About a month after winning our local radio station’s call-in contest for my new t-shirt, our Indian summer was coming to its inevitable, chilly conclusion. The days were getting shorter and our shadows taller. It wouldn’t be long before the poplar and maple tree’s leaves would begin to turn scintillating hues of golden yellows and beet reds. The change in seasons wasn’t confined to just the climate. High school football was the hottest ticket in town and we had a really good team. As the autumn gridiron season was winding down, it was time for the school’s winter sports programs to kick into gear. For boys and girls, the basketball season would be getting underway with tryouts for the available spots on the varsity and junior varsity teams. There were also basketball teams solely for freshmen. Then there was varsity wrestling and soccer. This was long before there was such a thing as participation trophies, so you better be willing to work for a spot on any of those teams.
Like a lot of teenagers during the ‘70s, I loved basketball. It’s the one main-stream sport that never lost its allure and I still play it on occasion. Back then I liked to shoot hoops around our neighborhood, always at a random outdoor court, most likely someone's driveway. I have very fond memories of playing afternoon basketball games at my friends' homes where every goal was a different height and every court had its own subtle nuances. At our house, in the hollow next to our creek, I had my own goal on which to shoot. It had a plywood backboard that was nailed to a pine tree. It also had a rickety metal rim nailed in place. If me and my hoops-loving friends could scrounge up enough change, we’d buy a nylon net from one of the town’s discount stores. Those cheap nets lasted a month or two then became so tattered they were useless. My backyard goal had been affixed to the pine tree at a random height that put it barely shy of ten feet off the ground. The dirt beneath was a rich, brown soil that had washed down the hill from our house over time and settled into the sole flat spot in our backyard that happened to be big enough to construct a small court. I spent countless hours back there, usually by myself, pretending to shoot rainbow jumpers or improvising a game-winning, double-clutch, whirly-bird reverse layup.
Looking back on that time in my life, basketball and skateboarding were my drugs, my addictions. Those two endeavors were the conduit I used to escape reality and be someone else, even if only for a moment. Whenever and wherever I found myself enjoying one of those two activities was always a place of refuge where I sought solace from the growing sense of contrition I felt due to my family’s unique abnormalities. I was this scrawny, tow-headed, ingenuous, fourteen-year-old kid who only wanted to fit in and be accepted, but I was conflicted as to why my family’s life was so out of kilter with everyone around me.
While I was definitely skinny, I happened to be more athletic than most of the kids my age. I was also very competitive, so I decided to try out for the freshman basketball team. I didn’t make a big deal about it and didn’t tell anyone who wasn’t close to me due to my apprehension. I thought I was good enough or I wouldn’t have tried. I also knew I was a long shot and it would take some luck to make the team. After stopping by the Athletic Director’s office, I added my name to the list of boys who all hoped to soon be lacing up their sneakers for Coach Steadman. I recognized those names on the roster and was reaffirmed that my chance of making the team was precarious.
On the first day of after-school tryouts, twenty-something freshmen were bused to the middle school since the high school gym was taken up with varsity tryouts. We walked into the gymnasium and were told to line up on the baseline. It was time for sprints to see who was in shape and who wasn’t. I wasn’t worried about this part - I was always fast and agile. Sure enough, while I never won a sprint, I was always one of the top three or four. After we’d run about a dozen sets, Coach Steadman pulled seven boys to the side and told them to go to the other end of the gym and shoot around. I could tell those boys were considered to be good enough they would be on the team, if not the starting rotation. Coach Steadman then told the rest of us we would be playing one-on-one on the three goals on that end of the court. If you lose you’re effectively cut from the team. I’ll spare you the details but I eventually lost a game. That was a long bus ride back to the high school followed by an even longer walk home.
When I got to school the next day, the few friends of mine who knew about tryouts were apologetic. While I had initially fumed about the way I got cut - since I considered myself to be a better basketball player than some of those who’d managed to make the team - I got over it quickly enough. What helped was that a couple of my fellow freshmen were trying out for varsity soccer and they encouraged me to try out since there were three days left to make the squad. I had played enough soccer in gym classes to know I was good at the sport known as ‘the beautiful game.’ So I joined another few dozen boys out on the practice football field that afternoon after school.
It became apparent at soccer tryouts that I could easily make the team since Coach Kennette said he was keeping 36 players. I looked around and made a rough head count and I came up with three dozen. Those of us who made it were responsible for getting our own socks, shin guards and cleats. The rest of our uniform would be provided by the school. Our coach was a great guy who probably learned about soccer from some books in the school library. Coach K was teaching my science class at the high school and was also one of the assistant football coaches. Coach may not have been a maestro when it came to the beautiful game’s Xs and Os, but he more than made up for that by being certain we had plenty of stamina. What helped me out during tryouts as well as during the season was I could run nonstop back then.
