A Basketball Story

I was lying in bed, lamenting tonight's Spurs' loss, and I wondered if it was healthy to feel so bad after your team loses. Perhaps "so bad" is a bit dramatic. But, yeah, there's a little lump in my throat. I placated myself momentarily by realizing that's probably healthier than the perpetual pursuit of unavailable women. But that's a story I've told too many times. And it's not the one I want to tell tonight.

I tried to remember, while lying in bed, how I felt after Lakers' losses in the 1980s. I couldn't remember any reactions specifically. I only remember jumping up and down on the sofa when they defeated the Celtics during whichever year. And then I remembered 1985...I think it was. And Cheryl Miller and USC. I loved Cheryl Miller. And not the way I love girls now. I wanted to be her. I wanted her last name. I wanted to go to USC on a full basketball scholarship. I wanted to excel at basketball just like she did. I lulled myself to sleep just about every night imagining what I would look like in a USC uniform.
The dreams didn't stop at USC. I wanted to play in the Olympics in 1992. I figured I could do it. I would have had one year under my belt at USC and would have been gold-medal primed. So when the opportunity came when I was 12 to participate in a girls' basketball clinic at USC, I jumped. I begged. I had to go. I had to meet her. I thought that if she saw me play, she would promise me that scholarship. So I went, nervous as possible, and lined up with all the other girls who had my dreams. Rhonda Windham and Cynthia Cooper were also there, both players on that magnificent team, which won two titles. Windham talked to me, told me to start over again on the dribble. My nerves prevented me from being able to concentrate on something I wouldn't be good at until high school. Before the clinic was over, I was called to a group by one of the coordinators. I was chosen to play at halftime of a women's USC-UCLA women's basketball game at the Sports Arena. I got through somehow. I got Cheryl Miller's and Rhonda Windham's autograhps on my size 10 (men's) Reeboks. I was well on my way. The game wasn't as memorable. I was uncomfortable in the shirt, because, as I saw it, it was small enough to fit a large doll. Way too small for my large 12-year-old frame. Self-consciousness abounded, but I managed to score some points. I think. And I heard I was on the news. The whole thing smacked of USC and Cheryl Miller. Trojan blood flowed through my veins. I couldn't be happier. That year, they made it to the finals. The game was to be played on Easter Sunday. Unfortunately, I had to go to church. But I was able to make it back in time. I plopped down in front of the television, excitedly, to watch my team give Linda Sharp and her Texas team a thrashing. It didn't turn out that way, though. USC lost. And it was Cheryl Miller's last game. I couldn't believe it. As the tears fell from my eyes, I somehow knew my dream ended with that loss. Of course, at the time I wasn't to know that my abysmal SAT score and lack of talent were actually the culprits that shattered my USC basketball dream. The loss devastated me. But as I got over that one, I'll get over tonight's. I didn't cry tonight. I don't do that anymore. But it sure sucked ass. Yeah. Thursday. Here's to basketball. And here's to Cheryl Miller.