The Hardwood
It was a bright and early morning, while the dew made the grass glisten on the school’s football field, I whipped my car into a parking spot nearest the gym. I stepped out of my car and immediately felt the cold breeze pinch my skin with every step. When I walked into the lobby it was that of a salvation to me, I finally escaped the bitter coldness from outside. As I opened the door to enter the actual gym I was greeted instantly by a gust of cool air that coated my arms with a jacket of goose bumps. I quickly gazed the floor only to find an army of faded shoe prints that were still lingering from the last practice. These veteran markings had polluted the court with a thin layer of grip-destroying filth. In my best efforts, I spat on the ground to substitute some sort of grip for my timeworn shoes. I then wiped my shoes, and bounced the ball. The consistent blare of my ball being bounced on the wooden floor reverberated throughout the hollow stadium. With every step I took I could hear squeaks squealing out from each individual plank on the floor. I made my way over to the bench, and got ready for practice.


When the souls of my shoes first hit the court with a choppy step they let out a blunt squeak that was music to my ears. When the practice finally starts, the hardwood is deceiving. At first, it seems generous, the court gives my shoes the traction they need to stop and go efficiently. But as the practice moves on it becomes less and less kindhearted. It demands my respect; I have to constantly wipe my shoes in order to receive any grip from it. As we began the first team sprint of practice, I was looking down at the court. I still see the faint shoe prints from earlier practices. Then suddenly the whistle blew and we all simultaneously took off in a dead sprint towards the opposite baseline. The initial burst of speed off the line causes an almost harmonious squeak. While everyone is mid-stride during the sprint, it is peaceful and quiet; there are no squeaks or screeches. Even then there is only the light taps of everyone’s feet hitting the court. As I run I see the blue-leather padding on the white brick wall that is behind the hoop. Once we break down at the other line and cut back to start running to the original baseline, I am practically at eye level with the court, which creates a blurred reflection of what lies above it. At that moment the hardwood is similar to that of a lake with crystal clear waters, it is absolutely stunning.
Before we start the team scrimmage, I recognize every weak spot on the floor that is hollow. Over a course of time I have become so familiar with the court that I have these “weak spots” memorized. The court and I have a connection; I pour my blood, sweat, and tears into it each day when I practice on it. To any regular person looking at it, they probably just see the standard lines that are painted on the court. I see something else entirely, I look at it and I see memories. Memories of playing brutal practices. Memories of great wins, heartbreaking losses, and inspiring comebacks. Memories that will not soon be forgotten.
At the end of the practice, after the scrimmage and running, the team is released from practice and can go home. However, I stayed get some extra shots in. I grabbed a ball out of my bag and I caressed it all over with both hands to get a better grip on it. I began to dribble it between my legs, and as I rapidly switched my legs back and forth the quick squeaks of my shoes are corresponding of the boom of ball bouncing on the ground. After I dribbled it enough times, I started to put up shots. While I was shooting, I could feel each individual crease on the ball as it released from my hand, I also heard the flicking sound of the ball after it leaves my fingertips. I then heard the tip of my toes tap the floor when I came down from my jump shot. I saw the ball then slide through the net of the hoop creating a crisp sound that can only be described as a swoosh. The ball then fell all the way through the net and bounced on the floor. I listened in silence as it echoed throughout the building. I then picked up my bag and walked out of the gym, and I left my ball on the hardwood for the next practice.