Sitting in a tennis bubble at age 27 on top of a downtown Denver athletic club. Is this what life amounts to at this age for behind the desk businessmen? A competitive basketball league where their attempts to run of their beer bellies and cubical cellulite with some healthy competition makes them feel like men again. What there they like when they were little boys? What are their dreams? How did they get here? And what is this basketball league reviving inside of them?
Two other women sit on benches of the other side of the gym from me snapping pictures, making their beloved look like superstars. The short, soon to be middle aged desk men glare at the scorekeeper and the refs as if they are the reason for all of their life frustrations. And the whistle blows and it's game time, once again.
The referee. Something about him catches my eye. His number 32 on his shorts. Something tells me this is his art and he watches as these 9 to 5 buffoons butcher his passion. What must that feel like? To know so much more about something than someone ever will and to 90% of the time have to keep it a secret? Maybe all of us have something like that. Some area of natural born expertise that we are given. And whether or not we choose to enhance that gift is up to us.
The ref at the other end of the court splits the black and white stripes of his jersey with his rotund tummy and sports red dreadlocks. His gray facial hair is braided with black and white beads to match his whistle-blowing attire. I wonder how he arrived at this location. Was this once his passion? Is he retired and looking for a hobby? Why is his hair that way? He looks like an artist. Trying to stay in shape.
Funny how all these men from all different walks of life have convened in this very gym for all different reasons, but at the same time, one reason. To play. To forget all else and be in the moment.
The guy to my right wears a pink polo, designer jeans, a conservative, short haircut and some beat up Jordans. Maybe he played basketball in college and now wears a suit, and this is his one time a week to remember his glories past. When does one surrender the grandeur of their dreams and accept reality? That question sounds depressing. Why do priorities change?
Mortality?
Do we realize we are going to die and when that really sets in, does the loftiness of our one envisioned golden destination disappear and do we accept the truth of infinite possibility in the reality we are given?
I look at the ref with the number 32 and he seems different. He doesn't look like the middle aged approaching, 9 to 5, tummy protruding, awkward sneaker wearing, random frustration bursting other men. He looks otherworldly, like his destination is somewhere unique. How is it that he is being forced to exist in this world that seems to be so beneath where he belongs? Not to say that this isn't an integral part of his journey, but he is special.
All of these men will procreate. Or at least most of them will. Soon if not already. How is it that we have arrived at this chapter of life?
These men make me feel sad and I don't know why. I'm sure if I were interacting with them on the street or behind one of their desks, I would feel differently. I would admire their dedication to their wives or dogs or babies. I would envy their homeowner status or upcoming paid vacation and health insurance. But somehow in the midst of the animalistic, passionate basketball floor, I am disappointed. When did these men become old and lame? Is that what's happening to me?
Now, a reader might respond. This is when the real beauty of life begins. The journey becomes internal and wisdom is cultivated and the glitz and the glamour no longer matter. Attempts at showiness become transparent and people are forced to put their money where their mouth is.
A plane flies overhead this tennis bubble with a basketball court inside, on top of this Denver building and I think about the passengers flying to some other destination. All with some purpose. I envy them. Not because I don't want to be here, but because I want to be everywhere at once.
Settling. Sitting still. It's important. Building for growth. Helping someone. Making a difference. It's all so important.
After all this basketball game is going to get these men through their week at work. Maybe some of them will meet a friend here that will introduce them to their future wife. Or maybe one of them will get promoted because they befriended a boss. Or maybe one will be injured and be forced to realize how much he was taking his good health for granted.
Sometimes it all feels so scripted. Like life is one big equation. Like we are all born with a certain recipe and life is one giant baking process. How did I get so existential watching basketball?
Maybe it's that I see how much this means to all of these men. How they envision themselves as the Kobe Bryants on the floor and how much their masculinity seems stoked when they score a basket or push another man down on the floor.
They all have different recipes though, these men. Some are short. Some are tall. Some have spectators. Some don't. One looks like he spends hours in front of the mirror looking at himself. Another I can see up all night with his baby girl, working two jobs and still finding time to exercise. Another, seems a ghost. Maybe he's a woodworker or a craftsman. Why do some of these men evoke stories in my imagination, while others seem unworthy of a mere memory?
After all the questioning, I look at these men and although their bald heads and beer bellies make me feel fearful of death and age, I still wonder where the miracles lie in their lives. And I have no doubt that they are there. In fact, I'm sure within a year, all of their lives will have changed in ways they never could have expected, and this little experience will have served some kind of an integral part of their story in some way.
Maybe they will see the special referee with the number 32 on his shorts one day on the side lines coaching a professional team and they will recollect how he reffed a game of theirs once upon a time.
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