Micro-Healings: An Assist from Former Teammates
A Candid Chat About a Me-Too Moment
Hi Friends, This week, with the WNBA underway and Harvey Weinstein back in the news, I chatted with former basketball teammates (all male) about one of my first “Me Too” experiences.
We were the class of 1974: Arcadia High, Phoenix, Arizona. Our 50th reunion is coming up. About 100 of us are planning and reminiscing via email.
Email from me to group: “You probably don’t remember this, but I moved to Arizona our junior year. Not an easy time to be the new kid.”
Email from first man: “Yeah, I remember you from the boys’ intramural basketball league. You were good.”
Second Man: “I always enjoyed playing with you.”
Third Man: “I loved how talented you were.”
Me: “Gee, thanks! I did get the impression that a few guys were not happy about this tall, skinny girl showing up for boys’ intramural ball.”
First Man: I’m afraid I was one of those guys. Sorry.”
Second Man: “I hope I was not too big a jerk to you, but I fear that I may have been.”
Third Man: “I’m afraid I was a jerk.”
Me: “All is forgiven. We were kids. And ultimately you did let me play.
“Here’s something else you don’t know: The reason I played with you is Mr. Odell wouldn’t let me try out for boys’ varsity or JV. There wasn’t a girls’ team, and he was the boys’ coach, so I asked him if I could try out. First, he just said no.
“I persisted. ‘I’m new here, and since Arcadia doesn’t have a girls’ team, I’d like to try out for the boys’ team.’ He laughed, shaking his head as if I were telling a good joke.
“‘I played at my old school in Philly,’ I told him. ‘I’m good.’ I didn’t believe I could make it, but it seemed worth a try.
“Mr. Odell said, ‘Your breasts would get in the way.’ Which was absurd, and intended to shame me.
“I stepped back. ‘Just let me try out,’ I said.
“Mr. Odell said, ‘Only if I can personally bind your breasts.’”
For a while, no one on the email list responded. Had I said too much? I walked away from my computer but hustled back soon, feeling vulnerable.
“I know that might be hard to hear if you liked him,” I added, eager to resume the connection.
First Man: “I am so sorry about numbnuts Odell.”
Second Man: “He was a misogynistic jerk.”
Third Man: “Yeah, a real ass.”
Me: “Bless you all.”
I hadn’t told anyone during high school. Not even my parents. No one used the term sexual harassment then. But now, almost 50 years later, three 68-year-old men expressed support, and I’m grateful to them for that.
I think of as these conversations as micro-healings: small gifts that soothe old wounds. They’re underrated super-powers. Superman can leap tall buildings in a single bound but three men planning a high school reunion – not the former varsity stars, just ordinary intramural guys – helped me heal a half-century-old injury (a small one, but an injury nonetheless) simply by taking my side.
First Man: “And he wasn’t even a good coach.”
Me: “Ha. Thanks so much, guys.”
Comments?
Wow. This is an awesome piece, Mariah! I love that your former teammates stepped up to own their shameful parts in attempting to exclude you, validate the skills that earned your place among them, and co-sign your reaction to that disgusting coach. Particularly moved by your vulnerability in the entire exchange — you made safe space for them to heal, too — and encouraged that this was possible even 50 years after the fact!
You’re sharing the micro healing is contagious. Thank you. Aren’t we all god we’ve grown up?