It's Called Home

Before any three-point shot is made in a basketball game, there is a split second of silence; it is the second for which the energy throughout the gym has been built up to; at this specific moment, the crowd rides on the edge of their discolored and splinter-ridden benches that hardly ever find a time to quit shaking. For a split second, the embarrassment of the freshman who wore purple instead of green--obviously misreading the Facebook post sent out by leadership--is not completely forgotten but blurred temporarily. For a split second, the obnoxious football team seated front row restrains from making a rude comment about a player’s coach of the opposing team, about a player’s shoes of the opposing team, or about a player’s mother of the opposing team. For a split second, a girl becomes hypnotized by the ball in the air and quits complaining about her cramped legs and her sore back being drilled by the anxious knees behind her and the boy two rows up who keeps calling her name and her annoying friends who continue tapping her on the shoulder and how awkward it feels to be sitting right below her ex-boyfriend of six months, directly above the kid she kissed last summer, and closely next to the sweetheart she wishes would ask her out tonight. For a split second, everyone can catch their breath, by holding it in.

About an hour before this time, I stood holding a microphone beside our boys’ team bench. From this side of the gym, perspiration from the boys warming up is noticeable, but notnearly as foul as when they’ll high-five us at half time. Across from the student section, with all focus on my next move, I turned to glance at our American flag hung like a banner on the far-side of the gym by the entrance. Here is usually when the rushing mob of students and parents at the door is paused and forced to sit through my rendition of our National Anthem “The Star Spangled Banner.” A string of efforts are enforced by coaches and teachers to settle the enthusiasm of the crowd, and although sometimes it takes a couple minutes, eventually I’m awarded a few seconds of silence. I sing. Most listen. Everyone cheers. During the performance, my eyes wander to the rafters and hanging lights which were just recently replaced by our Sports Director seeing that our Varsity Boys’ Team has been playing well this year. I often stare at the Team Boards with the basketball names of players listed in disgust. It’s ironic that the Boys’ Basketball Board remains untouched, wooden with green and gold lining while the Girls’ Board has a crack in the center thanks to soccer balls kicking the plastic frame guarding names printed out in red color: Respect for girls’ athletics at Casa Grande continues to struggle.

Ten hours previous of this, the gym may as well have been a ghost land. Rather than a split second or few seconds of silence, a girl couldn’t get enough quiet in the empty arena. I sat at the center of the floor, tracing my fingertips along edges of the numerous wood planks that created the court. Facing the opposite direction of the flag, a full wall of over 100 red and blue championship pennants are hung that morph into a bluish-red spiral if you stare at it long enough. At one end of this wall is the Boys’ Team Room and at the other end is the Girls’. Both doors haven’t been replaced since the 70s—no this is not an exaggeration—and this is confirmed by the throwback font and outdated brown and yellow coloring that’s even peeling on the girls’ upper left hand corner. I put my cheek on the ground. It’s currently seven in the morning, and the only time the floor of the Casa Grande Gym is warmer than the air inside of it. Lines of blue, red, green, black, and even orange are spread out in continuous lines for volleyball, basketball, badminton, and any other school teams that wake up Saturday morning and commit to practice not only representing themselves and their team, but representing their school as well. Before a tough conditioning practice for two hours, my imagination explores that heroic feeling of hitting a three. Exhausted, pressured, determined—every player dreams of swishing that magical three-point basket.

Once again, I am brought back to reality, wrapped up in my split second breather from the stands. The shot is taken. As the ball rolls off his fingertips, the clock ticks down to the last seconds in the fourth quarter. He has my attention. He has everyone’s attention. He has practiced this shot on a floor where blood has been spilled, dreams have been crushed, and hearts have been poured out and dedicated to the team on a day-to-day basis. In his eyes, I see his thoughts swirling. All of his work, time, and effort crammed into a split second. Swish! The player leaps in the air as the fans shoot out of their seats. From fist-pumps to high-fives, the rejoicing continues even after the buzzer has ended. Although the game is finished, and the fans will go home, that player won’t leave the gym for another hour or more; he will stand at the spot of his three-point shot, reliving the play in his head a thousand times over, thanking his coaches for pushing him to complete one more drill at practice and thanking himself for pushing himself to make that extra basket during scrimmages; he will stand their until the janitor kicks him out, and even then, he won’t ever forget those three points. To a student, the Casa Grande Gymnasium is an event; to a performer, the open court is a stage; to a player, it’s called home.

--Allie