"Ball" was my first word...

It is a sad fact that the first week of the year is the worst, but after spending two weeks in blissful celebration of Christmas and New Year’s with family and friends, returning to work and the troubles of life on a full-time basis proves challenging each and every January.

The rain that has pelted the region since the calendar turned only further dampened my mood that has been tortured by the holiday hangover. I attempted to escape my melancholy feelings of woe yesterday by plunging into the solitude afforded by my iTouch and the docile, folksy tones of one Mr. Billy Joel as I traveled home via subway. The iPod is yet another device that plays a role in a culture widely devoid of friendliness and kindness to strangers, two qualities whose rapid deaths I often bemoan, as it allows its user to enter their own personnel world, even when surrounded by hundreds of others. I was in no mood to be kind or friendly yesterday, however, and I slipped away from the loud subway car and into a Long Island bar where Billy crooned, before getting tanked and crashing his car into the side of the building.

Like many other college students, I enter periods of “the world hates me” and struggle through my self-loathing to get out of them. They happen for different reasons, whether they be internal image battles, failure to succeed in school or personal goal, or sometimes just overall stress and frustration, but they are always followed with a cynical, pessimistic viewpoint and lack of patience towards those that are forced to deal with me. The more frustrated I become, the worse I behave, causing anger and frustration from others back at me, only worsening by poor disposition.

With my toes wet and cold and still five blocks from my apartment, I began to curse the weather, but stopped. I might not be happy, I might not feel well, but a little rain must fall so that the trees can rise. Upon returning home, I decided to save the self-medication till later, grabbed my gym bag, and walked back out the door. Life is a journey of change, and all but a few of my preferences differ from a mere ten years ago. Then, I didn’t like girls; now, I’m overcome with sadness when we’re apart for just a few days. Then, I prayed for snow and a day of fun; now, I curse it like the seasonal residents of Florida. Then, I loved the logic and problem solving inherent in the study of math; now, I’m lucky if I can count to ten.

But I still have three unwavering loves that will never change: food, television and sports. I wasn’t hungry and laying around and watching TV would have only depressed me further, so that left physical activity. Sports have always been my diversion, whether competing or spectating. They got me into writing after my playing career came to a close. They form a common bond between all men, because competition is in our blood and sports are on our televisions; all men have both blood and TVs, and sometimes little else.

I remember the first time I hoisted a ball bigger than my head, something those that have met me wouldn’t think possible, considering the size of my cranium. I threw the ball over and over again at the cylinder, each time closer to hitting it, then finally getting it over and through. I never saw the ball hit the pavement; I was already in full stride to boast of my accomplishment to my beaming mother. From there, a love of basketball was born, one that has survived till this day. And yesterday, it proved my saving grace.

The gym greats me with a scent that stirs the deepest of my emotions, that pristine smell of wood and lacquer that come together in such a beautiful equilibrium. An immediate calm washes over me, because I know I have entered a safe place; no matter the location or state of the gym, they all have that same glorious odor. The squeaking shoes accompanied by the reverberating pounding of the basketball flood my ears next, all before using my eyes to survey the quality of the product. But it matters little, because the court affords you the freedom to run, to jump, and with a good imagination, to fly through the air towards the goal. The rhythm of the game quickly takes over your brain before feelings of fatigue battle it for superiority, and the frustrations and stressors are soon forgotten. How such a frenetic activity can have such a calming influence on my brain is a true mystery to me, but as I exited into the cold, damp January air last night, all that I could think about was the jab step and jumper that had won the game.