The Joys of the Game
Reflection is a vital tool. It can help to slow things down when life gets hectic. It can motivate people to do better than they have in the past. And, above all else, it's a great way to time travel.
The best trips into the past often happen unintentionally. There are triggers that freeze you in a moment and shoot you back to a place or elicit an old feeling. Think about listening to a song by a band you loved in high school. Feel those awkward teenage feelings? That's a trigger.
I stumbled onto one of those triggers a few months ago.
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Winter was in full force and I was driving around an unfamiliar middle school campus trying to locate the gymnasium. I walked past a woman in a minivan who looked quite sure of her surroundings and immediately turned around to get some directions.
"Can I help you," she said, already noticing that lost look on my face.
"Where is the gym?" I asked. "I've never been here before."
She rattled off some directions and even suggested that I move my truck to a closer lot. I had missed the mark pretty badly.
In the short ride to the adjacent parking lot is when I felt that first tingle of a memory. It wasn't a specific location, but more of a generalized feeling of having been lost and looking for a middle school gym before. I had played basketball from fifth to eighth grade for the Holy Name of Jesus Jets in the Harrisburg chapter of the Catholic Youth Organization. If you're wondering what any of that means, I understand. Basically a bunch of grade school kids who believe in Jesus would play other believers at poorly maintained gyms that sometimes doubled as cafeterias and tripled as theaters. As boring as that may sound, the memories of those games play out in my mind like some of the finest athletic competitions ever.
In the short ride to the adjacent parking lot is when I felt that first tingle of a memory. It wasn't a specific location, but more of a generalized feeling of having been lost and looking for a middle school gym before. I had played basketball from fifth to eighth grade for the Holy Name of Jesus Jets in the Harrisburg chapter of the Catholic Youth Organization. If you're wondering what any of that means, I understand. Basically a bunch of grade school kids who believe in Jesus would play other believers at poorly maintained gyms that sometimes doubled as cafeterias and tripled as theaters. As boring as that may sound, the memories of those games play out in my mind like some of the finest athletic competitions ever.
I entered into the gym I had been searching for and saw my younger brother, Ronnie. I had seen him in plenty of gyms before since he, along with our oldest sibling, Shane, were also products of the CYO program. Ronnie wasn't suited up to play at this gym, though. He was now a head coach of an eighth grade team and I was there to see him in action.
It was great to see Ronnie coach. Out of the three Christ brothers, he was the best at basketball. Shane was the best at football...and I could play "Wipe Out" on the drums. I watched Ronnie shout plays from the sideline and pump up his players when they seemed flat. He called timeouts when the energy favored the other team. He also dressed in a shirt and tie - the telltale sign that he was calling the shots (pun fully intended).
I couldn't shake that nostalgic fog in the gym the entire game. At halftime, some younger children rushed the court from the bleachers to shoot around. I thought about how Ronnie would do that at my grade school games, and how I would do it at Shane's. Just some kids showing off their skills before the spotlight went back on their siblings.
Ronnie's team ended up losing, and as I waited for him to finish his post-game talk, I was surrounded by another familiar scene. Girls from the bleachers began to pair off with players as they walked out of the locker room. They held hands walking across the court and I thought about what an insanely awkward time that period of life is like.
"God damn it, man," head coach Ronnie said to me as I shook off those pre-teen memories. "I can't believe we lost."
He cursed the whole way to the parking lot about what his team could have done differently to pull off a W. As a former player, and now as a coach, Ronnie couldn't accept a loss. It's a good trait for a coach to have because hopefully he can pass it on to his players. Maybe after a whole season one player takes it to heart and carries it with them. And if that player has just enough passion for the game, they'll put on a shirt and tie and try to pass it on to some of their players.
After commiserating with Ronnie about the loss and talking about the slight adjustments that needed to be made for next game, I got into my truck and exited the compound. The talk of losing mixed with those scenes of adolescents running around a grade school gymnasium began to weigh heavy on my mind. That's when my biggest basketball memory came flooding back to me in the form of a teammate named Patrick Hannigan.
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Pat Hannigan was a staple of my CYO basketball career and really the first 20-some years of my life. He was on all of my Holy Name teams from fifth to eighth grade, as well as two years in high school. I'm still friends with people I knew from Holy Name, some former teammates, some not. We all knew Pat.
