At six years-old I wanted to be a professional basketball player, and I held onto that dream into my twenties. Even heading into my last season at Yale, a lil piece of me fantasized that I’d have a magical, breakout senior season then land a spot on a professional roster.
But my body didn’t entertain that fantasy one bit. It was like I had aged thirty years in my four seasons of college hoops. I limped around campus, my ankles cranking crack-crack noises in the library. Sitting through ninety-minute lectures on monopolies put my lower back under a spastic spell. And after a slew of jammed fingers, my pinkies were permanently crooked. All the ice baths, heating pads, and Advil in the world could not fend off four years of college athletics (which, IMO, functions the same as Dog Years).
My mind was elsewhere, too. By fall semester, I’d accepted a consulting job in Chicago for the following year. As for my heart—that was still there. I always had heart for Basketball. Always have, always will. But the game was no longer my pulse, my everything. Other things in life had begun to make my heart buh-bump, buh-bump. Like writing. So at age twenty-two, I let go of my professional basketball aspirations and said farewell to my first dream. Or so I thought…
Dun.
Dun.
Dun.
On July 22, 2022, seven thousand fans sat at the edge of their seats as time dwindled down on the clock. Ten seconds left. The leather basketball flew from my fingers and took a slow-motion flight across the court. I inhaled a whiff of the hardwood debris off the squeaky, shiny floor—if smells had birthmarks, this was mine.
My feet landed in front of the three-point line as the ball continued its twirl toward the net. It was my first three-point attempt in a WNBA game, the Chicago Sky versus the Dallas Wings. Re-read that last sentence a couple thousand times. MY FIRST THREE-POINT ATTEMPT IN A WNBA GAME. That statement is nonfiction folks! My childhood dream was no longer a dream, but reality.
That Friday evening, I stepped onto the floor at Wintrust Arena with a light blue Sky jersey over my chest. As the four lines around the ball spun toward the basket, I retraced the path that led me here: My first two-handed shot in the driveway at age six; beating up on the boys at the YMCA until I met a girl named Shelly (bka “Lil K”) who also adored basketball, followed by Jodi a few years later, as we competed on the court at the Maccabi Games; Mom in the bleachers covering her eyes to pray during a close game, and Pops tearing up when I scored my 1000th point in high school; my stepmom Patricia whistling for me, and my stepdad Stu rebounding for me. Then came college, where my Yale Women’s Basketball (bka “YWBB”) sisters and I danced to Lizzo in the locker room, and my family squeezed through the gymnasium doors on my senior night. Upon returning to Chicago, I received bottomless Sky tickets from my friend Martha and embarked on my rec league career for the Splash Sisters, where I met my partner Lucy. And now, Basketball had led me to this moment: a shot at a professional game. Swish.
“IT’S GOOD!!” the emcee shouted, his voice electrified. My twelve-year-old cousin Joi screamed from the sideline, her lungs almost overpowering the stadium speakers. There was a party inside my body, every atom of me jolting and dancing like a YWBB locker room celebration. I had enough adrenaline to run an ultramarathon, quit coffee, birth a child. My mind spun in joy. Is this really happening?!
⏸️ Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. Yes—yes it is! From that point forward, I’d have to forfeit a finger if someone said: “Never have I ever made a three-pointer in the fourth quarter of a WNBA game.”
Indeed, I was selected to entertain a crowd of seven thousand during the game’s final media timeout. The closer, as I like to think of it. I want to say it was random, but my audience participation for all-things-Jumbotron plus my cantaloupe-themed Patagonia shorts made me a ripe spectacle for the Fourth Quarter Challenge: Thirty seconds to hustle to the opposite end of the court and make a layup, free-throw and three-pointer. If I did that, I secured a Sky shirt signed by the great Allie Quigley and one half-court shot* for a chance to win a cash-prize from the Illinois lottery (*the outcome of which shall remain a cliffhanger).
▶️ The buzzer blared as referees blew their whistles to signal the end of the timeout, at which point the commercial break concluded and this sidebraid officially graced television screens across the Chicagoland area:
Among the TV viewers was my girlfriend of eighteen days, Lucy. She was at a friend’s place with the game on in the background, when suddenly her friend pointed to the screen pictured above: “Is that Lena?!” A few minutes later, Lucy texted me: Nothing surprises me anymore. A challenge I’ve accepted wholeheartedly to this day.
As players dispersed from their huddles, I met Joi on the sideline. My cousin’s smile wide, her face red. In twenty minutes, she would have a bloody nose from the rush of exhilaration, but until then, we hugged, screamed, and rejoiced before collecting her new autographed Chicago Sky shirt.
As I stepped off the court with Joi, I turned around and looked back at the game that taught me how to dream. I lived an entire lifetime in basketball. The grief of a tough loss and the exhilaration of sweet victory, the heartaches to balance the bliss. Literal blood, sweat, and tears. Sacrifice. The game that was once my world had given me the world—family reunions, a sisterhood of friends, Lucy.
On April 14, I expect another year to go by without hearing my name called by Cathy Engelbert at the WNBA Draft. And that’s okay. I think if Lil Lena could see a glimpse of today she’d scream as passionate as the videographer below, combusting in excitement to the point of a bloody nose. Maybe my dream of playing professional basketball didn’t exactly come true. I didn’t get everything I wanted on my Basketball Wishlist—a March Madness Cinderella run, a WNBA career, a growth spurt—but I know one statement to be nonfiction: I got everything I needed.
And the Cliffhanger…
Beautiful story!! Thank you!
And on that 3-pointer: Mazel tov! Kol hakavod!