I never played basketball. While athletic and somewhat tall, I was a pre-Title 9 kid. When the law passed to empower female athletes, I was too busy juggling school and my job as a shoe store “handbag girl” to try out for my high school team. No regrets, really. I’m still very good at finding just the right handbag for any pair of shoes. But sometimes I wonder what might have been….
Instead, I have been an avid fan of the sport for as long as I can remember. Beyond avid. I have many fond childhood memories of watching Michigan State games with my dad in thunderously loud Jenison Field House, well before the Spartans entered the Izzone. And when I was a student at MSU, another local kid (Earvin Johnson) fueled my addiction to the game all the way to an NCAA championship. Moving to Chicago after college, I became a Bulls fan just in time to root for Artis Gilmore for a couple seasons, and later, to celebrate six national championships. I marveled at Michael, studied Tex Winter’s triangle offense, and practiced the zen of Phil Jackson. I even dated a high school coach and married an FOA (friend of Artis.)
But all of that is background. When my daughter started playing basketball in third grade, I began my own training as a basketball photographer, harnessing all that pent-up enthusiasm. I know what you’re thinking: crazy sports mom. But I did the hard work. Basketball is not an easy sport to shoot. Most gyms are dingy and dark, with widely spaced fluorescent lights. The action is fast, and there always seems to be a ref in my line of sight. I persisted. And although my daughter isn’t playing this year, I’m still at it.
If Jordan missed more than 9,000 shots in his career, I’m probably close to that already. But like Mike, through failure I succeed. Here’s a quick chronology:
