“Gimme dat, little guy.”
The ball was ripped out of my hands and going the other direction. I watched as the thief, a much younger, taller, and better basketball player than me, led a fast break that resulted in an easy layup for the other team.
My team was offended on my behalf.
“What did you call Sam?” somebody asked.
“I didn’t even think about it,” the culprit said with a sheepish smile. “It was instinct.”
I laughed out loud. I really liked the person who forced me to commit another signature Sam-Tanner-turnover. He was a nice guy.
I’ve learned to laugh out loud when, on and off the basketball court, somebody makes a comment about my height. I’m 5’3” on a good day. 4’3” on a bad one.
“Sorry, Sam,” the bully said.
“No worries,” I said.
No worries.
***
I’ll never forget when I first met one of my best friend’s fiancé. My friend was six-foot three and always about 10 steps ahead of me in basketball. His wife was even taller.
“This is Sam,” somebody introduced me.
“Oh, for cute,” his wife said, towering over me.
And then I punched her in the face.
Just kidding. I’ve made a life out of not choosing violence. You know, like Jesus.
I grew accustomed to high school students being fascinated by my height when I was a teacher.
“How tall are you, Mr. Tanner?” a student asked.
“Six-foot-seven,” I’d say with a straight face, and then walk away.
A Social Studies teacher at Cooper shared many of my 9th graders during my first-year as a teacher. One morning, a student came racing into my classroom.
“Our Social Studies teacher played a song about you, Mr. Tanner! It is called Short People.”
Here’s a line from the chorus of Short People by Randy Newman:
“Short people got no reason to, no reason to, no reason to live.”
I laughed loudly with the student and, later, with the Social Studies teacher.
I’m told Napoleon was short. He probably didn’t laugh when people made fun of him. I have no plans on conquering Europe. Instead, I’ll keep trying to build things with people who are different than me. You know, like Jesus.
***
A few possession after losing the ball to my friendly bully, I had the ball on the wing. I fired an accurate pass across the court and the person my friendly bully was guarding nailed an open three. Another assist for the little guy.
“Take that, big guy,” I said with a smile. My friendly bully laughed.
I just keep trying to figure out how to be an asset to my team on the court. It’s never been easy. Hustle and speed. Quick layups when I was younger. Smart passes now that I’m older. Always sneaking around to get rebounds. Always trying to avoid wild turnovers.
“You day drinking again, Sam?” one of the other noon-ballers at the University of Iowa’s Field House asked me after I fired another wild pass across court that was intercepted. I can be wild.
I’m 46 and I’m still learning to play basketball, my height be damned. My hero Kurt Vonnegut wrote that all art is a struggle against the artist’s limitation. It remains a constant struggle for me stay disciplined, play smart, and help rather than hinder my team on the court. A beautiful struggle that brings me joy.
