The Shot Heart Round the County

When my brother was 17, he made a half-court basketball shot that changed his life.

He was not a basketball player, save for the one year he joined the team in elementary school, when he learned it was not his passion. But like a lot of kids, we had a hoop in our driveway and grew up shooting H.O.R.S.E. and P.I.G. on the makeshift blacktop court with cousins and friends.

In our small, sleepy Kentucky town, high school basketball games were practically a social engagement. Everyone goes. Same with football.

Local businesses sponsor the team and host special events at the games to boost attendance (and for advertising, of course.) One of those events was the half-time, half-court shot sponsored by the local Chevrolet dealership. Every Friday night, one or two lucky crowd-members would be called by their ticket number to come down to the court and attempt the shot. A successful shooter would be rewarded with $10,000. It had been attempted a hundred times or more – even by former decorated athletes. No one ever came close to making it.

The night my brother’s name was called, he unassumingly stepped up to the line in his wrangler jeans and cowboy boots. He took a couple steps and thrust the ball straight out from his chest as hard as he could. The ball made a beeline for the backboard and, just above the hoop, it suddenly dropped through the net.

It was so absurd and unexpected my brother stood dumbfounded as every single body in the bleachers erupted to their feet in a rowdy cheer. Hundreds raced down to the court floor to slap his back and congratulate the dazed teenager. Shake his hand. And dozens of people joked about asking for a loan from the winnings check. (Apparently, I also asked for a year’s supply of gum, per the write up in the local paper! HA!)

The dealership owner probably pooped himself. But, he made good on his word and delivered the check a couple weeks later.

The tab was on my brother that night when he went out to celebrate with his friends, and a couple dozen of his newest acquaintances. And the next night. And the next night. It took less than six months for him to spend the entirety of the reward and rack up debt trying to keep the charade going.

I often think about how that financial windfall changed the trajectory of his life. The story is common enough – many lottery winners end up deeply in debt or destitute.

My brother never stopped pretending to be rich after that night. And it cost him a lot more than his eventually-wrecked credit score.

Journal Entry from March 5th, 2021

It’s a pretty well-known fact that grief comes in waves.

I guess that’s because you don’t grieve losing a person, like they were a one-time singular event or thing. You grieve every single loss you would have had with that person. Every piece of them you lose gradually in your life.

Yesterday, I heard a basketball bouncing on the street in front of our house.

I started crying as mental movies of my brother and I shooting H.O.R.S.E. in the driveway of our childhood home played in my mind.

But mostly, I was crying for my son’s loss.

Uncle John likely would have been the one to teach him to play basketball. And I imagine they would have spent countless hours shooting H.O.R.S.E. together as he grew up. My heart aches for the loss of that experience.

I’m starting to recognize other individual losses:

Last night, I grieved that I’ll never hear his voice again, as I listened to the voicemail clips people were sweetly sending me and that I had in my own messenger.

I’ll never get to hear him say “later dude” or “hey maaan” or recite any of the million movie quotes we would quip back and forth.

*

It hurts to question why John would not want to get to know his Baby nephew. Why he wouldn’t want to spend his life with him.

My Grandfather ran away from home when I was about 12. I remember thinking, sure, I understand why you would want to leave your wife, but why did you never want to see or spend time with me – your only granddaughter – again for the rest of your life? Or your only daughter?

I didn’t know then that my Grandfather was a haunted man. Haunted by the war, and POW camps, and alcohol. He told himself we were better off without him.

I’m sure that’s what my brother thought as well.

I’ve battled that same thought before, so I am familiar with how easy a lie it is to believe. But it’s still a lie.

*

What you just read were all the thoughts I had bouncing around my head on March 5^th, 2021. Two days after my brother’s remains were found at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

I would journal over the next weeks and months about each part of that loss I grieved. It would be two years before I made a full inventory list of my losses. Making that list was one of the most cathartic journaling exercises I’ve done.

When my brother decided to end his life, I didn’t just lose my brother, I lost:

• My protector, my safe place
• My friend
• Samson’s Uncle
• The me that existed before
• My mom that existed before
• My dad that existed before
• My husband that existed before
• My car detailer
• My errand runner
• My gift buyer
• Big Brother Hugs
• Our family unit/dynamic
• Sweet Summertime family gatherings
• “Normal” holidays
• My movie quote partner
• Family game/card nights
• Our foursome for golf
• My electronics expert
• My automotive expert
• My identity in our family – little sister to only child
• Help/support with my aging parents
• My biggest laughs
• Most of my memories from childhood/my early 20’s
• The person who believed in me/cheered for me most
• Clarity of thought
• My capacity for what I can/can’t handle
• My husband’s brother-in-law
• My picture-taker
• My problem-solver
• My figure-it-outer
• My husband’s helper
• My mom & dad’s helper
• My ability to experience a “normal” maternity leave, postpartum experience, first year with my son

And on and on for two more pages. Some of the things felt so shallow and selfish to write down. But they were real losses to me, despite how trivial. And I needed to say them out loud and make space to grieve each one of them. My subconscious mind felt each of these pains immediately upon receiving that late-night phone call. But it would be a long and gradual process to identify and name them.

Grief is a lot of work. And it’s hard. Writing helps.