A winter has not gone by since I can clearly remember that I have not had to wake up at 6 a.m. to run and lift weights.
A winter has not gone by that I have not trudged into a dark practice gym waiting for my coach to arrive.
Never have I heard squeaking tennis shoes on hardwood that were not in sequence with my own as the team performed defensive slides in cadence.
Indiana's prized sport is in full swing, and for the first time since I could thrust a ball 10 feet in the air, I will not be suiting up.
And it's strange.
I am only 5'10" and slow as my grandma on the freeway. I have no hops and little ball handling capability for someone the size of a college point guard. Despite these setbacks, Division I recruitment letters rolled in my senior year, because of the one thing I could do: I could shoot the rock.
I never dribbled in high school. All I did was run off screens and shoot 3-pointers. Luckily six out of every 10 fell through the hoop. In my three-year varsity career, I nailed 75 treys, hammering out three school records. I guess most colleges didn't care I couldn't see the person standing right next to me or catch a sumo wrestler in a dead sprint. As long as I could shoot like Rob Robbins, who needed other skills?
When I made the tough decision not to play college basketball, I knew I had made the right decision. In four years, I figured basketball wasn't going to amount to anything but heartache when I had to stop playing again. My journalism career will amount to much more.
I may be able to shoot, but I am definitely secure enough to admit the WNBA was not in my future. Rebecca Lobo would block my 3-ball right back into my forehead.
Now that I don't have a uniform (and for the first time ever I have to actually pay money to watch a game), I have to resort to writing about Matt McCollom's behind-the-back pass and Patrick Jackson's five 3-pointers instead of shooting my own.
Although I miss the game a lot, the little things that go along with being a part of a team are making me sappy. There's nothing like pulling on a clean, home-colored jersey. Nothing compares to the butterflies that always flew in my stomach as I stood on the baseline during the national anthem or having little kids look up to you. The coach's intensity during a pep talk gave me energy that nothing ever will.
I should get the team to give me a uniform. Ball boys in baseball get uniforms. I could be a ball girl just as long as the ball didn't roll too far. It would take me awhile to sprint after it.
I want to play on the team, but I'd settle for the uniform and the national anthem. That's all I want. Just one time.
I guess I just need to move on and let go. But every time Rob Robbins pulls up from the Cardinal's beak, I'll remember when that was me.
Write to Rachel at rachelperkins_25@yahoo.com.
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