VARSITY LESSONS
Yes Iverson, We Still Talkin’ Practice
In typical west coast fashion, the sunshine breaks what felt like the longest streak of rain. Thank goodness. I’ve been keeping my blinds closed to hide my pale complexion from Buffy.
Armed with a morning coffee in hand (Bumblebean Coffee only please) and SoCal weather, I’m feeling good. I trade in my daily basketball podcast for Ice Cube’s “It Was A Good Day.”
I totally jinx myself, as I open my casket (email) first thing in the morning. My bloodshot eyes are shocked by a kajillion invites: onboarding event #1, speaker #2, meeting #3, wait-why-am-invited-to-this #4, oh-look-an-actual-work-related-email #5.
If I’ve learned anything, it is that work is independence on steroids. Gone are the nerdy-fun days of registering for courses, moving around bright-coloured rectangles in draft calendars, and racing to nab the coveted afternoon classes. Now, I make my own schedule. As great as autonomy sounds, the ambiguity of my day-to-day is unnerving. Should I work in the morning or afternoon? When do I eat? Sleep? Shit? Like a kid in the cereal aisle, I’m immobilized by the 20 different Frosted Flakes to pick from.
So, like a responsible kid sweeping all the cereal boxes into the cart, I RSVP “yes” to every invite. I wish I could undo my rash choice after noticing 3 concurrent meetings at 11:00 a.m. Yikes. I queue up 2Pac’s “Me Against The World,” bracing myself for a turbulent day.
The toasty sun fades into the rose-pink horizon as I wrap up my kajillion meetings. Phew. I made it. The awesome thing about work is that the end of each day is a mini-vacation. Freedom. Or so I think.
Bloop. A rectangular glow fades into my peripheral. “Online Zoom chat tonight?”
I type back, “Yeah for s–”
Bounce-bounce. My roommate hollers from the other room, “Basketball?”
Ball is life — no brainer. I yell back, “Hell yeah!” As I jam my heels into pre-tied runners and race to the garage door, I continue typing, “ure — count me in.”
The rose-pink sky retires to a star-speckled navy, signalling the end of our hoop festivities. I check the time: 10 minutes until the Zoom call. But — grumble — I’ve done zero food prep for dinner. And — sniff — I need a bath. A rushed shower and a pot of boiling water later, I find myself configuring headphones in one hand and chopping broccoli in the other.
Is it Groundhog Day? Because it feels like I’m having dé j –
“Hey, wanna watch a movie after dinner?”
– à vu.
My earliest school memory is writing this in Pre-K:
The cat ran out of the door.
The cat ran out of the door.
The cat ran out of the door.
Why I chose cat, I’m not sure, because dogs are unequivocally better. And why I repeated it? Who knows.
For the next 18 years, school and sports dominated my life. Naturally, I’ve become accustomed to all things scheduled: class timetables telling me which lecture hall to run to next, or 3:30 p.m. practice — be there or beware a public berating from coach. But shit hitting the fan is imminent, and even the most robust schedules fall out of equilibrium.
School wins the Biggest Shit Disturber Award by many miles. Its most notable highlight was second-year university, an academic term which lived up to engineering’s notorious reputation: utter misery. Misery loves company, as first semester starred a splendid finals season with 5 exams in 4 days.
It was one of the few times I skipped practice to study. Coach understood though. After exam 2/5, an excruciating 4-hour accounting marathon, my brain was mush. I despised the thought of opening another textbook; thinking about the upcoming 3 exams only compounded my unhealthy stress levels. But even as my world was collapsing, I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.
On the way home, despite an official pardon, my instincts guided me to the track. After exchanging some “hi’s” and “how’s it going’s,” I laid down as if I were making dust angels on the dirty purple ground. The weird lizard heating lamps installed to combat the poor choice of building a track around an ice rink warmed my wintry, defeated soul. Like my trusty Bose headphones, echoey conversations and pucks smashing into plexiglass cancelled out my anxiety. For a few precious minutes, I felt grounded (literally). Back at practice, order restored.
I haven’t felt as awful as second-year-me in a long, long time. But 2020 was the perfect shitstorm that keeps raging on. Social distancing and lockdowns feel like the desolate late hours cramming for the next exam; a calendar overloaded with meetings is reminiscent of my overloaded coursework; countless deadlines begging for my attention is akin to those 3 remaining exams pleading me to study. As my brain is once again mush, my instincts have guided me back to familiarity: practice.
I’ve reinstated a similar 5-days-a-week practice regimen, and so far, the results are promising. With bright-coloured rectangles scattered across my schedule, they’re like daily decision-shortcuts. Before I can accept 3 meetings at 11:00 a.m., my calendar tells me, “Sorry, no can do.” Now, it’s just me, myself, and a whole wad of lactic acid pumping through my pasta-filled legs.
A direct consequence of regular practice is less time, making my work hours more meaningful. I’m now more intentional before accepting each meeting invite, asking whether it is necessary or valuable. My productivity has also improved. Knowing I have only so much daylight left to get tasks done, I get coding. Otherwise, I’m screwed.
Lastly, I just feel better. Probably because it forces me to not sit on my ass 24/7. And likely since I feel in control again, no longer at the mercy of other people’s volatile schedules.
“Old habits die hard,” they say. Oh well, lemme grab my sneakers — I’ll run with this one.
Thanks to Jess.
