My NBA media dream was forged amid harsh adversity, including two major hurdles. One hurdle was physical. The other was mental. My story begins at two pounds and three ounces. That’s what I weighed as a newborn when ER doctors rushed to intubate my collapsed lungs. Those lungs entered the world three months too soon. An oxygen-deprived, twisted left foot also dangled beneath the wreckage of my nearly miscarried frame.
As I was placed in a helicopter bound for the nearest children’s hospital, my family shared collective tears and prayers when told my odds of survival were less than five percent. However, their earnest entreaties and the latest medical technology fortified my fight for life. Just like the New York Knicks riding the Jalen Brunson barrage to defy seemingly insurmountable fourth-quarter finals odds, I stabilized in my underdog incubator a little more each day.
Before my first round of foot surgeries was performed at the southeast’s preeminent children’s hospital, my father placed a stuffed Big Bird beside me in my artificially heated nest. With the worst outcome avoided and my survival odds rising, my family affectionately likened my large head and tiny body to those of the beloved Sesame Street resident.
As I crawled while lugging an awkward cast for the first three years of my life, being called “Big Bird” by my supporters was light-hearted ribbing compared to the taunts I’d face when beginning school. I learned early on that surgical steel is cold, but the world is much colder.
Insecure about the size difference of my calves, I felt like the away team during each elementary school recess. Classmates shouted “Peg-leg!” when I climbed the slides or hopped on the merry-go-round. I already felt like Reggie Miller at Madison Square Garden. With no friends and trapped in an undersized, deformed body, I sat indoors and watched PBS on most weekends for the first eleven years of my life.
A Welcome Surprise
Then, one weekend at the end of fifth grade, while I brainstormed excuses to stay home from school the following week, something strange happened. The athletic neighborhood kids appeared at my door and told me to grab my dusty Schwinn and follow them to the local park.
At first, I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Beneath my swath of bright blonde hair, I said a thousand Hail Marys as I pumped my bird legs to keep stride with the larger, louder boys who orchestrated my earlier playground torments. As we stepped onto the scorching asphalt, I kept expecting the half-dozen pubescent lions surrounding me to turn rabid and toss me through a basketball net.
Instead, much to the relief of my anxiety-riddled mind, they tossed me what would become my identity in high school and later in life: a Spalding basketball. I suddenly exhaled and felt like young Pete Maravich after his first kiss in the classic biopic: The Birth of a Legend.
Hardwood Habits Pay Off
At age eleven, back when I looked more like a mature eight-year-old, I realized that gaining basketball knowledge and skills was my only hope of escaping the social torment and self-imposed isolation I’d called life until then. That said, I began watching every Atlanta Hawks game on TBS. I also forced my parents to install a Michael Jordan basketball goal beside our garage while I performed every Pistol Pete homework basketball drill on said hoop.
Throughout junior high, as my friend count grew with the number of points and assists I tallied on the local rec league circuit, I became known as Pistol Pete. Though small in stature, I confidently dribbled the ball through my legs and behind my back while sinking baseline three-pointers and reverse layups. Like Ray J. Dennis, I got around well on my clubbed foot, though it still hurt like hell.
Icing my foot and Achilles tendon every night paved the way to a more bearable off-court existence. A girl actually noticed me! Jen and I met at an eighth-grade dance. We talked on the phone every night and passed notes in the hallways. However, I ended things with her because our relationship was cutting into my basketball rituals. High school was approaching, and I had goals.
With Michael Jordan in my driveway and dominating the league, my roundball accomplishments grew alongside my wispy frame. In ninth grade, after being the last player cut from the junior varsity, I led my rec league all-star team to the state sectionals. I also won MVP at the annual Mike Glenn camp.
After a summer of strange hormones and enduring stretch marks, I entered my sophomore year. To my utter shock and delight, the head coach of my school’s state-ranked basketball program asked me to play on his JV squad. Four of my teammates were the same boys who showed up at my door in fifth grade! As high school progressed, I gave a massive F.U. to the physical barriers that had defined me. I was happier than I’d ever been.
