For me it's basketball. Here's a few things I wrote about it over the years, it's about the only good thing I've ever written. What do you guys love to do? Do you have any pictures of you doing it, or anything you wrote about it?
June 27, 2004 Sunday 12:40 AM
I think I play basketball because no matter how well or poor I do it?s the only point in my life when I don?t feel like a loser. I completely forget who I am when I?m playing, or what awaits after the game is over, and that?s a good thing. Tonight the games went for 3 hours; it was like 3 hours of amnesia. As I pull out from the parking lot onto the road I start to remember everything piece by piece, and the closer I get to home the lower I feel. By the time I get back here and write all this, I wish I could be back on the court again, completely unaware of anything outside the yellow lines there. I know there are a lot of things that I have to take responsibility for in my life, and I?m trying to. Even when I?m doing things I should, like working, I still don?t feel fulfilled. And when I?m home, I feel like I?m killing my mom. Absolutely killing her. I don?t believe how bad I?ve failed in life. I want to succeed, but I?m spinning my wheels right now. Everything feels like a struggle. So at the end of everyday I go to the courts and just shoot, or play. Eventually I tire, and I actually start to shoot better, because I relax, and within a few minutes I?ve forgotten all about everything else in my life, who I am, or any of that. I?m just a person on the court. I love the ebb and flow of the game when everyone?s tired from fast-breaking and it slows down and then everyone catches their second winds at once and we?re off again, careening down the court, taking wild shots, whipping the ball down court, weaving in and out all the way down the court. It reminds me of watching the hummingbirds that come to the feeder outside, zigging and zagging in the air. I never want to stop, or take breaks when I?m out there, I want to keep playing, it?s like I?m running further and further every time I play, and if I play long enough I might wind up far enough away from where I am now.
April 1, 2005 Friday 9:00 PM
When I was playing this summer in back of town hall in Southwick I came to realize that I don?t feel like I?m playing a man-made game. It doesn?t feel like someone in Springfield nailed a peach basket up at a YMCA. It feels like something hard-wired into our genetic code, something that?s been around since the beginning of time like the baskets at either end are just as natural as trees, and the tar is the same as a field between those two. I can?t emphasize this enough, or explain it in words I know.
August 13, 2006 Sunday 9:46 PM
Tonight once again I was behind Southwick?s city hall. A 4 on 4 was going on one of the half courts and I shot by myself on the other. My shot is awkward and disjointed and I get frustrated and keep shooting until I forget why I was frustrated in the first place and suddenly I realize I?ve hit five or six shots in a row. To me there?s nothing more satisfying than the snap of the twin when a shot goes through without hitting the rim. Nothing. Not eating a great meal, not climaxing, not seeing a girl I love smile, not listening to my favorite song. For me it?s my favorite thing in the world. The flip side to that coin is that nothing?s more frustrating; nothing digs into the very bottom of my chest, like the sound of the ball hitting the iron. It?s the same feeling I get when I fail over and over to do some task. There are times in life when I mess something up or get in trouble, and I actually hear that dull clunking sound of a terrible shot that bites the back of the rim, or hits the backboard and caroms off. Sometimes a shot hits the inside of the rim as it?s going through and the sound of iron mixes with the sound of net. That sound is terrifying. The best shots though are the ones that are lined up perfectly where the motion in my shot is fluid and the ball doesn?t go through the hoop, it snaps through it, and the net sounds like two fingers snapping. I love that sound. There?s purpose behind it, it?s deliberate, forceful. I could shoot all night if I heard that even just every few minutes. Tonight was a good night; I heard that sound about 50 times in a half hour. There are other shots too, ones that go in, get all net, but the form of the shot wasn?t quite perfect, and so the net doesn?t really snap. It?s more of a dull, damp sound when those shots go in. Those are about 10% as satisfying as the great shots. Of course there are also the kind that are angled so perfectly that the net doesn?t even move. No sound from those at all. There?s a sort of satisfaction in those shots, they?re stealthy. Tonight I wanted to drive past the old home on South Loomis Street so I couldn?t shoot for a long time. Eventually I hit the quintessential perfect shot: Perfect jump, perfect release point, perfect snap of the wrist, the ball arcs through perfectly, the net snaps, and then implodes back up through the rim, and it?s left hanging inside out. I left after that one. I get in my car and drive down the familiar roads in the darkness, till I get to the old house, and see the cars parked in the driveway, and the light on in the living room and the new paint scheme. I think to myself ?I used to pull out of that driveway on my way to college, when the semesters would begin again?. I thought of coming home after work there and of all the evenings. I listened to the frogs in the swamp, and the bugs making rasping sounds with their wings and their legs. I remember all the time I spent there, happy, and always aware it wouldn?t last forever, so enjoying it while it did. Then I drove down South Loomis, turned onto Kline, and headed home.
