Bill Flowers stands at the free-throw line, his six-foot-six presence is statuesque, his gleaming eyes spotlights of alertness in harmony with his shining, African-American radiance, the raucous crowd chanting like a Buddhist-Basketball-Kirtan-Celebration, the emotional atmosphere of the court electric with anticipation. His angular spirit calmly collected, in unison with the thumping of the ball on the floor, whump, whump, whump, he readies himself to shoot two shots. It is March 1969, and we, the Grant High Generals, are in the semifinals of the Oregon State Championship. These aren’t ordinary, everyday shots Bill prepares for. Not what-the-heck-no-big-deal shots. No, these are make-or-break-a-thousand-hours-of-practice shots. These are the-heart-and-soul-of-our-devoted-basketball-fans-joyful-or-decimated shots. These are what you prepare yourself for every day, the be-clutch-or-die-broken-hearted shots.
He stands at the edge of a precipice which basketball players hope to occupy and fly from, while a deep canyon below him, cavernous and cold and shivering with disappointment, is inhabited by basketball teams and players who have faced this chilling moment and fallen, and now stare up at him. While simultaneously an energized, organic presence, the culminating real-time energy of a basketball season of 26 games presses around and through him, he in the slipstream of this historic flow of joyous teenage magnificence that has led us to this moment in time. We trail Klamath Falls by one point. 6 seconds left in this game. We have won 25 games and lost one on this tour of high school basketball majesty, and now are leaning into number 26. If Bill hits these shots we win and move another game closer to the state championship. He misses, and that’s The End. See you later. Nice Try. Over and out. Goodbye.
Why in God’s green earth would a whole season rest in the cosmic space of 6 seconds, and two free throw shots to seal the deal, never mind the pressure building like a great tornado all around him? Bill’s a Type Nine, easy-going, self-effacing, fluid as water, gentle, smooth, a friendly-soft and eminently kind 18-year-old, and a beloved of Grant High students, pauses here in the eye of the tornado. And less seen, but often demonstrated in the matrix of the basketball court, is a funnel of deep resolve within him, an unwavering commitment to his values, a monolith of soulfulness that is immovable. And…an awesome basketball player. A basketball player with heart and team spirit, and floor-wise intuition in navigating the flow of the game. It is 1969 when all hell is breaking loose regarding civil rights in the US, and in particular, here in Portland, Oregon. He has been a gentle-firm participant, a Lincoln-like statesman who speaks up against the oppression that blacks have suffered and continue to suffer (much like the fierce classical pianist, surely a Type One, in The Green Room). And, at the same time, he is kind to everyone. He has the beautiful Type Nine essence that invites people to him, relaxes them, warms them, and creates emotional safety for them that is so beautifully gentle and truly caring. His presence is quietly and unassumingly big. He gets inside you with his grace and dignity. And that gleaming sunrise smile of his melts all resistance. It is no wonder that years later he becomes a chiropractor, a healer of others. This towering, tall presence, face lit up with optimism, smile so full of joy, humor, and sweet mischievousness, walking through the crowded halls of Grant High students, head-high above them, bringing the light of hope to everyone (the best of the Type Nine)—and a familiar, joyful sight for myself. On the basketball court, his quiet presence explodes when he lifts off the ground and snags a rebound off the rim, and in another time, when slam-dunks would be okay, he would double his point production. Next lifetime perhaps.
And there he stands, my friend Bill, who has greeted me so many times with his sunrise smile, his welcoming dancing eyes, his joyful sense of wonder, his easy-does-it-no-big-deal charisma, now abiding in the center of the tornado as 16,000 fans clamor in the basketball chapel of Memorial Coliseum. A stampede of sounds, the mantra, Bill! Bill! Bill filling the stadium. There is a strange zone one enters in these winner-take-all games, a soundless orb surrounding us, crowd sounds off in the distance like the wailing sounds of a faraway train. Only here is the sound of the ball whumping on the floor, the silence of the ball as it flows towards the hoop, the swooshing of the ball through the net, that clank of an errant shot. And from an Enneagram view, this is for certain. The five players on our team are instinctively woven into a web of intelligence that provides a knowing, strange unnamed confidence that in some ways creates that One-Mind, unitive, belly-center experience that takes each of us beyond our personal story and ego, our personal wish for stardom, into a felt unity of purpose that at its best is delicious, that is the stuff of invisible, transcendent well-being, joy, and causeless satisfaction, and so intuitively wise and held together by brotherhood and unnamable love. Inexplicable, these are the words that arise as I remember us, this one-souled team, and that knowing-how-to-move-and-think-in-unitive awareness that came together by so many mysterious moments of fate, and was so palpable that before our first game of the season I said, with full-felt-gut-confidence, I think we’re the best team in the state. I think we’ll win the championship. My heart warmed as I paused in this uncanny flow of sureness.
