So make the time now / replay the game for each other

Ryuichi Sakamoto (Rap the World)

For the last 15 years, the idea of fatherhood and my own sense of who/what my absent father meant to me was inextricably linked to cancer. My father’s father died from prostate cancer in the 1990s. I have fleeting memories of him from my childhood. He was a mechanic who, in a pinch, worked on my mom’s cars. A couple of times, I sat in the garage with him while he did the repairs. From what I was told, he wanted to have the chance to spend time with me. It’s weird, looking back on those days now. I don’t really remember him, but the stories have settled into the mythology of my early years.

The thing is though, it was more than mere myth, because after I graduated from prep school, I was walking around downtown Asheville on what had to be a Saturday afternoon. I believe I was on my way to St. Lawrence Catholic Church, my hometown parish, where I still served as an altar boy, and I saw my grandfather. He was hooking a car up to his tow truck and after all of those years, I immediately knew it was him. I watched him with far more intent than I had as a child, but somehow I couldn’t compel myself to walk over and reintroduce myself.

Eventually I moved on, not sure if I would ever see him again. A few years later, my mother handed me a program from his funeral and sure enough, the face staring back at me felt the same as the one I had seen that afternoon and I convinced myself it was the same as the one I had probably seen as a kid in his garage.

I often think about how we do that, the rewriting of history and experiences. Our lives, each and every one of us, is loosely based on facts with careful (and maybe not so careful) editing and curation. We know – from recounted anecdotes – that we were in a certain place, at a certain time, and despite not remembering all of the faces and details, we’re able to reconstruct those moments with additional information and some helpful creative input. We can insert a face from another memory, maybe even attempt to shade or de-age it, if necessary, to make it fit the blank in the original instance. We photoshop our lives all the time and have done so for far longer than Photoshop actually existed.

I do this far more consciously as a writer and why not. If you can’t exercise artistic license in your own life and story, what’s the point, right?

If I could go back to that Saturday afternoon in downtown Asheville when I saw my grandfather, would I introduce myself? I think I would, but not because of some sense of regret or guilt. Not exactly. I think I would now because there’s something missing, something that I can’t re-create of him.

His voice.

I don’t remember what he sounded like. I have no voice to link to his face, which I have thanks to his obituary and the program photo. I imagine him to be a man of few words, but the scant few he might have spent on me feel like they would have been priceless, an unclaimed treasure.

***

Bear with me. This writing, the telling of this part of the story is meandering along and I can’t quite figure out how to shape it into something manageable and coherent. Hopefully, it will be clear by the time I finish.

Back to the beginning.

***

I was healthy and athletic. I trained for marathons in the 1990s and joined an upscale gym in Center City Philadelphia, where while sampling the facilities on a day pass, I got the chance to play a game of pick-up basketball against Maurice Cheeks (a 1983 NBA champion with the Philadelphia 76ers). This was a year or so after he had retired from the NBA. The game before, I watched him from the sidelines, more than a little starstruck. Plus, even at that later stage of life, he was still one of the fastest point guards I had ever seen in-person. There was something both graceful and otherworldly about how he moved on the court. It felt like he legitimately had a few extra gears that he could access or he could fold space itself and simply appear at his desired destination without having to cross the distance like anyone else.

As part of my claim to fame from that day, I stopped Cheeks on a fast break. I don’t remember the details of the sequence, except that Cheeks was racing downhill for a layup or a dunk and I was the only thing standing between him and that score. To be perfectly clear, I didn’t sky for an amazing block where I ended up hitting my head on the rim like Anthony Edwards (who knew I had a Minnesota Timberwolves shoutout in me). Instead, I used my deceptively long arms to reach in and poke the ball ever so slightly away, just enough to slow down the fastest person I had ever shared a basketball court with. Cheeks regained control of his dribble and reset his team’s offense.

Let me say again, I stopped Maurice Cheeks on a fast break.

