Shooting for Confidence

I’ve always been tall. When I was a child, I was at least a head taller than every other kid in my class. Tucked away in my Wunderkammer (Cabinet of Curiosities), I have a photograph of my fourth-grade class on a field trip to a local playground—the kind shaped like a castle. We gathered in one of the towers for a group photo, and while all of my peers were appropriately sized ten-year-olds in their shorts and tee shirts and velcro sneakers, I loomed in the back wearing a polo shirt and denim capris from the women’s section of Hamrick’s. 

I always felt out of place when I was growing up. I remember being young—still in the single digits—begging my mom for a pair of Christmas footie pajamas from Sears. But every size we tried was too short, and I was forced to endure un-footie pajamas. 

I’d try to blend in with my peers. I grew out my bangs and succumbed to a middle part, accessorized my school uniform with colorful studded belts from Claire’s, and traded my Land’s End slip-ons for a pair of black and purple skate sneakers. 

My middle school English teacher had a thing for pet names. She’d always call the girls “Little (Name)” when she called on them to read in front of the class or answer a question. At that time, I was still holding on to a fair amount of baby weight, which I tried to hide beneath a garish purple sweatshirt with a bright orange Clemson Tigers paw on the front. She never called me “Little Em,’” for which I was grateful. I didn’t trust the middle school boys to keep the obvious to themselves.

“We should try out for the basketball team together,” my best friend said one day. Neither of us was particularly athletic, but it seemed like something fun to do together, so I agreed.

I made the team. She did too, I think, but ended up not playing that season. I’d already had my parents sign the participation form and order my basketball shoes, so I stuck with it. To my surprise, I wasn’t the tallest one on the team. There was one girl even taller than me, a sophomore. 

That first season was a disaster. I still wore glasses, and I took a basketball to the face no less than three times in the first week, splitting the plastic frames right down the middle. I went to school with them hotglued together. When the glue no longer stuck, I’d fasten them together with Scotch or electrical tape. I didn’t want to wear contacts, but when my mom threatened prescription sports goggles, I relented. 

Transitioning back to two eyes wasn’t the only change I experienced. I also lost a lot of weight—turns out sprinting for two hours a day, five days a week, does a number on your body. I learned the rules of the game, how to run a play, how to shoot (elbow in, reach into the cookie jar). I pushed myself out of my comfort zone every day. I challenged myself to do a little better at each practice. I learned to depend on my teammates. And I made some new friends. 

Despite riding the bench that first season and scoring approximately zero points, I felt like I’d found my place. If my best friend hadn’t begged me to try out with her, the following six years would have looked very different. 

I spent my middle and high school years in church, community center, and school gymnasiums. Often, I was the only girl playing pickup basketball with groups of high school- and college-aged boys at the YMCA or the outdoor courts at the park. I played on my school team as well as a couple of Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) teams: the Flames and the Phenoms. On those travel teams, some of the other girls towered over me, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t self conscious about my height.

When I started playing at a more competitive level, I was moved from center to a forward or shooting guard. My coach explained that if I went on to play in college, I wouldn’t be tall enough for a center, so I needed to work on my shooting and ball handling skills. During the summers, I’d spend hours on the back patio, dribbling the purple and black Furman basketball I’d gotten at camp—behind my back and between my legs. I could dribble standing, sitting, squatting, or laying down. I could keep hold of the ball blindfolded or while catching and tossing a tennis ball with my other hand. 

By the time tryouts rolled around my freshman year of high school, I was the only ninth grader who made it through the entire week of varsity tryouts. To my devastation, I got cut on the last day of tryouts and sent back to JV. 

But I didn’t give up. I continued playing AAU in the off season and traveled all around the Carolinas for weekend tournaments. We’d play up to five games a day, and with a team of only six girls, we were exhausted by the end of it—and smelly. We’d take off our high tops between games and romp around in our socks to let our feet air out, but we stayed in our damp uniforms all day. The car rides home were never pleasant. 

For a few weeks during the summer, after AAU wrapped up, our school team was allowed to practice. In the mornings from ten to noon, all of the girls sports teams would get together for strength training and conditioning with one of the football coaches, and a few nights a week, girls basketball had the gym to ourselves for a few hours of summer practice. Middle school, JV, and varsity players would all get together, and we’d scrimmage, work on shooting drills, and stay in shape for the upcoming season. Practice was going well when I broke my ankle. 

July through October was a blur of appointments, scans, and physical therapy appointments. I’d shattered my talus, and while the pain from the injury wasn’t too bad, I had to stay off my foot for weeks. I crutched my way into driver’s ed class and earned my learner’s permit with a boot on my leg. The second day of my sophomore year, I was out of class for surgery, and I came back a day or two later with my leg bound to the knee in a soft cast. If everything went perfectly—which I committed to making happen—I’d be back on my feet just in time for basketball season. 

My doctor cleared me for regular activity just days before basketball tryouts. I’d been going to physical therapy for several weeks at that point, and my left leg was still a shriveled stick in comparison to my right. It would take some time for the muscle to rebuild, but I was back on my feet. I could walk, run, jump, and shoot. I was ready. 

My sophomore season, my first year on varsity, was the best basketball season of my high school years, despite having started with a broken ankle. I was more determined than ever to get an athletic scholarship, and I pushed myself hard at every practice. That spring, I tried out for a new travel ball team. It was more competitive, my coach was a former professional basketball player, and there were college scouts at many of the weekend tournaments we played. 

Despite only being a few months, my time with the SC Phenoms hangs heavy in my memory. I’d go to school all day, drive to the library to work on homework for an hour, and then drive the rest of the way to the West End of town for basketball practice in an unheated/unairconditioned church gymnasium. More often than not, I was the first one there and the last one to leave.

Our team did well—We made it to the AAU national championship at the ESPN Wide World of Sports in Orlando, Florida. We didn’t end up ranking, but I learned a few things at that tournament. First, no matter how hard I worked, I didn’t have the natural athleticism to be a college athlete. Second, hard work and determination spoke louder than my lack of athleticism. While my dreams of playing in college were dashed that summer, I gained something else—respect and confidence. 

Showing up to practice early each day and putting in my best effort, knowing I would never be a starter on my travel ball team or a college athlete, communicated to my coach that I was willing to work hard because I’d committed to do so, even if it didn’t result in more playing time. And while I could have used this revelation as an excuse to slack off, I knew I was still a competitive athlete for my school’s team—we were a small Christian school that played against other small teams. I could be an asset to my school team, learn from my coaches, and encourage the other girls on my travel ball team.

I’m still taller than most people I spend time with. I’m just shy of six feet tall. I stand eye-to-eye with my husband. I have a hard time finding pants that are long enough. I always have to stand in the back row of group photos. But my height doesn’t bother me anymore. 

When I started playing basketball, I didn’t anticipate that it would play such a big role in my development as an individual. I thought it would be something to do with my best friend, but it turned out to be just what I needed to grow into my height and, in turn, myself.