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“Hey, that’s goal-tending,” my then girlfriend, Myra,
angrily protested after I had jumped up and swatted her 3-pointer as it was on
its way down into the hoop.
“Go ahead
and count it,” I shrugged.
We had
decided for some reason that it would be a good idea to play some
one-on-one. Aside from Myra, me, and our
egos, there was no one in the gym. Myra
was two years out of playing college basketball and I was just two years out of
college swimming. Myra brought
considerable skill with her into the situation while all I brought was pride.
I took the
ball out and clumsily attempted to drive past Myra. If I drove too far, she would snatch the ball
from me and laugh as she dribbled back out to the three-point arch. If I pulled up too early, she would face guard
me with the resultant air ball being easily retrieved by her with more accompanying
laughter.
She was
having fun.
I stood
below the rim. She shot. I jumped and swatted. I was not having fun, but at least I was in
control of how I lost.
“You can’t
do that,” Myra said as I again hopped up and knocked the ball away from the
rim.
Myra had
spent hundreds of dollars to travel to Savoonga where I was teaching to watch
me pout as she handily beat me on the court.
“The game’s
not over,” she called after me as I walked off the floor and sat in the
bleachers.
“Yeah,
pretty sure it is,” I moped.
The rest of
the visit went better. We did what I imagine
normal couples do when they date: cooked food together, watched movies, talked,
went for walks.
That summer
Myra came down to Michigan to visit and meet my parents for the first time. The childhood hoop was still up in the
driveway, but I could not remember where I had hid… had stored the ball that
went with it. In place of playing
one-on-one in the oppressive Michigan humidity, we had epic wrestling matches
on the front lawn. Looking back, I
wonder what the neighbors must have thought as we threw each other around.
I snatched
Myra by the legs and pinned her shoulders to the grass.
“Hey, you
cheated,” she complained, angry that I had won.
At that
time, I still filled out my shirts in the arms and chest rather than at the
belly like I do now.
“Rematch?”
I smiled and extended my hand.
She slapped
it away, “Rematch,” she nodded.
I laid off
and slowed down as Myra shot for my legs buckling me.
After
pinning my shoulders to the ground, she pushed off and stood up, “You let me
win,” Myra accused.
“No,” I used
my best earnest innocent voice, “you’re pretty strong, My.”
She wasn’t
buying it, “Rematch for real this time.”
I was
pretty sure that I couldn’t win no matter the outcome.
Again, for
the most part, the rest of her visit went pretty well. We went out to eat, walked along the pier
with a beautiful view of Lake Huron in the background, we went hiking at
Presque Isle Lighthouse, went for drives, attended a high school buddy’s
wedding… normal dating stuff (again, at least how I imagine people must do
it). Myra got on a plane and headed for
Las Vegas where she would be working at a rescue mission for part of the year,
and I headed back up to Alaska and Savoonga for my second year of teaching.
Distance
was a challenge, but we did a lot of writing and calling, and when we met up in
Nome during the Iditarod Basketball Tournament (the one that accompanies the
famous dog race), I carried a ring with me, and I sat and watched her team win
the whole thing.
We did the stereotypical
couple of nights at Alyeska Ski Resort for our honeymoon and then made our way
back to Unalakleet and the North River Bible Camp. The camp is a rustic camp (more so at that
time than now) with no running water or flushing toilets. Since we were newly married, Curtis Ivanoff,
who was running the camp that week for the young adult group attending, set us
up with the honeymoon suite: a tent on a deck with a bottle of sparkling grape
juice.
At the end
of the camp, we moved to Myra’s mom’s house and the comfort of a futon and flushing
toilet. Myra’s mom, Ellen, brought us
berry picking where the wrestling match took up where it had left off the
summer before.
“You two
remind me of a couple of young grizzly bears,” Ellen said to Myra, shaking her
head and laughing. “Look at your kuspuk,”
she pointed to berry stains on the back.
“I beat him
fair and square this time,” Myra answered and Ellen just knowingly laughed in
response.
 |
| Young Love... the table that was the site of the Rumikub battle can be seen just in the back of us. |
That first
year on our own together in Koyuk… the first time we ever lived in the same
community together, was an interesting one best described through what we still
refer to as “the” Rumikub game.
We had
played for what seemed like an hour with both of our trays getting to the point
of a handful of tiles. Myra drew marking
the end of her turn, but could already see where she could play her last
pieces.
That is
when I started rearranging the entire table. I moved pieces from one side to the other creating
entirely new runs pulling tiles from my tray a couple at a time until I sat
with just one in my hand wondering where to put it. I borrowed a twelve from a set made up of all
twelves and then slid another from a run into it to make the three it needed to
remain legal, but then the run was without what it needed and so I tore it
apart moving it into separate strains until all the pieces were used up with
one empty spot that the ten in my hands just dropped into.
A moment of
silence and then I looked up and smiled.
“Ahhhhh! There is no way, you just did that,” Myra
yelled winding up her arm with a tile from her tray.
I ducked
under the table just in time to hear it whizz overhead. Myra stood up to get a better angle on her
target and I started taking evasive action.
Laughing while running did nothing to help me get away or calm my attacker. We were still finding missing tiles in the
guest room across the trailer as well as behind the couch, in the vents, and wedged
in the chair cushions for an entire month after the battle.
I think
both of us wondered if we could survive living under the same roof with each
other. We worked really well on the same
team, but if anything came down to competition, we both played to win with the
same ferocity we had in the college pool or on the college ball court.
Fourteen
years into marriage and just shy of a year after baby Ellen was born, we
brought her to the gym and sat her down with some toys so that Myra and I could
play some one-on-one.
I play
stretched and pulled my socks up as high as they would go all the while looking
for a smile on Myra’s face. Her eyes
betrayed her even though she too played as though she was preparing for battle.
Myra took
the ball out beyond the arch, deftly dribbled between her legs and tried to go
around me, settling for a jumper that crisply snapped through the net.
I retrieved the ball and took it
out, licking one finger and holding it up checking for wind, “Let it rain,” I
sang out as I released, already running for the inevitable rebound while the
ball was still on its upward journey. Three
awkward rebounds and shots later and the score was tied.
Myra again
took the ball out, shot around me and easily laid up the ball. I strutted back out to the arch a look of
absolute concentration on my face.
“Let it
rain,” again I sang out as I hoisted the ball toward the rim, sprinting as it
was still heading heavenward in order to get my own rebound.
I don’t
remember the score of that game or who won, but I do know that neither one of
us was pouting as we sat down with our younger daughter on the floor tired from
laughing more than running. That will to
win is just as strong now that we are middle aged as it was when we did not
quite have fully functioning frontal lobes, but what and how we compete with
each other has changed dramatically.
Maybe just
after we got married I suffered from the illusion that I had won her. Maybe she was under the impression that she
had to beat me. Either way, somewhere
along the line we came to the conclusion that the game’s not over and winning
wasn’t to be the focus. The focus was
supposed to be the game itself all along.
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