June 27, 2004 Sunday 12:40 AM
I think I play basketball because no matter how well or poor I do it?s the only point in my life when I don?t feel like a loser. I completely forget who I am when I?m playing, or what awaits after the game is over, and that?s a good thing. Tonight the games went for 3 hours; it was like 3 hours of amnesia. As I pull out from the parking lot onto the road I start to remember everything piece by piece, and the closer I get to home the lower I feel. By the time I get back here and write all this, I wish I could be back on the court again, completely unaware of anything outside the yellow lines there. I know there are a lot of things that I have to take responsibility for in my life, and I?m trying to. Even when I?m doing things I should, like working, I still don?t feel fulfilled. And when I?m home, I feel like I?m killing my mom. Absolutely killing her. I don?t believe how bad I?ve failed in life. I want to succeed, but I?m spinning my wheels right now. Everything feels like a struggle. So at the end of everyday I go to the courts and just shoot, or play. Eventually I tire, and I actually start to shoot better, because I relax, and within a few minutes I?ve forgotten all about everything else in my life, who I am, or any of that. I?m just a person on the court. I love the ebb and flow of the game when everyone?s tired from fast-breaking and it slows down and then everyone catches their second winds at once and we?re off again, careening down the court, taking wild shots, whipping the ball down court, weaving in and out all the way down the court. It reminds me of watching the hummingbirds that come to the feeder outside, zigging and zagging in the air. I never want to stop, or take breaks when I?m out there, I want to keep playing, it?s like I?m running further and further every time I play, and if I play long enough I might wind up far enough away from where I am now.
April 1, 2005 Friday 9:00 PM
When I was playing this summer in back of town hall in Southwick I came to realize that I don?t feel like I?m playing a man-made game. It doesn?t feel like someone in Springfield nailed a peach basket up at a YMCA. It feels like something hard-wired into our genetic code, something that?s been around since the beginning of time like the baskets at either end are just as natural as trees, and the tar is the same as a field between those two. I can?t emphasize this enough, or explain it in words I know.
August 13, 2006 Sunday 9:46 PM
Tonight once again I was behind Southwick?s city hall. A 4 on 4 was going on one of the half courts and I shot by myself on the other. My shot is awkward and disjointed and I get frustrated and keep shooting until I forget why I was frustrated in the first place and suddenly I realize I?ve hit five or six shots in a row. To me there?s nothing more satisfying than the snap of the twin when a shot goes through without hitting the rim. Nothing. Not eating a great meal, not climaxing, not seeing a girl I love smile, not listening to my favorite song. For me it?s my favorite thing in the world. The flip side to that coin is that nothing?s more frustrating; nothing digs into the very bottom of my chest, like the sound of the ball hitting the iron. It?s the same feeling I get when I fail over and over to do some task. There are times in life when I mess something up or get in trouble, and I actually hear that dull clunking sound of a terrible shot that bites the back of the rim, or hits the backboard and caroms off. Sometimes a shot hits the inside of the rim as it?s going through and the sound of iron mixes with the sound of net. That sound is terrifying. The best shots though are the ones that are lined up perfectly where the motion in my shot is fluid and the ball doesn?t go through the hoop, it snaps through it, and the net sounds like two fingers snapping. I love that sound. There?s purpose behind it, it?s deliberate, forceful. I could shoot all night if I heard that even just every few minutes. Tonight was a good night; I heard that sound about 50 times in a half hour. There are other shots too, ones that go in, get all net, but the form of the shot wasn?t quite perfect, and so the net doesn?t really snap. It?s more of a dull, damp sound when those shots go in. Those are about 10% as satisfying as the great shots. Of course there are also the kind that are angled so perfectly that the net doesn?t even move. No sound from those at all. There?s a sort of satisfaction in those shots, they?re stealthy. Tonight I wanted to drive past the old home on South Loomis Street so I couldn?t shoot for a long time. Eventually I hit the quintessential perfect shot: Perfect jump, perfect release point, perfect snap of the wrist, the ball arcs through perfectly, the net snaps, and then implodes back up through the rim, and it?s left hanging inside out. I left after that one. I get in my car and drive down the familiar roads in the darkness, till I get to the old house, and see the cars parked in the driveway, and the light on in the living room and the new paint scheme. I think to myself ?I used to pull out of that driveway on my way to college, when the semesters would begin again?. I thought of coming home after work there and of all the evenings. I listened to the frogs in the swamp, and the bugs making rasping sounds with their wings and their legs. I remember all the time I spent there, happy, and always aware it wouldn?t last forever, so enjoying it while it did. Then I drove down South Loomis, turned onto Kline, and headed home.