Hurdle # 2: A Mental Hell
The thing about good times, though, is they only last for so long. After my high school playing days ended and my buddies moved on after graduation, I spiraled into a world of anxiety, depression, and agoraphobia.
After moving into my grandparents’ basement at age 18, my anxiety and inability to cope with the adult world left me feeling trapped in a torment I never could’ve imagined. As months passed, my body began to tremble constantly, and my thoughts raced uncontrollably. I slept too much and then not at all. Any attempts I made to work or attend college were rebuked sternly by crippling anxiety attacks.
My family and former classmates empathized with me, but couldn’t comprehend my situation. At my lowest, in my early 20s, I went weeks without leaving my room. I no longer drove. I barely ate. I lost faith in anything good I’d previously believed. To make matters worse, I refused every attempt my family made to convince me to seek help. At that point, I spent days in bed while thinking of ways to end my hell.
I couldn’t stand seeing my former classmates get engaged and married, or my relatives thrive while I could barely rise and dress myself. I hated myself. I felt so far from the overachieving athlete I’d been. I no longer cared anything about basketball. I didn’t even watch TV. Nothing made sense to me anymore. Now incapacitated by my crumbling mind, medical intervention was forced upon me.
My Road Back to Life and Another Love Affair with the Game
The intervention saved my life. After years of prideful avoidance, the help I received from a simple trip to a licensed mental health counselor gave me a renewed spirit and hope. After completing weekly visits with Dr. Patel for two years, I felt reborn. No longer chained to panic attacks and irrational fear, I savored each moment of each day given to me. With my mind and body rebuilt, I watched Dwyane Wade carry the 50-win Heat past heavily favored Dallas in the 2006 Finals from my new apartment. I fell in love with the game again.
A few years later, I found my soulmate. Amy and I shared a passion for sports, namely basketball. My tall, intelligent, and uberly unique fiancé also played hoops at our former high school. A year after we tied the knot, she inspired me to finish college and begin writing. She was, and still is, my angel.
The writing path she placed me on led me to an Atlanta Hawks blog, where I became a paid editor. I poured myself into that role. My obsessive analysis caught the eye of a connection who offered me credentialed media access to the team’s facilities. Christmas 2015 came early for my elated wife and me when I received an e-mail from the Atlanta Hawks’ media coordinator.
This Holy Grail correspondence gave me parking instructions and seating assignment details for my debut night on press row. The 45-minute drive I made in my Mustang down I-75 to Phillips Arena the next evening was the best work commute ever. As I drove, excitement raced through my veins between heavy thumps in my proud chest. I don’t know what entering the gates of Heaven is like, but entering the double doors of Media Lot B at Phillips Arena on that frosty winter night was miraculous to me.
My Dream Realized
After security scanned my credentials, my wide-eyed gaze turned to catering, where I feasted on manna while surrounded by the commentary voices that shaped my youth. I then entered the media room where my boss told me to write a pre-game piece.
From there, I was instructed to enter the Atlanta Hawks’ locker room to conduct interviews. As I paced past literal giants, a surreal trance led me to speak with inquisitive conviction as I interviewed Thiago Splitter and Kent Bazemore. I couldn’t believe how kind and down-to-earth they were.
Following the interviews, I went to the bathroom and wiped tears from my face. I’d just experienced the second greatest moment of my otherwise mundane life. After taking notes from press row during the game, I typed a quick recap. I concluded my unforgettable evening by interviewing Atlanta Hawks head coach Mike Budenholzer and chit-chatting with Hawks announcer Bob F’n Ratburn! Uncle Bob patted my shoulder and welcomed me aboard.
While I covered more Hawks games from press row before stepping aside to care for my wife, I’ll never forget that magical night when I first entered the arena and felt like I was actually someone to be proud of.
Man, I love this game.
***
Jay Broom has worked for 12 years as a writer, editor, and author. His most enjoyable work, and probably the best he’s written, is spread across combat sports, NBA basketball, and college football.
This essay was originally by the Medium site, Beyond the Scoreboard.
