For the longest time, the basketball court was my home. I remember the first time my dad showed me a Michael Jordan highlight reel, and I immediately went outside and started shooting hoops in my backyard. My backyard was such a peaceful place to play. It was just me, the basketball, and the nice ambience of passing cars in the distance and the nearby church bells. I spent hours there as a kid, yearning to get better. Before I knew it, 8th grade tryouts were coming up. I stuck to the years I put into the game, and I was ready.  I strutted into tryouts confidently, and I showed out. When I read my name on the final cut, I was overjoyed. It was going to be so exciting getting to really play on a team and get better.

But I couldn’t have been any more wrong about how my 8th grade season was going to go.

The first day I walked into practice, the energy shifted automatically. No more peacefulness. No more ringing bells. Only whistles and yelling. The confidence I had built up over my years of training, all gone. Game One came, and I was scared for my life. I could feel my stomach turning in the warm-up lines as the crowd started to form around the court. Parents yelling and music blasting loudly. Players’ sneakers anxiously squeaking against the hardwood. It was an environment full of support, but support that felt extremely hostile. Hilariously, I didn’t even get in the game. I just sat on the cold bench, rubbing my feet together nervously. The air from the gym rushed against my face and made me shiver. All that anxiety for nothing. And the season continued in that direction. In the limited minutes I did get, the only enjoyment I had playing the game I once loved was when I was jogging up and down the court. It makes sense now.

During that next offseason, I didn’t play much basketball. The way I got my exercise in was through the 10-year-old treadmill that I found sitting in the closet. It was the best way to stay in shape during the wintry months.

One day the next summer, my mom came home from the thrift store with a pair of Brooks’ running shoes. She must’ve seen the nice little jogs I had on the treadmill and thought I deserved an improvement in my footwear.  They were my size and they looked cool, so I slipped them on. They felt like pillows on my feet. Curious to see how they worked, I decided to take them for a spin. There’s a term people like to use called a “runner’s high.” In it, you feel no worries, stress, or pain. Pure euphoria. On that first run, I felt more relaxed and calm than I ever had in my entire life. There was a nice summer breeze going. The birds were chirping. There were no people telling me I did the drill wrong.  It was just me and my legs. It’s almost like how I felt with that basketball all of those years ago.

Soon after that, I joined the Cross Country team. From the very first meet, I could tell that there was something different about the sport. Supporters line the sides of the course, ringing bells and shouting encouraging things. Racers smile as they run past. Because that’s the thing. It was never about falling out of love with basketball. It was always the environment. In basketball, coaches and spectators only shouted when I did something wrong. “Wrong play!” “Pass the ball!” In cross country, everyone is rooting for each other positively, and for me that means the world. Don’t get me wrong, I have good memories playing basketball. Sure, it was a stressful environment, but that environment made for some moments where I was able to perform under pressure. It built grit inside of me. For some people, the peacefulness of running is too weird. Some people need the craziness that is brought inside of a basketball arena. I just enjoy that feeling of relaxation while doing something that you love. In that way, playing basketball in my backyard and running are the same. That feeling I used to get from the hours in my driveway shooting relentlessly, I still feel when I’m running. Both are places where I’m trying to better myself and strive for excellence, and the environment shows that. I was just never able to flourish somewhere that created an ambience of anxiousness and discontent all the time. And I think I’m fine with that.

At the end of the day, both places have gotten me to where I am today. I might’ve left the basketball court in the past, but it created a whole part of me that carried over to running. I would never be able to do 3×1200 workouts on the Carrollton course if I hadn’t been in that basketball gym 2 years ago, being pushed by the coaches to run 40 suicides. Even at those cheerful and supportive races, I still sometimes see myself reverting to basketball culture because that environment is really still with me. Even now, I sometimes go back to the basketball court, shooting shots and imagining what could’ve been. But mostly, I just keep on running and running.