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Basketball Uniform
May. 17th, 2012 07:38 amAn extended vivid dream. It seems trivial on the surface level, but meaningful in its suggestiveness.
I’m in high school again. It seems like the Yokota years. I am apparently a pretty big deal on the basketball team. It’s pre-game, and I’m with the team and the coach, getting ready for game time. I notice that I do not have any socks, which are essential. I call Mother over and I urge her to rush home and pick up my socks. I specify the white athletic ones. By the expression on her face, she regards this as an emergency indeed. She makes it back, but the socks are not the white athletic ones. They are a greenish, nylon, dress pair of socks, cheap looking. The coach laughs and makes light of it. It does not matter what kind of socks you wear.
As we are warming up, I realize that the jersey I am wearing underneath my sweatjacket may have the right colors - gold/yellow with black lettering - but it is not the team jersey. I tell the coach, and this is a harder matter than the socks. A bit later, not long before the game starts, he suggests that I try rushing home and getting the shirt, and I eagerly run out, muttering that we wasted a good ten minutes, if only he suggested this idea right away, which I had been considering on my own.
When I arrive home, I start rifling through my dresser doors, but no luck. Mother is busy in the bathroom or something. I can talk with her through the closed door as I am desperately going through my things looking for the jersey, but she is no help, and is surprisingly indifferent, compared to her anxious reaction she had when I needed the socks.
I think it was Sammy’s crying that woke me up and pulled me out of the dream. Strange dream. It had been a long time since I dreamed of my teenage sports. And one is struck by the theme suggested by the socks and the jersey. I am always just slightly off what is needed or wanted. Not quite the right socks, and then the jersey I have is just barely the wrong one, as the colors are right at least. There seems to be a message here, but I cannot quite make it out.
* * * *
It occurs to me that lately I have been thinking more about the idea of getting back into ‘the game’, that is, social life, that I could handle a real career position now and make some real money, thanks to my birthday and old salvation fantasies. But I know better. I am not close at all and never will be, no matter what break might be given to me. I cannot even get it together and succeed in my dreams. That’s not who I am.
I’m in high school again. It seems like the Yokota years. I am apparently a pretty big deal on the basketball team. It’s pre-game, and I’m with the team and the coach, getting ready for game time. I notice that I do not have any socks, which are essential. I call Mother over and I urge her to rush home and pick up my socks. I specify the white athletic ones. By the expression on her face, she regards this as an emergency indeed. She makes it back, but the socks are not the white athletic ones. They are a greenish, nylon, dress pair of socks, cheap looking. The coach laughs and makes light of it. It does not matter what kind of socks you wear.
As we are warming up, I realize that the jersey I am wearing underneath my sweatjacket may have the right colors - gold/yellow with black lettering - but it is not the team jersey. I tell the coach, and this is a harder matter than the socks. A bit later, not long before the game starts, he suggests that I try rushing home and getting the shirt, and I eagerly run out, muttering that we wasted a good ten minutes, if only he suggested this idea right away, which I had been considering on my own.
When I arrive home, I start rifling through my dresser doors, but no luck. Mother is busy in the bathroom or something. I can talk with her through the closed door as I am desperately going through my things looking for the jersey, but she is no help, and is surprisingly indifferent, compared to her anxious reaction she had when I needed the socks.
I think it was Sammy’s crying that woke me up and pulled me out of the dream. Strange dream. It had been a long time since I dreamed of my teenage sports. And one is struck by the theme suggested by the socks and the jersey. I am always just slightly off what is needed or wanted. Not quite the right socks, and then the jersey I have is just barely the wrong one, as the colors are right at least. There seems to be a message here, but I cannot quite make it out.
* * * *
It occurs to me that lately I have been thinking more about the idea of getting back into ‘the game’, that is, social life, that I could handle a real career position now and make some real money, thanks to my birthday and old salvation fantasies. But I know better. I am not close at all and never will be, no matter what break might be given to me. I cannot even get it together and succeed in my dreams. That’s not who I am.
