My alarm clock rings at 5:00am Sunday morning. The world outside is still dark, the normally crowded streets vacant. Quiet. Every molecule of my body is screaming to stay in bed. Sleep. But I am already up and moving. I pad through my apartment, donning my shorts, sports bra and t-shirt. The chill of the morning has settled into my bones and I throw on sweats, a sweatshirt and a hat for good measure.
I scarf down a quick breakfast of oatmeal, pack my bag with my basketball shoes bought 10 hours ago, and survey the room. Am I forgetting anything? I glance longingly once more at the still warm covers. Nope. Not today. I trade my bunny slippers for my running shoes, shoulder my backpack and head for the train station.
Taiwan is a country that wakes up late. Most stores don't open until 10am. Gyms typically open at 9am. The trains are scarce at this hour. I wait on a bench on the platform lit with yellow light against the inky sky. Why am I doing this again? The train ride to Taichung takes thirty minutes. I listen to music and try to stay awake.
When I arrive in Taichung, the sky is just starting to lighten. I watch the day transition from dawn to morning as I wait for my ride. 小巴 (Tracy) rolls up on his scooter not long after. We exchanging greetings, I hop on and we zip off to the gym. The sleepiness is gone now. In part because of the chilly air needling my cheeks. In part because I'm excited.
The gym is on the very top floor of an athletic compound. Windows give a panoramic view of the city below. Everyone is huddled on the baseline, changing their shoes, still tucked into the hoods of their sweatshirts. I can hear the whispers of "外国人“ (foreigner) rustle through the group like a breeze. White people are few and far between in this area, let alone at a 6am pick-up game.
I lace up my shoes as the first game starts, chatting a little with Tracy. It has been a long time since I last played basketball, but the ritual is still the same. Shoes. Jog. Warmup. Stretch. Shoot. Miss the first layup. Shoot around the key. A slowly widening circle. Chase the rebound. My muscles stretch and shake off the dust. I'm excited. Nervous. I don't know any Chinese basketball words. How do I tell someone they've got a man on their back? What about cut through the middle? Screen? Switch? Pass? Nice shot? Foul?
When the first game finishes, I'm up. I nod hello to the guys on my team, trying to memorize their faces so I don't pass to the wrong person. I can't tell if they are hesitant to play with a girl.
I've played with men in the past who won't pass to women. Some go too hard, their aggression bordering on intent to hurt. I've also played with older guys who are mostly out for the fun of it, trying to a get a run in on achy knees. Around my father's age or older, they would encourage me to shoot more, take it to hole, rough it up inside. I wonder what it will be like here across the ocean.
My first game back, I'm a bit of a bull in a china shop. It's been a while since I've used these muscles. The brakes are sticking. I'm more handsy than my already bordering-on-a-foul play. I get a couple quick fouls. I dial it back a notch. I don't want to be black listed on my first game back.
Basketball in Taiwan is different. The players are the same. A mixed bag of young kids mentored by older, out of college players and a few middle aged guys thrown in. The court is the same. The lazy transitions, a bit slack defense of a pick-up game is the same. But Taiwan basketball lacks an edge. Not to say that it isn't competitive, that players don't go hard. They do. But there isn't the tension of a match held near a powder keg. In the US there is the underlying current, especially in men's games, but even with women, that has the potential to spark flames. I play well when I play angry. My dad's nearly come to blows over pick-up games in ratty gyms. How quickly we stride to the knife's edge, ready to boil over.
Not in Taiwan, at least, not in my limited experience. Or even my long ago experience in China. It's like there is an understanding that everyone is truly in this for the fun, for the run, for the high that you get off squeaking shoes.
I start to hit my rhythm in the second game. I swat the shit out of a dude's three and the whole gym erupts. I mess up on defense. I run the lanes. I pass to the other team, not once, not twice, but three times. I d-up a younger kid driving to the hoop until he's forced to pass. I sweat and smile and maybe make a shot or two.
In between games I listen to the others ask questions about me. Where's she from? What's she doing here? A long lanky man comes over, the father of a equally lanky high school player who has the skill to play in college, and asks about the shirt I'm wearing.
"Did you play at UW?" He asks.
"No, this is my brother's college. He runs track for them. I played at a smaller college."
He nods and says he has a nephew who attended UW as well. What a small world.
This was my first time playing basketball in almost a year. In my final game, a game I did not know would be my last, I had 13 points and 9 steals in 23 minutes of play. I was on fire. On track for a career high game. I had embraced the potential that had been curled inside me for years. Three minutes into the second half, my career ended with a knee injury. My world collapsed. For a long time, basketball was a festering wound. I could not touch that spot in my heart without pain. I vowed I would never play again.
But basketball waited. Waited until I had traveled 6,000 miles to a tiny island across the world. Waited until I found a new gym, with a new mascot. Waited until bitterness revealed that it had been sadness all along. Waited until I could no longer ignore the itch, the tug, the whisper.
In the second game we are more familiar with each other. I've learned some Chinese words. They know I can take a hit and come back for more. I've slipped into their group just a little. The sun is up and shining through the windows, making the left corner three nearly impossible. I am tired and out of shape, but I want to run forever.
Towards the end of the game, I get a steal. I jump the lane and cruise toward the other end, one man on my hip. At the hoop I gather, lift and make contact. My shoulder hits square in his chest in midair. It gives me the space I need to lay the ball up, high off the glass. It is a move practiced over and over in a college gym with a coach who believed in me; practiced over and over in a community center with a dad who believed in me; practiced over and over until it's natural as breathing. An inhale. A leap. Impact.
The ball drops through the net. The players on the sidelines explode. A grin spreads across my face. Basketball unfurls to fill its rightful place inside my heart.
