Loser
“I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?” I have heard this Beck song play over and over in my head since the day I learned to remember. I know, I know. This song wasn’t conceived until the late nineties, and I was born in seventy-eight. But if I am not allowed to extend the truth, this will be one hell of a boring story. Where was I? Oh, right, I’m a loser. The way it is in my life is that I always seem to find creative ways to fail at anything I try. For instance this story I’m trying to tell; it’s a good story, probably the best one I have. But it will be a miracle, if by the end of my tale, that anyone understands a word of my drivel. Still I try hard to overcome my many shortcomings, and reach for the bar that has eluded me thus far. This story is a perfect example!
My brother once told me to get medicine for my non-athletes feet. I told him to go to hell. I know God didn’t give me the body of an Olympian. However, I always felt that underneath this soft chub-chub exterior, laid a lion of a man. A man, whose strength and skill, a grateful public would someday realize. I practiced hard. Everyday after school, alone or with friends, I refined my abilities. Basketball became my focus. I would shoot for hours; preparing my stumpy little body for any circumstance that might occur in a game. My one main goal was to shock anybody I faced. I knew that after they took one look at me, they would underestimate my ability. Then I would have them where I wanted them; they’d be losing to me.
After high school I continued to play basketball. I’d play with friends at college or get in on pick-up games at the gym. One day I was walking through the student union when I saw a poster. It advertised a halftime three-point shooting contest. I immediately entered my name. About two weeks later my phone rang, it was a man telling me I had won a chance to shoot during the next halftime contest. I practiced my shot everyday till my arms were sore. All the time I thought to my self, ”This is my chance to not only show that I’m not a loser; but also prove to myself that all the days I practiced till dark while growing up were not a waste. I can play basketball!”
I arrived at the game early. I was given a T- shirt to wear during the competition. Of course they gave me what seemed to be an XXX large. The bottom of the shirt came down to my knees, and the “short” sleeves were past my elbows. If I had known this ahead of time I would have practiced in one of my mother’s Sunday dresses. I was panicking. It also didn’t help matters that the fist half of the basketball game seemed to last an eternity. I watched as the clock counted down to zero. And then it happened: the horn went off and halftime started. I went into a state of shock.
I stepped onto the court and into a dream. The guy I was competing against looked pretty confident. I looked like I was about to pass out. They introduced our names and we took a few practice shots. My first practice shot was an air ball. I started questioning why I was out there in the first place. My next practice shot went in. The crowd started cheering. I don’t know what happened but everything I shot found it’s way in the basket. After each shot I made the cheers got louder and louder. I was giggling like a damn little girl. Then the man in charge said, “Now let’s begin.” In sixty seconds I made nine three pointers. I was ecstatic. The man came over the speaker and said, ”The winner is Daniel Sansing.” I finally heard my name following the word winner. This was something no one could take from me.
As I was walking back to my seat, I heard a man calling my name. It was the guy in charge. He said there might have been a mistake in the shot totals. Apparently a cheerleader who was rebounding the other guy’s shot said that he too made nine baskets. Since there was a question as to who won; we were to meet after the game and have another shoot-off. When I got back to my seat all my friends were waiting to give me fives and pats on the back. I told them about the tie and they insisted that they saw the other guy only make eight baskets.
The second half seemed longer than the first. After the game I was told that the tiebreaker would be a free throw competition. Each guy would get one opportunity to make the shot. If he missed and the other one made it, the winner would be decided. I decided to go first. I remember feeling numb. There were no practice shots this time around. There was only one chance. I bent my knees and let the ball roll off my fingers. The ball seemed to slow to be real. I could see the rotation of the lines on the basketball. I couldn’t take my eyes off its flight. As it reached the basket, the ball glided along the rim. It circled around four times looking for a way in. At that point the hands, of everyone who ever told me I was no good, seemed to penetrate up through the net and knock my ball to the floor. The other guy calmly stepped up to the line and sank the shot: nothing but net.
This is not one of those stories where the good guy who works hard wins. This is a story of a loser. A guy who is always three steps behind. A guy, that after he lost that day, kept playing basketball. Improving his game so the next time, he would be ready. At the end of Beck’s song Loser there’s a line that goes like this. “I’m a driver, I’m a winner; things are gonna change. I can feel it.” This is my story. This is my life. One day it will happen for me. I can feel it!
I turn 24 today. I am now a man. | 
