Anonymity Sure Was Comforting

When I played high school basketball, I fouled out of 16 straight games. Friends called me fouler.

Any athletic potential I had on the court evaporated because of nerves. Hand me the ball, make me the center of attention, and I’d simply choke.

I’d miss the easy shot, knock over a teammate or clobber an opponent.

One game in particular finally taught me to take the inevitable choke with some grace.

I was the sixth man on the ninth grade basketball team in Clarkston, Wash. We played Lapwai, Idaho, on the Nez Perce reservation.

My parents worked in Lapwai. The crowd there was full of familiar faces, unlike games in Colton, Wash., or Moscow, Idaho. There was no hiding in Lapwai.

The gym was smaller, fuller and nosier than usual. I kept scanning the crowd, seeing people I knew. And I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that I played for Clarkston.

I was handed the ball to shoot a foul shot and my face grew flush. I threw the ball so abnormally high I heard the crowd go “Geeeeeez” as my shot missed the rim by a foot.

Thirteen can be a fragile age. I wanted to die. Then a Lapwai player caught my eye and laughed. I laughed back.

Sometimes getting your choke out of the way can loosen you up and allow you to go on.

I have a confession to make.

This is my choke column. I have nothing to say. Part of the reason I’m drawing a blank is because I’m afraid to write anything. I’m feeling the pressure of being noticed.

I’ve been staring at this computer screen for three days now. I finally realized that every time I write something, all I can think about is someone reading it.

Part of me kind of thought no one was paying any attention.

Now, just like on the basketball court, somebody passed me a ball and made me the center of attention. What comes next is the air ball that makes the crowd say, “Geeeez, what was that?”

The realization that my column is being read came after several recent encounters.

During an interview, when I introduced myself to a man in the Gonzaga University bookstore, he said: “I know who you are. I’ve seen your column.”

Rep. Jeff Gombosky, D-Spokane, did the same thing.

Sometimes it sneaks up on me when I’m reporting for a story. I was listening to the life story of a German man in Spokane who talked about his boyhood in Poland and Germany.

Out of the blue, he said, “You know, I really liked your column about coming home.”

What pushed me over the edge was a trip to the grocery store, the place where I buy beer and toilet paper. A familiar face across the counter asked, “Do you write for the newspaper?”

“Um, yeah.”

“You do that column.”

“Uh huh,” I said, my face flush.

“I just saw your last one, the one where you didn’t know which shirt to wear,” she said. “You should be proud of who you are.”

I stammered something resembling a “thank you.”

In this column I’ve been writing about personal moments. To me it was like telling a stranger on an airplane things you couldn’t tell your best friend.

I’m less of a stranger now.