Fall, 1974 – Quito, Ecuador – Somehow, my tiny expat school can muster up three levels of uniformed boys’ basketball teams. It seems like every guy in grades 7-12 shows up for the after-school tryouts to be either chosen or cut. Seventh and eighth graders are on the same floor with Juniors and Seniors. It’s all drills, skills and fitness assessments. Bragging rights and coolness quotients are at stake. I’m a Freshman this year, and this is my third tryout. I’ve never made it past the first cut. I’m scared to death, but not trying out at all feels like social suicide.
In years past, I would come to school the next day and see if my name was there on the list of guys reporting for for Day Two. Not seeing my name was an embarrassment and a relief: I wasn’t good enough [again] but I was off the hook for the rest of the season if I could live through the gloat-fests some guys had at the losers’ expense.
We all know who the top players are on Day One, but something about this year’s basketball tryouts is different. This year’s Seniors–Jay, Pete, Cesar, “Murph,” “Laurie” and the others–aren’t acting like shoe-ins. They execute every drill as if it mattered, and there’s something else. I see it in the way they hand off the ball after a drill, the way they look you in the eye.
The Seniors laugh and joke as always, but somehow they’ve raised the bar. I’ve never experienced competition like this before. Excellence and respect are contagious. Everyone steps up. Swagger and trash talk disappear.
Toward the end of Day One, most of us are already gasping, but we have to do “wind sprints.” You start at one end of the court and sprint to the foul line. Sprint back. Sprint past the foul line to half court. Sprint back. Sprint to the far foul line, and back again, and then finally sprint across the full court. And back.
The coaches are making it a relay race. We’re divided randomly into teams, motley collections of doomed neophytes, hopeful wannabees, and seasoned athletes. Cesar is on my team.
The whistle blows and the first runners blast out. By the time our guy turns around from the foul line and heads back, Cesar has planted his own foot sideways on the baseline. The runner uses it as a backstop, reverses and races for half court. It’s like launching off a brick wall!
“GO-GO-GO-GO-GO!!” yells Cesar.
I look across the court. Some of the other Seniors are doing the same for their team, posting up to support the runner. The noise in the gym is deafening. We’re all cheering for each other, from the high-scoring, fleet-footed point guards to the bedraggled, knock-kneed stragglers. When I’m tagged, I rocket off of Cesar’s sneaker, too, knowing that he’ll be there urging me on when I get back. When he runs the anchor leg, one of the bigger guys posts up for him. We scream our lungs out for him. I’ve never enjoyed an exhausting race this much. We’re all out there doing our best, and we know it. It feels good. I don’t know which team “won.” It doesn’t matter.
The Seniors continue to raise that bar on Days Two and Three. I know, because I’m also on the floor. After three tries, I’ve made the first cut. I make the second cut, and the third. I get placed on the 3rd Category team. I spend only a few minutes on the court most games. I do my best.
What I remember most from that season is the tryouts, and how the Class of ’75 showed us what good competition looked like.
Memory Bits 