That day and the years that followed playing basketball at that gym for a couple of hours before heading to work were transformational. I built a foundational love and passion for the game that continues to inspire me. I am happier on the basketball court than I am in a host of other spaces of my life. Inside those lines, I don’t think about work or any of my daily concerns. I’m simply enjoying the game and the people on the court with me.

***

I like to think basketball has made me healthier too, except for the fact that it couldn’t do anything to prevent me from getting prostate cancer. Cancer was an inevitable fact of my life thanks to my father.

As I approached 40, my mother started warning me that I needed to start getting tested. I knew nothing about the testing or prostate cancer. For a while, I waged a silent protest against her. I was healthy and strong, right? I wasn’t playing as much basketball, but I had ramped up my running. I had run a couple of marathons in Philly before moving to Cincinnati in September of 2000. I was logging crazy miles all around Bond Hill and Norwood, branching out to Hyde Park and Oakley when I needed a change of pace and scenery. I had even run around Bond Hill early mornings in April of 2001 during the civil unrest, making sure to go out after the curfew had ended. Running was such an intrinsic part of my life.

My first doctor’s visit, at 40, arrived full of gloom, dread, and fear. I’m not even sure I knew where or what my prostate was and when I found out what the manual test involved, my blood pressure went through the roof.

But that’s where my primary care physician stepped in and proved to be the perfect partner and guide. Based on my fitness level, he recognized the tight vise of fear that was squeezing the life out of me and reset the appointment on the spot, simply by talking to me. I told him that my mother and wife were eager for me to get tested because of my family history. At that time, all I knew about was my grandfather and the possibility of it spreading to one of my father’s brothers. We talked about my training regime, what I ate, my work as a film critic. Eventually he rechecked my blood pressure, which lowered significantly and then he talked me through the prostate exam.

Each year, we performed the same routine. The only difference would be whether I would have the manual check or get blood work taken for my PSA. There was something else too. Each time, thanks to my mother, I would have a bit more information about my father’s family status. Both uncles, then my father as well, were all diagnosed with prostate and/or other forms of cancer.

Somewhere along the way, I went down to Asheville to meet my father, as I have always said, so that I could finally put a face to this disease that was waiting to lay its hands on me. The meeting came and went, he died around two years later and I heard the news from my last surviving uncle’s daughter who found my business card on my father’s bedside stand. She contacted me to see if I wanted to come to the funeral. I politely declined, but I found some peace in the idea that she and the rest of the family had a different relationship with him. There was love and familiarity in the way she spoke of him. I was glad. My father would have his people around for his sendoff. I offered instead to connect with her and my uncle the next time I went home for a visit.

And when I made good on that commitment, I spent hours at my uncle’s house, talking and asking questions, having the kind of conversation I wanted to have with my father during our visit. My uncle shared his prostate cancer experience, which was far more involved than I had imagined. He had been diagnosed and treated a few times before eventually having his prostate removed. After the surgery and another round of treatment, cancer was discovered again in the region. He was towards the end of yet another round when we spoke in-person.

I kept up with him after that, periodically calling to check on him; sometimes just to ask more questions about this side of my family, to see what more he could tell me about our past. In 2021, he was diagnosed again and this time, it looked like there would be no recovery. I called a bit more frequently then, truly checking in on him. I had been keeping my mother abreast of the situation and during those last few months, she started calling as well. My final call, less than a month before he died, felt like the end. His wife told me he wasn’t able to speak, but she held the phone next to his ear so that I could say goodbye.

I’ve spent more time mourning him than I ever would have expected. I had developed a certain fondness for him and knowing his cancer journey had prepared me for what was to come.

***

And I’m not sure which prostate test was worse. The manual check or the PSA. For most people the PSA wouldn’t be so bad, just a quick prick and some drawn blood, but I’ve always had a thing about even sticking my finger to draw blood. Back in middle school, during a summer camp, I nearly passed out while trying to prick my finger to get a blood sample for an experiment.

What was it like, the waiting?

