked over to the platform, changed shoes, threw on my coat, and rolled my bag toward the gym door.

Spectators climbed down out of the stands to greet their team’s players. Grandparents waited patiently as parents talked to the basketball players. The machines in concessions were already cleaned and turned off. The closet door was opened and the broom pulled out. Quietly as before, the gym floor was swept with a simple flick of the wrist.

By the time I had driven the twenty-odd miles home, the gym and parking lot were once again empty.