Reflections: Quittin’ Time

Tonight’s Sunset at Rend Lake

But you pretend and I pretend / That everything is fine / And though we should be at an end / It’s so hard admittin’ / When it’s quittin’ time

I am the world’s worst quitter.

I can remember only one thing I ever quit in my life, and that was basketball my freshman year of high school.

I started playing basketball on the playground of Main Street School when I was in fourth grade. Rickey, Brad, Tony and I migrated from the baseball/kickball diamond over to the basketball courts. I wasn’t any good at basketball: I was short, slow, not very good at dribbling and couldn’t shoot all that well. Plus I didn’t really like the way the ball got my hands all black and icky from the asphalt playground (hey, I am a girl, after all).

: )

I probably would have given up basketball entirely if not for my teacher, Mrs. Weakly, who told me that I “shouldn’t be playing with the boys all the time, anyway.” That served only to make me more determined to play whatever sport the boys were playing, whenever the season.

Still, I never got any good at basketball. And I didn’t care all that much because I preferred baseball and softball and tennis and badminton and football, anyway. However, I was looking forward to high school because we had a girls’ basketball team, and I was pretty sure I’d be pretty good. Or at least good enough to play.

I was horrible.

I hadn’t grown all that much, I was still slow, and I really couldn’t dribble or shoot all that well. Not good qualities when, obviously, the only spot you can even think about playing is guard — a position that generally requires quickness, good ballhandling skills and the ability to shoot, occasionally.

Added to this was a fact I had not realized whilst shooting hoops on the elementary school court: When you play basketball, what you do most is run. And run. And run. And run. And just when you think you cannot possibly run one more step or your shins are going to explode and/or you’re going to puke up anything you’ve eaten for the past three days, the coach blows the whistle and you know it’s time to run sprints.

Then she makes you shoot free throws and run a wind sprint for every one you miss. Which, for me, always meant additional running because — guess what? — I pretty much sucked at free throws, too.

I lasted about a week as a member of the Shelbyville Rams girls’ basketball team. Or maybe two days, I can’t really remember. All I remember is how much I hated to run and hated being one of the slowest players on the floor, and also how much I hated getting yelled at, basically, for being so bad. (I should note that I was coming off a freshman tennis season in which I was named Most Improved. Which is kind of a nice way of saying, “Yeah, you pretty much sucked at the beginning of the season, but by the end of the year, you could actually keep the ball on the court for a shot or two.” Still, I was flying high after that and thinking that I might actually have a decent high school athletic career ahead of me.)

As much as I hated basketball, though, I hated the idea of quitting even more. And I can’t even say why: Clearly, the coach didn’t think I was any good; I was sure it would be no great loss for the team.

The only person that this decision affected was me.

I mean, here it is, 27 years later, and I’m still thinking about it!

I remember telling the coach I was quitting. She asked me why; I hem-hawed around and gave her some excuse about basketball not being as much fun as I thought it would be, how I guessed I was hoping it would be more like tennis, somehow, and how I just didn’t feel like I was ever going to be as good as the rest of the players. She just stared at me the whole time I babbled and, when I was finished, said, “OK.”

No trying to talk me into staying on the team. No pep talks. Just, “OK.”

I regretted it every day for the rest of the season. I have no idea why.

Sophomore year, I decided to give it another go. I wasn’t any taller or quicker, and I hadn’t done anything in the off-season to improve my ballhandling or shooting skills. It seemed like we had to run more this season than the year before, too, but somehow, I stuck with it. I ended up being one of the last three players on the second string of the JV team — which meant, if we were winning or, more likely, losing a game by 15 points or more in the final two minutes, I would usually get to play.

Di’s 1980-81 Season Stats: Season high, 4 points; season total, 12 points; free throws, 0-f0r-10.

I didn’t bother going out my junior season. By that time, basketball didn’t matter to me at all. (I did go out for manager of the girls’ basketball team my senior year ... only because I had a crush on one of the varsity starters.)

: )

In grade school, when you wanted to break up with the boy or girl you were “going with,” you would “quit” him or her. And usually not face-to-face, either: You’d send your best friend up to deliver the bad news at recess, so that by the time you had to go back inside, you’d officially be broken up.

When I was in sixth grade, for a few weeks during the winter, we learned how to square dance during what would have normally been our morning recess period. Square-dancing was pretty cool, actually; we got to learn how to promenade and do-si-do and all that stuff. Plus, at the time, one of my best friends, Cheri, and I were going with two boys who also happened to be best friends, Dirk and Rickey, so we’d all get to be in the same square every day, along with two other random couples.

One day, Cheri and I decided to quit Dirk and Rickey. For no apparent reason that I can recall. We knew we had to time this quitting very carefully, though; otherwise, we’d end up stuck with who knows what boys.

We decided we’d quit them right after square-dancing that day but before the bell rang to get lined up for lunch.

Just before we headed to our squares, though, Dirk came up to me and Rickey went up to Cheri, and in a flurry of words, delivered the news that our respective boyfriends were quitting US! We were shocked AND angered — not because we were being dumped; I mean, that’s what we wanted in the first place, to break up! — but because they had quit us! The nerve — and right before square-dancing, too!

: (

The four of us stayed in our same square but refused to acknowledge and/or touch each other during the whole session. (Have you ever tried to allemande left without actually touching your partner’s hands? It’s kinda strange, lemme tell ya!)

: )

A girl I loved quit me recently.

She’s quit me a few times before, actually, and every time, if I were to be perfectly honest with myself and the rest of the world, I probably deserved it. One time, I really really deserved it; in fact, I’m not sure how we ever came back from that one, but we did, and I actually allowed myself to believe that if we had somehow gotten through that mess, we just might end up being friends, after all.

I was wrong — and believe me, as much as I hate quitting or being quit, I hate admitting I was wrong even more.

It hurt like hell for a little while, but honestly, somehow, this time didn’t hurt as much as the others because this time, I realized that it wasn’t all about me.

Then I started to realize that very little about our entire relationship was actually about me. And it occurred to me that, as much as I would’ve liked to have pinned that entirely on her, I really couldn’t.

People only wield as much power over you as you allow them.

Like it or not, this girl has been a part of my life for the last six years. She will continue to be a part of the landscape of my mind for a long time to come; that’s how it is when you allow yourself to care about someone.

I am a better person for having known her, and there will be times, I am sure, that I will miss her. And I will feel sad for her and for me because I know, in my heart, that we could’ve been something very good for each other, something very real, if not for the mistakes that we both made.

For now, though, I have quit caring.

It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.