Why I Didn’t Play Basketball in High School
Swen Nater

Before I came to the United States in 1959 as a nine-year old, I never heard about the game of basketball. There was only one sport in Holland: football (soccer). When I was a kid, Holland’s best player was Abe (ah’ buh) Lenstra, a scoring forward out of Heerenveen, a city in the province of Friesland. I never saw him play, but someone gave me his book, complete with illustrations. I used to practice those moves over and over again. At the halfway house, we organized a team. They made me the goalie. Well, the truth is, no one wanted to be the goalie so I volunteered just to make sure I was on the team. But isn’t it interesting, the job of a goalie is very much like that of the defensive center in basketball? I blocked shot attempts and if the ball deflected off a player or part of the goal, I rebounded, with my hands.  

In my first week of school in America (fourth grade), I was introduced to playground games I never heard of such as: tetherball, foursquare, jacks, marbles, and this game they called “football.”  How dare they steal that name? And that ball wasn’t round. When it hit the playground, it would bounce anywhere, even backwards. That’s crazy! Kickball became my favorite, not because the ball was round but because I was good at it. But I had an eye on that basketball. It was a lot like Dutch football, with a goal on each end and the teamwork required to score.

I spent two years at Washington Jr. High but I only played basketball in gym class. I was kicked out of that school because I got in a fight, every day, for fifteen days in a row. They transferred me to Jefferson Jr. High where I received counseling and where every one of my teachers made me believe in myself. My whole life turned around. In ninth grade (high school started in 10th grade), I was one A short of straight As. I also fell in love with basketball. Early each morning, right after my stepfather left for work, my mom let me leave for school. I usually arrived one hour before school began and spent that time playing basketball on the outside court. In first period English, I was always soaked with perspiration. No wonder I didn’t have a girlfriend. Anyway, sometimes I stayed after school to play a little more. But I had to be home before my stepfather.

In the summers, my brother, Ibo, and I, after watching a Lakers game, would go to the nearby school and pretend to be Jerry West, Elgin Baylor, and Wilt Chamberlain, trying to make the same moves they did. That was fun.

At Woodrow Wilson High, I often stayed after school to play basketball with some of the varsity players. Sometimes, I lost track of time and got home after my stepfather. That usually meant no dinner, no TV, and staying in my room. It was worth it. But one time I was so late I was sure the punishment was going to be more severe. I made up a story that I had passed out on the sidewalk on the way home, and a man with a turban found me, gave me some water, and I revived. My stepfather didn’t buy it. I was grounded for two weeks. That wasn’t worth it because I couldn’t play basketball after school.

My junior year, I was 6’4”, the second-tallest kid in the school. In gym class, I was not bad at basketball and some of my classmates (well, maybe one or two) urged me (well, suggested) to try out for the team. So I did, knowing full well, if I made the team, my stepfather wouldn’t let me play. (I never told him I was trying out.) The problem was, I didn’t have any tennis shoes; my stepfather hadn’t bought me any tennis shoes yet, not ever for gym class. So I tried out in my bare feet.

After the first day of tryouts, when everyone was gone, the coach told me, “If you don’t have shoes by tomorrow, don’t bother coming out.” He left the gym. As it happens, I saw a pair of basketball shoes by the bleachers. Someone has forgotten them. I checked the size and they were 13s. I wore 11s. Close enough. I came into the gym the next day, ready to practice, wearing three pairs of socks and beautiful Converse All-Stars. The moment I walked in, all the players stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I looked over to where the coach was standing and, low and behold; there was the 6’6” starting center with only his socks on. I was told to take the shoes off, leave, and not to try out my senior year.

That’s why I didn’t play basketball in high school. Heck, I probably wasn’t good enough anyway. But I didn’t lose my love for the game. The first day at Cypress Junior College, my basketball career started. I didn’t even have to try out. I was 6’9” by then. I’ll tell you about it on Wednesday.

Swen