Lessons in remembering

In my hometown, cotton is king and basketball is the stuff dreams are made of.

What I mean to say is that we grow a lot of cotton, and we love, love, love basketball.

If you’ve ever seen the movie Hoosiers, you’d understand my town a little. While that movie is set in Indiana, it may as well be set in small-town Southeast Missouri. While it may be an old-school portrayal of a small town that revolves around its school and that school’s sports, it really does capture the way my hometown rallies around their teams. (And the way everyone feels they have the duty and responsibility to decry or uplift the way that team is coached.)

I grew up going to high school basketball games. Before I was old enough to know much about the game and my primary interest was popcorn, I was there. I remember being so small that I would sit on the part of the bleachers that are designed for your feet, stick my legs under the seat in front of me, and have a desk to draw on. I remember sitting behind the high school cheerleaders when I was little older, learning the cheers and yearning to be one of them someday. I remember the names of the stars on the 1989 team that went to state when I was in fifth grade (and almost the entire town went with them). I remember games I cheered and the way it felt to stand on the court during an exciting game. I remember the desire to win, the heartbreak when you lost, the way it felt to be swept up in something bigger than yourself.

In my hometown, basketball players were stars. They had names like Anthony, Shane, Shawn, Brad, Brandon, Jordan, and Sammy. They probably got by with some stuff others wouldn’t have, but they were also beloved by a whole town. People knew their names and expected much from them.

This weekend, my hometown team traveled to Columbia, Missouri, to play in the Missouri State 2A Championships. Seeded 4th, they won in double OT on Thursday to advance to the championship on Saturday. They lost.

But I hope that team remembers the way it felt yesterday when they loaded onto that bus and began the hours-long trek back home. Sad and disappointed, they sat in that bus as it rumbled down Interstate 70 to St. Louis. They probably bi-passed the city on 270, then merged onto Interstate 55 and headed south. The exit signs and city names became more familiar. When the driver exited onto Highway 60 near Sikeston, they knew they were almost home. When they turned onto Highway 25 and left the Dexter city limits behind them, they knew that had 8 miles until they were home.

And I hope they crowded into the front part of the bus and pushed their faces close to the windows. I hope they got the experience I’ll never forget when our bus would arrive home from the state volleyball tournament when I was the statistician. I hope, as they entered the city limits, fans lined the streets, waving. I hope as they turned down the street toward the school, people they knew and loved waved and cheered as the bus rumbled down the street. I hope they remember the cheers as they exited that bus and meandered into a gym full of fans in blue and white who welcomed them home.

I hope they remember what it feels like to be cheered for, to have a whole town who was proud of you. I hope they know that despite not winning the state title, the fans were still proud. Because there’s something to be said for playing your hardest, working so hard, and going much further than anyone ever expected.

And I hope my hometown never loses that love for basketball and the smalltown boys who play it.