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Essays:The Doc
by Shaw Feiler
My obsession with the game began on a winter evening.
I was in a house I hated, in a town I despised, on a chair I loathed. I was filled with all the anger and angst only a 13 year old boy can ever understand.
My father was going slowly insane; my mother was in "coping" mode, clinging desperately to whatever she could salvage of a crippled relationship. My brother and I were caught in the middle of this maelstrom, unable to understand or imagine where it would all lead.
So, we sat before our television set on a cold winter evening, fumbling with the reception, trying to get one of the three channels available. We finally managed to tune one to CBS, and there, we watched in amazement as a man named Julius "The Doc" Erving glided effortlessly from the free-throw line to superstardom.
This was not the first time I had seen a televised NBA basketball game, nor would it be the last. It was, however, the most profound moment in my young, confused existence. My imagination was fired by the sight of this athlete, and my overwhelming obsession began.
From that moment, I immersed myself in everything related to basketball: statistics, averages, even the heights and weights of the players I envied. I was caught in what some might consider an unhealthy addiction to a sport, but in a way it was my only escape from the gritty reality I lived.
My brother was far more athletic than I at that age. He was two years older, and maturing rapidly, his physique and co-ordination far surpassing my own.
He would relentlessly drill me on everything: ball-handling, shooting, and defensive technique. I hated him for awhile during that time; my gawkiness was a constant source of ridicule from him. I would go to bed at night, filled with fury at my own ineptness.
Eventually, things changed, however. I began to grow, and move more fluidly. I learned things that most children my age could not begin to comprehend: the art of the backdoor pass, the pick and roll, the high post offense. I learned when an opponent would most likely try to outsmart me, and ways to prevent it.
I gleaned my knowledge from countless books, essays and pure experience. I lived to play basketball. I was only truly alive on the court, sweating, panting and savagely trying to dunk the ball.
As time went by, and years passed, I would never completely lose my obsession. To this day, I thrill at the sight of a pick up hoops game, and feel the driving urge to compete.
I often wonder if things had been different--if I had never seen that game--where I would be now. These thoughts trouble me at times, and then I remember that I am only human. I am prone to the same frailties we’re all prone to, lost without purpose or direction.
I have found my purpose, I believe. I want, with an all consuming drive, to share my love and knowledge of a sport that might very well have saved my life. I want to show the children of this generation that this game is a ballet of skill and technique. It is also a way for the young, and old to escape from the past, and realize the future.
I want to coach basketball.
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Mendocino College Online Journal of the Arts - Spring 2002 Text Version
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