The Pass

There are moments that redefine our notions of certain words. This was one of them.

Last Sunday, I threw a left-handed behind-the-back pass through the legs of the defender right on target to a teammate. It was easily the high point of my life.

A guy I've played with for many years, Joe*,- who has me by only a couple of inches, but is wider than I am- was guarding me. I received the ball and faked as if I was going to throw a pass through his legs. He shut that window tight. I decided to move and see what would happen.

I took one dribble to the left and saw his legs spreading apart. I had a better angle to go through Joe's legs if I went behind my back; plus it gave me the added bonus of creating deception. He was moving to his right so that I wouldn't go by him. His right leg went first, providing the opportunity to pass it through his legs. I let it go and it was a thing of beauty.

It was as if I was playing miniature golf and his legs were the clown’s mouth, opening just in time to let the ball go through. Except that I did it left-handed, went behind my back, and the obstacle was capable of free will.

There are a few accomplishments that I'm proud of in my life. I was able to observe the fast for the holy month of Ramadan in support of my friend. After struggling in high school, I turned things around in college and eventually achieved a master's degree. When a family member dies, I feel that I have been a pillar of strength for my family. I'm proud of those things. But all of them combined pale in comparison to The Pass.

My teammate Mike received The Pass. I had hoped that The Pass would inspire Mike to make a strong move against the man guarding him; his defender had started in front of Mike on their high school team. Instead, Mike meekly passed the ball back to me and I missed a chip shot, far too please with what I had just done to concentrate.


Author's note
* names have been changed to prevent the humiliation of the innocent