This was unlike my typical, worry-wort, doubting Thomas, emotionally wavering, up and down, ecstasy-but-mostly-agony Type Four temperament that only fleetingly rested in this kind of solid self-confidence. But it came to me as a known fact, rock-solid-undoubtable, resting in the core of my being, without uncertainty, and herein I got the first taste of Type-Four-intuition. I never questioned this awareness. It just was. And perhaps these moments arise when one is engaged in something one loves, this fluid-like-prayer-Zen-game of basketball…and hanging with friends one cares for. And from this matrix of connection gifts arise: laser-like awareness—seeing through the eyes and souls of four other teammates–sharp-eyed attention, and uncommon, non-conceptual intelligence.
As Bill lifts the ball to shoot, I’m thinking to myself, at the worst, he’ll miss one and make one, and we will go into overtime. At best, he’ll make them both, and we will surely win. The first shot arches, hits the front of the rim, clanks, and bounces away. The stadium gasps and drops into a penetrating silence. Oh, Lord. I am standing next to the Klamath Falls star, 6-foot-11-inch Greg Brosterhouse, a towering tree of a guy, myself at a measly six foot one inch. Now, there is no thought, only animal instinct. Timelessness intercedes. Bill, still calm, the sea of sounds weirdly held at bay by the bubble of the court, raises the ball to shoot and launches it again. It hits the right side of the rim and careens towards the giant, Brosterhouse, who reaches for the ball while I leap simultaneously up next to him and knock the ball out of his hands. It sails off the tips of his fingers into the out-of-bounds zone. Whew!
We retain possession of the ball and quickly call a time-out. Okay, 3 seconds left. (More than enough time for a heart attack!) Coach Rooney, another cool and calm type Nine tactician, standing 6 foot 5, says it simply and matter-of-factly, like no-big-deal-we’d-planned-for-this-moment, “Naylor, you take the ball out. Big Bill, you cut towards Naylor who’ll hit you with the pass.” Got it. No time to think about this. Just ‘do.’ (Yoda, in the periphery, smiles. As do Skywalker, Hans and Chewy.)
Seconds later the referee hands me the ball. In a split-second, I hit Bill—moving silkily, flowingly from left to right across the top of the key towards me at the baseline—with a no-look pass. He eludes Brosterhouse and catches the pass, leaps skyward in front of Brosterhouse, a beautiful black eagle in flight, and at his apex launches the ball, his finger-tips gently guiding the path of the ball…and, as if from a high, other-worldly, mountainous perch… in slow motion, the eagle descends, the ball spinning, spinning, spinning and whoosh, the hoop-net dances as if suddenly wind-swept, in cadence with Bill’s pristine shot burning through the net! He hit it! And buzzzzzzzz—GAME OVER!—as I rush Bill and throw my arms around him.
