My 7 A.M. Addiction

Three mornings a week, I play basketball with a rotating assembly of YMCA members. Even when I’ve worked through the night or late into it, my groggy eyes and tired bones make their way to that rubberized floor and those glass backboards.
I’ve been trying to discover why I’m addicted to the environment.
See, despite my height, I hold no inherent basketball skills. My reaction time is slow, making me a disappointing rebounder and an easy defender to juke out of your way. I struggle to do any repetitive mechanical movement consistently—even something as simple as a layup, let alone three pointers (of which I’ve made two in the past 28 months). Without jerseys, I struggle to recognize who’s on my team, which is partly why I typically lead everyone in turnovers.
I probably just need lots of hours in the gym, preferably with coaching (which I used to get from the original crew); but I settle for three hours a week with some former high school standouts and savvy middle age men.
I don’t think it’s just the community, as I don’t hang out with these guys outside of the gym. The conversations rarely move past the general masculine fare.
I think it’s partly the shot to overcome my lot, to catch lightning in a bottle. I’ve had those seemingly random mornings, when I’ve led my winning team in scoring and made some unlikely shots—when “Ryan” and “on fire” got dropped into the same sentence.
That lottery jackpot lures me out of bed, but it’s more than that. It’s the phrases like “Great pass!” or “Nice pick!” or “Good defense!” that wash over me. Even better, it’s the highest compliment someone can give me on the court: “Good hustle, Ryan!”
Hustle is the one thing I can control, the attribute I should be able to consistently offer my team mates. Over the past few decades, effort has often supplied my default personal assurance. When I’ve been late meeting a clients’ deadlines expectations, I’ve often (unprofessionally) listed for them the work I’ve done during their wait, trying to get to their work. When things have grown ragged between me and Crystal, I’ve responded by doing more acts of service, writing more romantic words, spending more money—trying to convince her I’m throwing my back into our relationship. When I’ve drifted from God, I’ve followed a similar path—despite that not being a biblically-appropriate motivation or response.
I remember in Baptist grade school, we had an honor roll and a list called the “Nehemiah Wall Builders.” Regardless of grades, teachers quarterly nominated their students who tried their best to the latter. Honor roll was cake, but I knew Dad wanted to see my name on that second list. And there it made it for most, if not all, of the twelve report cards he and Mom saw from fourth through sixth grades.
As I’ve been learning to allow grace into my relationships with God and people—to show grace and accept grace in return—I’m growing less dependent on my personal litmus tests to define them. For this recovering Pharisee, that process can be one step forward and two steps back.
But the one place where it’s still acceptable to fight for that spot on the Nehemiah Wall Builders list is in the Jamerson YMCA gym—not for anyone else to see my name there but for me to know it’s there. So, you know where to find me next Monday, Wednesday, and Friday between seven and eight in the morning.
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