(Caution: long post ahead.)

Oh, there he is.

I look up from the fabulous doodles I’ve constructed on the basketball program lying in my lap, and out of the corner of my eye I see him. I’m still surprised that my heart does a little dance.

I can barely make out his face across the court with a dozen near-6-foot, mostly junior players doing three-point drills during warm-up, but I’m pretty sure that’s his frame: athletic beneath gray dress pants, slightly mussed brown hair styled effortlessly perfect, arms folded across a tight chest hidden now by a navy Express dress sweater and button-down shirt. (OK, OK, I’ll stop gushing, gawwsh. Just trying to paint a proper picture. *Smile*)

So I’m alone in the stands at D’s hometown high school, where he’s assistant varsity b’ball coach. So that I’ll remember it all later – and because I’ve got time before the game actually starts – I pull my program back out and write what I see…

Five perky cheerleaders who’ve clearly experimented with Crest White Strips and bottles of peroxide are bouncing around in blue-and-white uniforms, I think to amp up the crowd pre-game but unfortunately no one’s really paying attention. This is Instant Flashback to the glory days when my wardrobe included a varsity cheerleading uniform (that I actually adored) – only these are the wrong colors. Red, white and black, ours were. There’s quite the rumbling drum section in what’s a full pep pand section pounding out a modern version of Mustang Sally, almost in rhythm to the hammering balls and screeching sneakers marking the court out front.

The bleachers vibrate every few seconds against my legs. Those giggling high school kids run up and down, back and forth, like they’ve got a full bladder or something. Because I’m actually liking attending these games, I’ll just have to reconcile myself to reliving high school every week or so, at least till March.

A little boy boasting a toothless smile and happy blue eyes just ran over. “HI! Hihihihihi!” he squealed at me. “Well, hi there. Where’s your mama?” I smile back. He laughed in delight and pointed to some invisible point in midair behind him, then ran off to chat up the couple to my right.

My eyes keep shifting to D, who’s offering what I can discern as pre-game pep talks, and hopefully inspiration, to the players. I’m here tonight to watch him coach. Coach, which is altogether different than witnessing him body check too-aggressive players on the court during City League.

(Yes, at this point I am running out of room on the program, if you were wondering.)

D’s trying to be encouraging. He’s all collared and coach-like tonight, but I can tell he’d love to get out there and warm up with the players, shoot around, show ‘em what a little heart, drive and soul can do for their game. He’s so good at this. I look around at the high school students and think, Man, I’m still intimidated by this scene, these kids who whisper and point and gossip and make other kids’ lives miserable. But D fits in. He’s liked. He can reach these kids. I hope he never gives this up, and it sort of makes me wish I had something outside work and writing and playing journalist that ignited my fire – that did some good for someone else.

They didn’t win the game, his boys. For a lot of reasons, like missed rebounds, bad shots, not putting pressure on the other team, etc. But I’m pretty sure D sees this as a personal challenge. Like he still has x-many games to reach these kids and help them want it.