The gym was deserted, and the lights were off. Only narrow rays of sunlight through high windows relieved my eyes from a dusk-like dimness.
It had been nearly a decade since I had passed through the large double doors that once had greeted me openly. I sensed they no longer knew me, that perhaps I had passed from their memory long ago.
That was just days ago, and I still feel a sense of intruding despite that building having seemed like home in the summer past.
The floor was bare. There were no scorers’ tables and no chairs. No ball racks or wall banners. Bleachers were folded into the walls, and although baskets were down, the freshness of their nets told me they had seldom been used.
I felt a strange kinship that perhaps that gym and I had both been relegated to antiquity.
It smelled of the mustiness of age. Perhaps that was me.
For no particular reason, I began to walk the sideline of the basketball court in a counter-clockwise direction.
After just a few paces, I sensed my awareness drifting, and blurred black-and-white images emerged as if dancing. They would soon swirl in and out before me and become much like an old-fashioned flashback movie.
I heard sounds. Young girls laughing. The whistles of officials. The ball bouncing on the hard floor as the girls darted about. Packed bleachers rising and falling with volume. My friend Jim is grousing as a coach along the sideline.
It seemed so real as if I had actually returned.
I saw faces. Sara, the fastest fifth grader in the County and always with a big smile. Tall Nicole with her dreary eyes and dark nature. Claire, the ultimate combination of athlete, ambassador, and cover girl. Desi, the brightest eyes to ever grace that gym. Niki, the Russian athlete, and future model. Bridget, the most courageous girl I’ve ever met. My daughter had been the reason that quarter-of-a-century Summer league ever started.
My heart swelled. Melancholy implored fond tears.
Those sounds. Those faces. They overwhelmed me. Nostalgia ruled relentlessly in both impact and duration.
Although my lap around the court was coming to an end, the turbulence within me was not. I began a second lap, and this one would be much different.
As those faces began to fade, I searched for meaning. Why had I become so immersed in those memories? Why had I become so immersed years ago in that mission? The searchlight of my soul sought answers, but all it found was another question, and this one was troubling:
Did anything of those decades amount to anything, or had I just fooled myself into thinking that it was all so important?
My insides were too overwhelmed to find an answer.
Yet, it bothered me.
A lot.
Having no answer caused me to push it all aside, and I felt the notion that I might never revive the question because I wasn’t sure I would survive the answer.
I had poured over twenty years of my life and thousands of dollars into that venture. It was a mission. It was a passion—an almost desperate passion—a craving to give young girls a Summer experience that was the very best it could be.
To me, the number one mission wasn’t just to give them an excellent Summer basketball league and honor everyone as human beings. After all, everyone was someone’s daughter; even if they were orphans, everyone was God’s daughter. They deserved to be honored, treated right, and given the best I could provide.
I bought the best uniforms, hired certified officials, and hand-picked every coach. I rented that gym with double doors because it was the biggest, brightest, and best within 20 miles. It was expensive, but I had to have the best.
I didn’t delegate one ounce of any important task because I knew how things were supposed to be, and I had a driving compulsion to toil for that mission. I could not release anything to anyone else.
Every year, I expanded what we did and how we did it. It became common for me to spend Fridays working until midnight to prepare for Saturday games. I recall two occasions when sunrise awakened me to the fact that I hadn’t slept. I had worked all night.
And it wasn’t just on weekends. Passion drove me every day.
Every
single
day.
For over 24 years.
Despite all of that, nothing ever seemed to me to be enough. I always believed I could do more and do better.
But in the end, did I do enough? Did it actually amount to anything?
Although I was willing to let that question drift to a chasm of forgetfulness, fate had other ideas.
Last week, I was contacted by someone who was one of three guys who helped me start that Summer league long ago.
I hadn’t heard from him in years.
He had some news about his business before our conversation turned to reminiscing about basketball and those whirlwind years of the Summer League.
I told him the story of my recent visit to that gym, including the flashbacks and my wondering if those years had much value. He soothed me for the moment, but it was his subsequent email that I want to share with you, especially those of you who have labored in youth sports.
His words are no longer for me. They are for you, and I hope you will hear them just as if he wrote them directly to you:
“Of course, it meant something! Your work and sacrifice and investment were not just smoke in the wind. They have been worthwhile because you have affected so many people and created many lifetime memories for kids. You did it with all of your heart and to the best that you could, so for that, you should smile. Yet, as good as all those things are, what is much more important is that you did it all with the utmost integrity, decency, and kindness. And for that, God smiles.”
We can’t think that no one noticed.
We can’t wonder if it amounted to anything.
We haven’t labored in anonymity, and scores of people have spoken your name. Be assured that beyond what you will ever see, some memories and smiles make hearts swell and implore fond tears.
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