Teammates flow to Bill, eyes wide with joy and wonder. Oh my god, how awesome is this? This meditative prayer we’ve participated in for 4 quarters of basketball. This moment of pure Zen-hereness. Nowness. Love, the umbilical cord of our awareness and union in this Temple of Sport. I am blessed and participating with heartfelt guys and a devoted coach. Kind guys, guys who will do good in the world, and a bench of enthusiastic players who, at the right time, right place, plug holes when needed. There is Donnie, five foot 9, a jet-black-hummingbird-Irish-setter, defying gravity and logic as he moves, quick-as-lightning, now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t, a Type Seven guard. Always grinning. Wide-mouthed, toothy joy radiating. And Artie, a smooth-as-silk, Kobe-Bryant-like, graceful and gifted Type Three, always got that Three charisma and charm churning, shucking and jiving, playing it cool, his essence saying, “I’m cool, and I’m cool with being cool, and hang with me to catch some of this cool,” —–having such fun hot-dogging-it, celebrating his Threeness in an innocent, kid-hearted way. And a dedicated and devout student of basketball, a magician sophomore with enough inherent grace, agility, and basketball wisdom to outfox the best, and will rise to his own glory in later years. And Ed, a Type Six forward, loyal, does the grunt work, dutiful, committed, security-oriented as all get out (of course he will become a banker later in life), an anchor of steadiness, no need for the glory or spotlight, keep the matrix of our team under control and interwoven, a quiet center in our fiery wheel, unspoken and unsaid, providing the final mix of intuitive chemistry. He, a gentleman, to say the least.
Such blessings we all received from each other. Such blessings.
Two days later, 8 PM, we stand at center court ready to play McNary High in the semifinals, one game away from the state finals. We’ve won 24 games, lost one, and after tonight, 25 games. I score 24 points, in the flow, Zen, no-mind, leaving my instinctual animal wisdom to run free. One of those errorless, fluid, basketball-is-a-joy games. Light all around me, I rest, secure in this golden orb of the basketball court, this arena of light. Fear is gone.
And a day later…the state championship of Oregon State Class A basketball, a dream come true. I walk to the foul line for two shots. We trail Madison High School in the final game of the 1969 Oregon State basketball championships, 48 to 47. It has been a resolute game of endless shots taken that seem to lean on the edge of the rim and fall backward, away, into a black abyss. Behind the glass backboard a sea of arms waves like an enormous octopus flailing in the water as I step to the foul line. The auditorium is like a canyon, windswept by the sounds of the crowd bursting at the edges of calamity. Like a huge caged animal, they press themselves against the edges of this basketball court, hungry and clawing for entrance.
48 seconds left on the clock. This is it. We have come down to the wire, having trailed Madison the entire game. At half-time we entered our locker room, stunned and tired. Down by 10 points. Unthinkable. The tiredness of playing a fourth game in six days took the edge off the shock. We were just too tired to feel it. And Coach Rooney, the exemplar of the Type Nine. Easy Ed, he’s called by students and fans. Few words were spoken. There was no anger in the air. Not like a lot of coaches who would have been ranting and raving and trying to enrage us to our feet. Instead, we entered a state of calm. He says, “Okay guys, go get ’em.” Simple. No drama. Easy does it. This is simple. I have trust in each of you. If nothing else, he seemed to know what to say. It put me at ease, myself a tenacious worrier, Type 4, playing as if the universe was depending on the outcome.
And more than anything, I got that feeling that he was proud of us, glad that we had come so far, happy to be a part of us. And he knew that we were the best damn team he’d ever coached. That’s what I think. But I’ll never forget it. The quiet. We, in the center of a calm sea while fans sit, squirming in the fire of unknowing. Yes, the beautiful lack of hype. The no-big-dealness. Easy Ed. A large, towering man, 6-foot-5-inches, who had made the difference for me in this game of basketball. He had put so much confidence in me that I’d play into the dead of night for him. This was my year, my senior year, my first year in high school where I was a starter. The year I blossomed after an interminable three-year wait of practicing and practicing, playing the role of the sixth man, hoping I’d be seen someday, thinking I could do it, and learning to control my shots and my dribbling, training myself to become instinctive in the clutch moments. And now it was game time.
And Coach Rooney saw me. And a type Four, when they feel seen, they come alive, all engines thrusting. You have unwavering confidence and kind regard for me, okay! I have confidence too. The second I entered the domain of the Grant High Generals basketball court as a rebel sophomore transfer from Central Catholic High School, I was seen, and from that day on basketball was a pure joy. I played all out for Ed, and the more he saw me, the better and harder I played. He called me the “worry wart.”Take the weekend off, he’d say. You’re worrying too much. Stop thinking. Just play. Words of wisdom that I often did not heed. And more than anything else, words of love. I felt cared for, and something in his caring opened up such a pure desire to play elegant, fierce basketball that it could not be contained. His caring ignited me. His love inspired me. I played, and practiced and played, for one express purpose.
