The Way Back Machine, Part I: The Tryout

"Everybody on the baseline!"

Suicides. The end of my first real tryout for a basketball team, and I'd have to prove myself through suicides.

That's not dramatic as it sounds. At least, not now, as I understand the literal translation of the name of the drill. To all the non-hoops players out there, here's a brief synopsis of suicides: All the members of a team line up on the end line at one end of the court. At the coach's whistle, everyone takes off in a sprint, touches the foul line, comes back and touches the baseline, then sprints to half court, touches the line, repeat back to the baseline, then to the far foul line and back, before one last sprint from baseline to baseline.

Fast players get it done quickly. The drill ends, they take a second to take a deep breath and watch as the slowpokes make their way back, then step up to the line in anticipation of the next whistle and a repeat of the exercise.

For an overweight, asthmatic, and slow-footed 7th grader, however, it takes much more than a deep breath to compose yourself. I remember slowing to a jog by half court, then trudging along slowly for the last few touches before wheezing to the finish, sometimes falling to the court at the last dash. Time to go again already? I was doomed. The drill was perfectly named. I thought I was going to die.

So here it was, the end of the first tryout for the Woodrow Wilson Middle School boys basketball team. At that point in my life, I was all about basketball. It was all I wanted to do, go outside, shoot baskets, practice free throws, and daydream about a time when someone would pay me lots of money to do so(when I wasn't watching "Saved by the Bell," at least). I wanted to play for the Huskies, then the Jazz, ultimately ending my career on a high note on my way to the Hall of Fame.

But before the glory, there was the small matter of making the middle school team.

The odds were against me. The coach was going to select fifteen 8th graders and ten 7th graders. Everyone else would be cut, something I'd never experienced before. For those 25 spots, about 50 boys were on the court for the two-day tryout. And, sad as it is to realize, I was the fattest kid there. Athletes were supposed to thrive on a run, not grab their inhalers at the first sign of heavy breath.

But I could shoot. I was a good passer, could box out and rebound, and I was determined that the coach would see that. Knowing my disadvantage, I dove for loose balls, set firm picks, and always looked for an open teammate.

And yet, at the end of the night, the suicides were going to kill me.

I ran hard on night one, pushing myself to the point of becoming ill. The ride home, as my friend Tyler's mother drove, I talked little, clutching my stomach and trying hard not to vomit. All I could think of was the running drill, the horrible feeling of finishing last, and I couldn't escape the feeling that my asthma and belly were too much to overcome.

I pushed myself harder on day 2. More diving for the ball. Practicing fundamentals, working for a good shot for a teammate instead of forcing one myself, and always boxing out.

"Everyone on the line!"

Another night, another last place finish, more nausea. I tried talking to the coach, a truly nice man who would next year be my social studies teacher. He gave me a nod of encouragement, but I took no comfort.

We would learn our fate the next day. Before dressing for practice, all tryout players were to meet in the locker rooms, first the 7th graders and then the 8th graders. We sat on benches, waiting for the coach to speak. He looked at his clipboard and began reading names, alphabetically.

Cardinal. D'Aquila. Eagleson. Estabrook. There was no Engelhardt on his list. Many of my friends had made it, kids I'd grown up with playing basketball, but I was not among them now.

The coach attempted to calm the cut players, then left us alone in the locker room. There were about 15 of us who now realized our dreams had fallen short. The word "Wilson" would not be on our chests, at least not on a basketball jersey. Some of the boys began to cry. Sniffles filled the room, followed by profanity.

I took a deep breath, finding strength somewhere. I guess subconsciously, I had already prepared myself for the worst. "It's going to be okay, guys," I said, then smiled.

Alone, I walked downstairs to the pay phone to call my Mom. She was waiting on standby, either to come pick me up immediately or hear some good news. I put the quarter in the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. By the time my mother said "hello," I was already choking on tears. So much for being strong.

But there was always next year....

So, as an 8th grader, I went for another tryout. Show energy, I told myself. Show passion. You must be confident.

Two days later, it was once again time to discover my fate. This time, there would be no coach reading names. We'd find out what happened by reading the list for ourselves.

Mr. Smee, Hook's first mate................ Matt Engelhardt

There were no tears this time around. I'd done it, gotten exactly what I wanted. No, I wouldn't be charging to the hoop as a star power forward. Instead, I found something better: the comic relief in a school play, and a pirate, no less! All the other swashbucklers cast in Peter Pan were 8th graders!

That was when it all changed. The sports dream faded, and a love for the humanities emerged. I was happy. There were no suicides on the stage, only applause and (intended) laughter.

Still, it's hard not to imagine what might of been if I'd just been in a little better shape at the time of that basketball tryout, now 15 years in my past. I wonder, given the weight that I've lost now, if I'd still finish in last place and be in the consolation locker room.

But there's no point in torturing myself. Someday, there will be other tests. And this time, my asthma isn't going to stand in my way.