Butterflies that paralyze

There were so many minutes, and so many butterflies. I was about 12, and I played Biddy basketball. It was, and is, a town basketball league for teens in Rutherford, NJ, where I grew up. My dad would drive me across town to Union School, where I had most of my games, or sometimes to Pierrepont school. And the whole way there, the buterflies would float around in my stomach. I would start to sweat, and stop talking.

The car ride was short, but it felt like an eternity. And throughout, silence. My dad would drive, and I would sit paralyzed, fretting about the upcoming game. It was the same every game. We would arrive, I would get changed, and go down on the floor to meet my team. They all seemed so relaxed, and ready to play. I was a nervous wreck, worried that I would trip on my laces and fall on my face in front of over a hundred people. Or so the crowd seemed. It was big, and I felt tiny in front of its collective glare.

I guess I am kind of masochistic, because I played in this league for at least two years, and then for another called CYO. I always got those butterflies there too. They never forgot about me. And they always paralyzed. I still get them from time to time. But not when playing basketball.