Hannigan was a lightning bolt of a child. The best word I have to describe him is magnetic. I'm sure as you're reading this you're remembering that one kid from your childhood who fits the same description. It was a true gift to grow up with someone like Hannigan because he was so comfortable in his own skin, and just being considered his friend made you a little more comfortable in yours. Grade school isn't exactly the most confident period of a person's life, but it was for Hannigan. And he brought that confidence to the court as well.
Being teammates with Hannigan was one of the great joys of my life. I had a front row seat to one of the goofiest, toughest and most unique playing careers in CYO history. Hannigan was, at certain times, the most uncoordinated player who our team couldn't win without. His ankles were made of what I can only assume was a mixture of glass and eggshells. He also talked shit like no one else, and if another player even tried to respond, Hannigan would either turn up the intensity or laugh obnoxiously until the other player was dumbfounded. It was like a master class in mindfucking.
I only really think of Hannigan in subtle and surprise moments now. It's coming up on six years since we lost him. It was right around Easter time when I received the news, and I spent most of the weekend with another former teammate, Pat Vargo, who was essentially Hannigan's right hand man. Vargo and I attended the Living Stations at our grade school church on Good Friday, a day or two after hearing the news. I can't remember exactly why we went - maybe we wanted to be somewhere familiar. Or maybe we just wanted to be somewhere that reminded us of Hannigan.
The Living Stations is a tradition at Holy Name - eighth graders are assigned parts and rehearse for a couple weeks so that they can act out the crucifixion story of Jesus Christ for parishioners. A flood of emotion hit Vargo and I while we sat together in that pew. Watching another batch of eighth graders say the same lines we had memorized was surreal. I remember thinking about how Hannigan would deliver his lines as one of the high priests who lobbied for Jesus's death. I was one of the other high priests so I had yet another front row seat to Hannigan's performance. He gave his voice a little bit of a rasp, to signify he was bad. And he delivered his lines angrily, also to signify he was bad. It was a juicy role, even for a grade school production, and he went for it. He always did.
In his obituary, Hannigan's family disclosed that Pat's "life was cut short by his disease of addiction." I remember talking this over with friends at the time - we were all very proud of that decision. I don't think including a detail like that at that time was as commonplace as it is today.
It's not easy to think about Hannigan now because there's still this lingering feeling of guilt. All of the lives of his friends have progressed, but Hannigan's life was frozen in the chaos of his early 20's. Most of his friends are either in or rapidly approaching their 30's. It feels like I'm leaving him behind because I talk about him less and less.
I had a dream about him not too long after Ronnie's game. He visits me like that sometimes, and I've confirmed with others that he's done the same with them. In the dream, I was following him around, much like I did when we were kids. I had fallen into his magnetic field, and he was leading me through some maze. I remember having this feeling that I was looking for answers, but I don't know to what. I woke up before I got any.
I don't know what the dream meant, but on a very basic level I just think it's a reminder that he's with me. We're not watching movies in his parents' living room on a Saturday afternoon. He's not showing me the correct way to order a buffalo chicken sub from the Sheetz we could walk to from his house. And he's not walking next to me, singing a pop song and twisting my nipples because he knows it makes me angry. That's all in the past.
But I do feel his presence when I get together with my grade school buddies. I also can't drive through Linglestown without thinking about him. And in the morning when I get ready for work, sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my arm that bears his initials and the Greek word "Agape," both intertwined in a rosary to signify our Catholic roots. Hannigan had "Agape" tattooed on him as well, which is fitting because it roughly translates to "unconditional love." It's a reminder of a bond I formed with someone during a time I didn't actually know or believe in myself. A bond strengthened by dirty gymnasiums where we would revel in victories and commiserate over losses.
He's given me many gifts since his passing. After the sadness and raw emotions subside I often feel gratitude for these gifts. I thank him for the unconditional love he gave me. That kind of love, I believe, was his last great gift to everyone who knew him. No matter how much time has passed or where life has taken us, we still embrace when we run into each other. We laugh together, and we feel that connectedness that comes from having known the same magnetic human.