Me and my frosh friends found out the following Monday morning that we’d all made the varsity soccer team. I don't believe anyone got cut. I even got some playing time towards the end of lopsided games and probably played a half-dozen times for about fifteenish minutes on each occasion. My speed and relatively good foot/eye coordination didn’t go unnoticed by some of the older guys on the team and a few of them took me under their wing. They even made a point of acknowledging me as we would pass each other in the hallways between classes. I’ve never forgotten the kindness shown to me by those guys. It was through these young men I began to understand, for the first time in my life, what a brotherhood felt like, which was a sensation I’d never experienced with anyone in my own family. But these guys on my soccer team, most of whom were two to three years older than me, were like the big brothers I never had. During bus rides to away games they entertained us new recruits with tales of bravado that kept us rolling with laughter. It made me want to be just like them, to follow in their footsteps. Their inclusion of me provided a sense of purpose, which allowed me to develop a better sense of self. It gave me something to aim for that was much bigger than anything I’d ever experienced growing up with a family who could best be described as feckless for continuously setting the bar so low.
While those ‘big brothers’ made me feel like I belonged in some place other than my own home - where I was being ignored by my ol’ man solely because I wanted to do the right thing - Coach Kennette gave us something else: a sturdy foundation. That is, he ran our tails off in order to make each of us more powerful. Every practice began with three laps around the asphalt track which bordered our practice field. If you were late, then you ran an extra lap for every minute you missed the three o’clock start time, rain or shine. Afterwards we did conditioning drills. That was followed by full-sided scrimmages on the entire field. Those were brutal at times, including broken bones on more than a couple of occasions. I even broke my nose on that field, in a collision during a scrimmage against a team from Greenville, and still finished the game. My teammates thought it was cool that I had blood all over the front of my jersey. It helped that I didn't shed a tear. I guess that’s my own tale of bravado, now that I think about it.
The most grueling part was the end of each practice. Many of our workouts went until dusk. Inevitably, Coach would blow his whistle to indicate the scrimmage was over, which meant hill sprints. We would all slowly meander over to the base of the grassy hill that connected the practice field to the school’s parking lot. We would then line up side-by side, and on Coach’s whistle, sprint up it as fast as we could go. When the last guy made it up, Coach blew his whistle again and we trotted back down to the bottom. Then we waited on his whistle and repeated that procedure. The joke was Coach wouldn’t stop until someone threw up. On a few occasions, one or more of my teammates would really lose their lunch, right there on that hill. Those suicide sprints, on such weary legs, were hard on everyone and I vividly recall enduring physical pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I also knew better than to not run on Coach’s command. Quitting was never an option and my entire band of soccer playing brothers knew it. We understood that each of us would train as hard as possible and would always give our best. That’s what Coach K instilled in each of us.
An interesting thing happened around mid-season my freshman year. We realized we could outrun teams late in games, and we could do so because we were in better shape, thanks to Coach’s training regimen. We ended up being competitive in games against teams that had more talent. I didn’t realize it then, but I was being taught an extremely valuable lesson. I was being taught the importance of putting in the work and training your body while also training your brain. It subsequently taught me the value of patience and perseverance. That’s something I’ve carried with me my entire life. Without going into any specifics I can tell you I’ve since made my share of diving outfield catches I’ve turned into double plays, I’ve scored a soccer goal from mid-field in a men’s league game, and I’ve shot more walk-off game winning three-pointers in adult basketball games than I can count. But I didn’t just show up and do those things randomly, I trained really hard to be able to put myself in a position to be better than I was the day before. If you were keeping score then I was going to figure out how to beat you. If you didn’t like it then don’t keep score. I’ve also ridden a bicycle over two hundred miles, non-stop, in fifteen hours and I even rode my bike a hundred miles to the top of Mount Mitchell, the highest accessible peak east of the Mississippi and a very popular climb for any cycling enthusiast. I once ran 26.2 miles because I wondered what the big deal was about running a marathon. I got a blister on my heel and only stopped once for water at a fast-food joint on the side of the road. I can also produce one or more people to validate each of those achievements. I’m convinced that the only way I was able to do those things is because Coach Kennette taught me how to prepare myself physically and mentally to be really good at something. He taught me it was okay to struggle, but it wasn’t okay to quit. That awareness of myself pretty much sums up my life. It’s also a significant part of what has enabled me to tell my story. If I had not been patient, if I had not been willing to persevere, if I had not been prepared to put in the work I would’ve never, ever known the truth.
In 1976 I didn’t yet know how elusive the truth would be. I had no clue it’d be another forty-five years before I’d uncover answers to life-long mysteries about myself. Think about that for a moment: 45 years. That’s over sixteen thousand days, or about twenty-four million minutes, which is the same as 1.5 billion seconds. That’s a lot of zeroes. However you decide to look at it, that’s how long it took me to figure out that blood really is thicker than water and home isn’t really a place, it’s an emotion you experience when you’re finally surrounded by those who love you for who you really are.
© 2023 Joseph Phillip Lister Sr.
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