A PROPER GOODBYE

One of the lamentable casualties of the pandemic for me was the cancellation of weekly basketball at my home church’s gym. This was a big loss. I knew it then and it has remained a big loss. This was more than a game of basketball. This was my church, “fellowshipping” with brothers who have been playing together for close to 20 years. The weekly church happened at my previous home church’s gym on Thursday nights. As far as I was concerned, this was the best gym west of Mississippi. I loved everything about it. The smell of sweat-soaked gym and its polyurethane floor (as well as the occasional intoxicating smell of Korean food from the adjacent kitchen), the sound of my fav sneakers squeaking, skidding on the floor, the unrecognizable yapping and grunting of the players, and the best sound of them all—the ball going through the net (without touching the rim) making addictive swish sound, the sight of inviting open floor punctuated by baskets on both sides of the court and the finger-pointing for approval after making ESPN worthy highlighted plays (followed by someone sounding off the ESPN highlight jingle), the high fives and butt slapping. . . Over the years, some guys celebrated their birthdays choosing to play ball rather than blowing out the candles, bringing enough chilled Gatorade for all to enjoy.

Everything about it has called my name every single week for close to 20 years. My soul knew every Thursday I was back to being a child, ready for an all-day outing all giddy and excited. I played when I was sick and very sick (my wife could not believe I would play) and after just getting back from overseas trips. When I was sick, my made-up unfounded rationale was to sweat it all out. I don’t know where I got that but I would like to say it worked more often than not. Unless I was physically injured to a point I could not play, I was out there, religiously. One time, I broke my right middle finger which took me out for a good 3 months. It was comical to look at the injured finger all wrapped around in a thick brace, and I became self-conscious waving with my right hand to greet people, but I bemoaned the injury every single week, especially on Thursdays.

Over the years, I have identified and deposited a good number of appreciation memories in my “bank of gratitude.” One of the memories is tied to Thursday night basketball. Almost every week after ball driving home, I would let out a big sigh of relief and stress and tell myself I am alive. I can still regurgitate and relive the same feeling. 

All this came to an abrupt ending with no reunion in sight, thanks to the pandemic. It’s been well over 2 years now—until I recently received an email from the organizer of the Thursday ball. He was calling for a reunion in some random gym in Buena Park. In the email, he wrote, “I miss you guys and playing ball with you guys so much. It was bound to come to an end some day but how abruptly it came sucked and it makes me appreciate how good we had it.” I responded almost right away, telling him that I agreed with his sentiment and told him I was in. I circled the date and on the day of ball, I told my wife that I “got butterflies” like a little kid. I showed up right on time and saw a few familiar faces. On the way, my google map assistant took me on a longer route which made me let out unkind words to him. Upon arrival, we promptly uncorked our joys and pleasantries by high five handshakes followed by extended bear hugging which signified a moment of unbridled joy. We knew we missed each other by the way we said hello. Two hours blew by way too fast. 

After the ball, there was a group of guys huddling around, reminiscing the good old younger days. I said, “the saddest to me was the fact we did not have a proper goodbye” which quickly found resonance in all. Driving back home for 40 minutes, I must have grinned from ear to ear the whole time out of sheer joy and satisfaction. In the back of my mind during driving home, the notion of “proper goodbye” remained with me. 

During my college years (feels like a different life), I would randomly drive over to LAX (Los Angeles airport) to process and clear my mind. It was a weird and unexplainable impulse. I knew I somehow was attracted to watching people saying hellos and goodbyes. Perhaps I was drawn to flying toward freedom somewhere far in my subconscious mind, I do not know. My life is imbued and mashed with people I have come to say hellos and goodbyes. In a way, I am who I am because of all the people that have entered and exited my life. Of course, there are people who have entered my life and have found a room in my life, into shaping of who I am and who I am becoming. Not to get too philosophical, we all arrive in this world with a grand hello and end with bodily goodbye to this earth. The life of countless series of hellos and goodbyes is bookended by one big hello and goodbye. All the “comings and goings” in our life shape us who we are, who we are becoming, and teach us how we ought to live, precisely because I believe God is in all comings and goings. 

Back to the ball reunion. In retrospect, what I verbalized to the guys needed to be said for my sake. I celebrated and we celebrated, albeit briefly, the good times and blessings God granted us for close to 2 decades. That chapter was properly closed. There will be other opportunities for ball with the same guys or some new guys. I am now ready to say another hello.