The Living Stations is a tradition at Holy Name - eighth graders are assigned parts and rehearse for a couple weeks so that they can act out the crucifixion story of Jesus Christ for parishioners. A flood of emotion hit Vargo and I while we sat together in that pew. Watching another batch of eighth graders say the same lines we had memorized was surreal. I remember thinking about how Hannigan would deliver his lines as one of the high priests who lobbied for Jesus's death. I was one of the other high priests so I had yet another front row seat to Hannigan's performance. He gave his voice a little bit of a rasp, to signify he was bad. And he delivered his lines angrily, also to signify he was bad. It was a juicy role, even for a grade school production, and he went for it. He always did.
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Hannigan had fought, and unfortunately, lost his battle with drug addiction. It was difficult to wrap our minds around it at the time. There was a collective feeling of sadness, mixed with some frustration and just a hint of anger. Just as you would work your way through one emotion, another one would take over. For a lot of us, Hannigan was the first person we knew who had died from an overdose. The opioid epidemic in 2014 wasn't at the front of the public's awareness the way it is today, or maybe that's just my limited view of it. I think there are definitely more resources now to learn about the disease at least.
In his obituary, Hannigan's family disclosed that Pat's "life was cut short by his disease of addiction." I remember talking this over with friends at the time - we were all very proud of that decision. I don't think including a detail like that at that time was as commonplace as it is today.
It's not easy to think about Hannigan now because there's still this lingering feeling of guilt. All of the lives of his friends have progressed, but Hannigan's life was frozen in the chaos of his early 20's. Most of his friends are either in or rapidly approaching their 30's. It feels like I'm leaving him behind because I talk about him less and less.
I had a dream about him not too long after Ronnie's game. He visits me like that sometimes, and I've confirmed with others that he's done the same with them. In the dream, I was following him around, much like I did when we were kids. I had fallen into his magnetic field, and he was leading me through some maze. I remember having this feeling that I was looking for answers, but I don't know to what. I woke up before I got any.
I don't know what the dream meant, but on a very basic level I just think it's a reminder that he's with me. We're not watching movies in his parents' living room on a Saturday afternoon. He's not showing me the correct way to order a buffalo chicken sub from the Sheetz we could walk to from his house. And he's not walking next to me, singing a pop song and twisting my nipples because he knows it makes me angry. That's all in the past.
But I do feel his presence when I get together with my grade school buddies. I also can't drive through Linglestown without thinking about him. And in the morning when I get ready for work, sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my arm that bears his initials and the Greek word "Agape," both intertwined in a rosary to signify our Catholic roots. Hannigan had "Agape" tattooed on him as well, which is fitting because it roughly translates to "unconditional love." It's a reminder of a bond I formed with someone during a time I didn't actually know or believe in myself. A bond strengthened by dirty gymnasiums where we would revel in victories and commiserate over losses.
He's given me many gifts since his passing. After the sadness and raw emotions subside I often feel gratitude for these gifts. I thank him for the unconditional love he gave me. That kind of love, I believe, was his last great gift to everyone who knew him. No matter how much time has passed or where life has taken us, we still embrace when we run into each other. We laugh together, and we feel that connectedness that comes from having known the same magnetic human.
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I went to another of Ronnie's games later that same winter. I watched the kids on his team flow as a unit, like I had done with my friends so many years earlier. Run a play. Back on defense. Shoot a three. Back on defense. I found some peace in the rhythm of the game, and I smiled knowing it was yet another gift from my former teammate.
Ronnie's team lost again, so he agonized over the highlight reel in his head as we walked to our cars. The former player had become a coach. The younger brother had become a little older. The passage of time didn't seem relevant in that moment, though. You never really forget how much a loss hurts because you never really stop losing. Jobs, basketball games, pieces of your heart. Friends and former teammates.
You can lose so much, but it's all just the rhythm of the game.
Ronnie's team lost again, so he agonized over the highlight reel in his head as we walked to our cars. The former player had become a coach. The younger brother had become a little older. The passage of time didn't seem relevant in that moment, though. You never really forget how much a loss hurts because you never really stop losing. Jobs, basketball games, pieces of your heart. Friends and former teammates.
You can lose so much, but it's all just the rhythm of the game.
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