Admission To That Sacred Place
Somewhere around two minutes into the second quarter, I saw it in her eyes. She had slipped inside the curtain to the place they don’t sell tickets to. It didn’t matter that there weren’t many people in the arena. It didn’t matter who the opponent was. She had entered a place where names, numbers, time, and score become immaterial--because she held them all in the palm of her hand.
She made an early first-quarter mid-range jumper in transition--the typical kind that good guards make when their defender is a step behind. Neither the shot itself nor the situation that birthed it was especially extraordinary, but the rhythm of her body in the moment gave me pause. I was on the far end sideline, behind her. There was a lot I couldn’t see, but she landed like she knew. She bounced the way great players do when they don’t need confirmation from the rim.
Throughout the 40 minutes, she made baskets in about every way imaginable. She pulled defenders out with the bounce as if they were tied to her finger by a string, then once she’d opened a chasm wide enough to fit through, she’d blow by them to the rim. She dragged those charged with containing her toward the basket, then left them there as she stepped back into space to rise and release. She scored with her back to the basket… she scored facing…she made catch-and-shoot corner threes…she made freethrows like a cocky coach shooting with her eyes closed at summer camp. She did just about whatever she wanted, and the other team seemed to know there wasn’t much they could do about any of it.
That’s how it is for all involved when an athlete enters “the zone.”
Admission to this sacred space is paid for far in advance of arrival. The ticket is printed the old-fashioned way—one shot at a time, one move at a time, one experiment at a time—in an empty gym or on a lonely court to the beat of an overplayed playlist. Here, failures dwarf success. Here, as much time is spent chasing booted balls and scuds as it is taking shots at the hoop. But this is where the skill gets built. This is where a player with the ball in her hands learns how to get a defender’s shoulders leaning, how to tie up his feet, how to lull and trick him, how to make him foul (without him being there at all.) She spends hours making make-believe defenders jumpy as she dreams up ways to get out of binds like a posturing Houdini practicing an escape from a trap that hasn’t even been set yet. She learns through the reps, by using her imagination, to see inside the air.
Retreived from https://ca-times.brightspotcdn.com
“The zone” looks easy from a distance. It looks smooth. Effortless. Like a thing anybody could do. But things that appear to be easy, are usually the result of hours that have been anything but.
When an athlete crosses into the zone, the performance is a gift to all those who get to watch it. It’s like a classic guitar solo. Even those who can’t really understand the notes or how they’re played know they’re witnessing something unique, pure, unreachable to most. And to the music aficionado, the performance has layers that incite awe and appreciation---layers that emanate from an intimate understanding of how hard it is to dig the well from which such magic springs.
I thought, after watching her, about what it must have been like to be in Yankee stadium when Don Larsen threw his World Series perfect game. I recalled what it was like to watch on TV as Michael Jordan scored and scored, flying to an alternate plane, in the infamous “flu game” vs. Utah in 1997. The significance of those two feats was undoubtedly enhanced by the stage upon which they occurred, however, the purity of the performance for an athlete is the same wherever it happens. Being in “the zone” is like being granted full blown access to the skill without having to check in at the gate or show an ID. And it’s an “I remember when” for all who witness it. You don’t forget what you were privy to. It lingers like a family heirloom, growing in value as time passes by.
Do those who flow into the zone continue to live in it? No way. (Even though once it happens people seem to expect it all the time.) That’s not how rare air works. Not exactly anyway. But the hoop will, more often now, look larger to her as she plays. And the ball will feel a little bit smaller, like a toy coming off the index finger of her hand.
The curtain might lift more readily now.
She won’t stay, but she’ll be back. Because the work that granted her permission to enter is the same work that gives her visitation rights to return. All she has to do is let herself in.