To win this championship that I’d imagined and felt 26 games earlier, at the beginning.
For this one day that I had rehearsed, when the clock is ticking down, seconds towards a finish, and I leap high and turn, graceful, hovering for a split second, and arch a ball through the air that flies like a fierce wild kamikaze bird…down…streaking out of the sky…and flash…the ball sails through the hoop, the net startled and jumping as it passes as the buzzer goes off. Over and over, I practiced this in my imagination in the driveway of my home basketball court. Narrating out loud, “And five seconds left, Grant down by one point, Naylor turns, drives to the hoop, stops, jumps…flash. He scores, and they’ve won the championship. This visualization was the altar I worshipped at. Daily at 6 pm, Fall, Winter, Spring. Rain, ice, snow, a clear sky…it didn’t matter, but this reenactment. Trained and practiced, reliving moment after moment, imagining situation upon situation in which the elements of time and frantic defenders were rushing at me like a wild ocean wave, and a quick instinctive response was called for…and then…out of nowhere, knowing what to do and doing it, because I loved the game, the pure joy of the ball in my hands, the elegant feeling of dribbling down court watching for the openings…a teammate cuts behind his defender…flick…a quick pass and he’s up under the boards, dropping a hook shot in the back door. And four days ago, against Klamath Falls, this training was me in that final pass to Bill.
Now…48 seconds left and the crowd is going ballistic. Serious pandemonium here. The referee tosses me the ball. Big Bill Flowers, our six-foot-six center, a calming Type Nine elegance emanating from him, is on the foul lane to my right, watching, waiting. No words. We make eye contact. His Scorpionic gaze flits and touches me. He has been a dear friend and companion this year, this tall tree of a black kid with dancing serious eyes and hands the size of a baseball mitt. A kind kid on the verge of manhood. With deep questions of the soul hidden inside. Questions we may never hear about. On my left is Ed Geist, the unseen force of our team, the invisible forward, the Professor, the quiet presence who performs those necessary defensive moves and all the hidden acts that keep a team going, unproclaimed and unheralded, in the background of four more shining lights. He has played the hidden, unseen one, a Type Six, dutiful to the core…with distinctive grace. And Artie’s on the bench! Damn! In the heat of our attempt to catch up in the 4th quarter, he has quietly left the game minutes ago in the wake of a fifth foul. Disappointment riveted his face. God, anything but fouling out! Our sophomore guard, a Type Three, smooth as silk ball player, with the grace and power of water curving around a stone. He is the consummate showman, shucking and jiving with the players, the referees, the coaches. And he’s endowed with that uncanny ability to put you to sleep with his jiving, while you guard him on defense, and…blip…he’s driven past you like soft quick wind, the ball light as a feather on his fingertips as he flys to the hoop. It takes little for me to notice that his presence emanates fiercely from the bench.
I bounce the ball and enter the cathedral, the soundless space of pure reverie. The crowd disappears, the waving frantic sound machine with its deafening roars and squeals, fades to the place of pure silence deep inside my head. Suddenly all there is are your fingers on the ball, feeling the leather. And your eyes on the hoop, so close you could reach out and touch it with your fingers. Standing here at the altar of this court, this free throw line, a deep prayer has begun. There is reverence in your blood for this opportunity you have worked for, this opportunity to play a game on the edge of infinity, to be joined by tumultuous fans who have come to worship with you, this game of fast moves, and astounding shots, and heartbreaking misses. And you’ve been given the ball, to make or break a game, to send them over the edge of despair, or cascading into the ocean of pure joy. They stand now, holding their breath, teetering at the edge of an unseen abyss, leaning in…to be with you in this holiest of moments.
I lift the ball and shoot. In timeless slow motion, it lifts, the seams spinning, holding the space between the hoop like a glove, like it’s been here a thousand times before, and almost pauses in mid-air while 15,000 fans are riveted by the motion…can you see it there?…and then bing, it hits the front of the rim, dances to the back of the backboard, and like water gulped down a drain, the ball sucks through the space of the open hoop and…blink…is gone.
