My Father Had An Aneurysm Yesterday

“My father had an aneurysm today. Earlier today. Like around 9 in the morning. So he drove himself to the hospital. Emergency room from what I hear. He does weird things like that. Quiet guy. Keeps to himself. Drives himself to the hospital when he gets an aneurysm.

“Ya know, I don’t even know what that is. All I know is that it’s some brain shit that’s bad. I think Nirvana had a song called aneurysm.

Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…

” I heard from somewhere or someone that if you said a word often enough, it would lose it’s power over you…

“Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm. Aneurysm…aneurysm…aneurysm…

I sighed. And then tried smiling. “Nope. Doesn’t seem to work.”

Some of them laughed.

“So I did some research. Called up some registered nurses I knew.  Asked them what it was. They told me.” I paused. Not because of technique. I just didn’t want to cry.

“It’s not too good…” I looked up at the ceiling. Lights. Lots of lights. Ambers, reds, blues, greens. A good wash for this type of story. I could imagine what they saw.

I looked at my feet. At the bright circle I was standing inside of. It felt warm.

“He was a basketball player, back in the Philippines. Pro. Other teams would draft American players just to try to stop him. He was that good. Six foot tall, big basketball IQ, quick hands, and he was fast. Could’v e made a career playing pro ball in the Philippines, but then I was born.”

That was the cue. From off-stage, a basketball was thrown towards me.

I caught it. Dribbled it a couple of times. Through the legs. Behind my back. Rolled it off my hand. Spun it on my fingers. Then held it against my hip.

I looked into the darkness. Someone backstage told me there was three thousand people. I couldn’t see a single face. Just an ocean of bumpy shadows. I could feel their eyes, though. Listening.

“Back then, in the 70′s, especially in the Philippines, basketball didn’t make much money. Not enough money for a growing family, anyway. So my dad came to America. Land of the free, home of the brave. Where anyone from anywhere in the world could make good money as long as they worked hard.

“He was a busboy at first. Then, after a few years, he became a waiter. While he was doing that, he joined an insurance company, part time. Eventually, the insurance company hired him full-time. Then he started getting into real estate. He wanted to become a real estate agent.

“Around that time, I was in junior high school. 13 years old. That’s when I got into basketball.”

I dribbled the ball again. I started moving a little around stage. The spotlight followed me. Between the legs. Behind my back. Under my knee. I started sweating. I started breathing hard. My eyes started to water.

I stopped in front of the microphone once again, breathing through my mouth, perspiration trickling down my cheek.

“When he found out, he got really excited. I mean, his only son, finding basketball. The game he used to play when he was a kid. The one way we’d be able to communicate.

“See, we didn’t talk too much when I was a kid. Shit, we still don’t talk too much. We just nod to each other a lot, ask about sports teams, and eat food. We don’t really talk. And w never have.”

I dribbled the ball once. Held it in between my hands. I looked at it. Traced my fingers across the seams. Sighed. Smiled.

“Once he found out I liked playing, he built me my own hoop.” I laughed to myself. I remembered what it looked like. “Dude. It was a monster.”

The audience laughed a little, unsure if they could. I smiled big, letting them know they could.

“See, we had this fence. A wooden fence. It was in our backyard. It came with the house. What this guy did, my dad, this guy, what he did was tear down that fence and he sawed and nailed and roped and hammered together this ugly, monstrosity, of a mockery of a basketball hoop!”

The audience laughed a release.

“He went down to the closest elementary school and jacked the basketball rim! There was no net so what he did was take fishing wire and tied it like streamers to the rim. Whenever I shot the ball and it went in, it didn’t go ‘swoosh’. It didn’t say anything!”

The audience laughed louder, in unison. I could see their shadows moving from side to side in enjoyment.

“The medieval contraption of a basketball hoop was too top heavy. So this guy, my dad, this guy, he chopped own a tree at a local park and used that stump as a counter weight. I swear to God, it looked like a Frankenstein monster, Trojan horse, catapult, thing!

“He was so proud.”

I dribbled the ball once. Then twice. Between my legs. Held it back in my hands.

“I would play on that thing every afternoon. Something inside of me made me feel good playing basketball. Something about the angles, the muscles I was using, the skills I was developing. It felt good. After a while, that’s all I would do. All hours of the day, the night, the morning, I’d play basketball. For some reason I just loved it.” I laughed to myself. Looked at the crowd. “I guess it’s genetics!” The crowd liked that one. I could feel warm smiles bouncing from one side of the auditorium to the other.

“He was so proud. Proud of me, proud of the game of basketball, proud of that ugly, fucking, wooden, basketball thing. He just didn’t want to show it.” I bounced the ball off my foot and back into my hand.

“He’d pretend to mow the lawn just to watch me play. Even though I mowed the lawn an hour earlier. He’d pretend to work on the car in the driveway just to watch me play. Without tools. He’d pretend to water the bushes just to watch me play. The water wasn’t even on.

“He was so proud of me…” I could feel the lights get warmer. I looked own at my feet. I heard the audience’s laughter fade into attention.

I dribbled the ball once.

“He was so proud of me…”

I dribbled the ball again. Dribbled it between my legs. Dribbled it under my knee. Rolled it across my chest and on the stage, between my legs, three times. I started moving stage right, dribbling, harder, faster. My thigh muscles tightened. My core flexed. The spot light followed. I started running. Between the legs, around my back, against the back wall. I ran harder, dribbled harder. Sweat was dripping. I was breathing heavy again.

“He was so proud of me…” I said in between my breaths. I could feel my eyes well up. So I dribbled harder, ran faster, cut quicker, spun, jumped, pumped, juked, harder, faster, quicker. I wanted to feel my muscles stretch. I wanted to feel physical strain. I wanted to feel a burn. I needed something.

I started crying. The tears mixed with the sweat. The sobs mixed with the huffing. My father lying in the hospital, on a bed, tubes, machines, asleep, in pain. My father building the ugliest, most beautiful, basketball hoop ever created for his son. My father giving up on his dream to be a professional basketball player so he could bring his family to America for a chance at a better life.

My father had an aneurysm today…

I dropped the ball. My hand covered my face. Tears gushed through my fingers. I was not in control of myself anymore. There was no audience at that point. Just wanting my father to get better.

“He’s in surgery. Right now.” I sobbed into the microphone. All I could see was the watery world of tears still sitting on my eyelashes. “They’re cutting his head open.”

I took a couple of minutes. To calm myself down. To compose myself. This was still a show, after all. Not some AA meeting. Finally, eventually, I stopped crying.

I looked out into the audience. I could hear people crying. I could hear people listening. The lights were still warm on my face. I could see them on the tips of my wet eyelashes.

“He was so proud of me…” I said one last time. Took a bow. And walked off stage.

There was applause, I think. I couldn’t hear because I bolted for the door. We had a show in Virginia the next day and I had to get packing.