Tie game.
Bill glances at me with intensely deep eyes, still and cavernous. I breathe.
From a distance, as though far away I hear the muffled roar of the crowd like the cry of a distant locomotive screaming through the night. It enters the deep cathedral of this court, almost like a whisper of wind. I glance at Donnie Lincoln to the left of me. His jet-black skin glimmers with sweat. Our eyes meet. Silence. He is not a talker on this court. He is a doer. A wired, quick-as-lightning, Type Seven joyous enthusiast- now you see him, now you don’t guard- who moves with such incredible speed and unpredictable grace that often you wonder how he made that last shot. It wasn’t logical, and you’d never seen it before, and the ball entered the hoop from a trajectory that you thought was impossible. And after a while, you gave up trying to figure it out and were just glad that Donnie was your teammate, that he could defy gravity, that he could light you up in a nanosecond. And when he was “on,” which was most of the time, his eyes gleamed like brilliant lights, spilling deep joy and an electrifying presence onto the court. Oh, he was such pure pleasure to watch. I never told him this, but I liked Donnie, a lot. And Bill. And back then I didn’t know a lot about racial discrimination, or the pain of struggling against a country that saw you as different. I just knew that home was with these guys on a court and that I could spend hours together with them. (And I did—often five school days a week, and one or two weekend basketball gatherings). We rarely got on each other’s nerves. Things flowed, often without speaking. And I called them my friends. And I was deeply proud to be seen with them, my teammates.
I bounce the ball again at the foul line. A stunning silence settles inside me. For a second I am not me, but some other presence watching as I automatically cock my hands and arm and shoot the ball. Like watching a slow-motion movie tick off one frame at a time, the ball floats through space, slow, like it was a sunny day in August and we’re on the shores of a lake, and there is no rush to do anything, but just sit back and relax. Like it had all the time in the world and 15,000 fans weren’t riveted on every nuance of movement that it made, holding their breath, ready to explode like an overripe watermelon. And seconds later…flash!…it rips the cords of the nylon threads, the net dancing like a woman’s hair suddenly tossed in a gust of wind.
We are up by a point! Excitement explodes in my belly as I quickly position myself for defense. The motionless court of players suddenly goes electric with movement. The Madison guard, Bruce Maxwell, quickly scoops the ball up and moves to pass it inbound. He hurriedly tosses it to his teammate, Jimmy Officer, and out of nowhere Donnie Lincoln explodes like a flash of white light, scoops the ball into his hands, twists, and turns in mid-air…How did he do that?…and lays the ball up on the backboard, soft, easy, and plunk, and it drops in.
Three points up!
Panicked, Madison tosses the ball inbounds again, and Donnie, like a bolt of lightning, steals the ball again—the guy’s a magician!—and scoops the ball to Flowers, who lays it up on the backboard with those long tree-like arms. I watch the pure poetry of his movement as he rises off the floor like an elegant bird, regal and majestic, like an eagle dancing off into the space of a holy canyon, and hangs so comfortably in the air, the deep ebony of his skin radiant in the light-showered auditorium, and—snap!—the ball flashes through the hoop. And there’s a smile bursting off Bill’s face that would embarrass the Sun. Moments later, 48 seconds have disappeared into history, and Bill is picking me up into his arms, squeezing me and hugging me in the middle of this basketball court, both of us ballistic with joy, while fans stream onto the floor like glowing lava.
We are the Oregon State Champs! We did it! Damn, I love this game!
I return home, high as a kite. I spend time with the love of my young life, Jan, a deep and kind presence in my life, likely a Type Two, or Six. My dad is glowing, my mom is glowing, we are all glowing. And days later comes the familiar emptiness, the void in my soul. The success filled it, the effort of playing hard filled it, and yet it’s always waiting for me. And so, my personality machine turns on juxtaposed with reimagining and replaying the moments of the game, like taking a drink that slowly loses its flavor, and I’m back against myself. Why such profound loneliness?