I’m not an anxious person. I tend to live in the moment as much as possible, but once a year, I slipped into a fog of worry, running through nightmares of the worst-case scenario, lost in an undertow of concern that maybe this year would be the year. As time went on, my wife and I talked to couples we knew and the husbands were sharing their stories of being diagnosed and their treatment regimes. As my PSA numbers began creeping up, I saw myself on the verge of joining the club no one wants to join.

My original primary care physician retired and I had to start all over again with another doctor in the practice. During my first appointment, I let him know what I had been doing with my previous doctor and he adopted the routine.

My uncle’s decline and inevitable death triggered another degree of disquiet as I waited. His ongoing battle let me know that cancer in our genes was strong and would require a level of fight that I had never had to consider before. How do you mentally and psychologically prepare for something like this; something that, ultimately, you might not truly beat?

***

And then, it finally happened. My PSA went over 4, triggering the next movement. Going over 4 didn’t necessarily mean I had cancer, but it was likely, given my family history. It was time for a biopsy, which was much more intrusive than a manual test. I was surprised by how quickly I received the results through MyChart. I had this data, which I couldn’t decipher and would have to wait until I could meet with my physician.

Except I was lucky enough to have a sister and brother-in-law who are both doctors. Jess and I Facetimed them that very afternoon and they talked us through the results. It was here but had been caught early and was quite treatable. There were options. Kerry and Nick were lifelines to sense of sanity for me, but especially Jess. More than anyone else I have ever known; my wife locks in on a problem and wants answers. She has to understand things and know the exact course of action, broken down into each and every step that must be undertaken.

She was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in her early 40s. After the initial testing, before landing on the Type 1 status, she scoured the internet for information. And true to her nature, had convinced herself of the worst-case scenario, which looked like pancreatic cancer. It was devastating to watch her flounder and spiral. I was so far beyond being able to help her, I felt like I was failing her, maybe even more so than her body was at the time.

But when it was conclusively determined to be the more rare form of diabetes, she attacked it with renewed passion. She knew she would be able to tame it, bend it to her tremendous will. She would live with it, transform her diet, remain ever vigilant every day. It became her mission, one that she has gladly accepted and found ways to thrive through, even in its most frustrating moments.

***

My situation was different and I didn’t want her going down all of the internet rabbit holes trying to solve my prostate concerns. That wasn’t how I imagined living with and through this.   

Having reached this point, my worry was gone. Almost.

***

I should note that I found out about my prostate cancer in 2021, during Covid. At that point, I was reserving solo court time, which allowed me to develop a regimen of shooting drills and a full court workout that approximated the feel of play, but I couldn’t remember that last time I played a full court 5-on-5 game. Suddenly, I had to face the idea that, if I had to have my prostate removed or go through extensive treatment, I might not ever play again, at least not the way I wanted. I had never wanted to join an over-40 (or over-50) league. My competitive juices and my late-blooming skillset positioned me to be that old head still running around with guys in the 20s and 30s. How is it that a kid who never played competitively could care this much about a game? If I couldn’t play again, why was this going to be the thing I missed the most?

Following my family conference, I met with my physician and an oncologist who pitched the idea of aggressive monitoring. Having caught the cancer so early, they figured we could keep an eye on its slow evolution through PSA tests every three months. Years of immediately removing men’s prostates as soon as their PSAs went over that threshold trigger had yielded data proving that they had subjected patients to new physical realities much too soon. There was a better way forward and I would benefit from this knowledge. No real treatment necessary just yet, which opened the door to being able to restart playing full court games.

My Wednesday lunchtime game returned and I informed all of the guys of my health status. My willingness to share the details with them was rooted in what felt like a new lease on life. I wanted to enjoy and thoroughly live in the moment. I wanted to let everyone in my life how important they are to me. I wanted to not get caught up in worrying about things that didn’t matter. I wanted to live as fearlessly as possible.

On the court, that meant running and playing hard. I told the fellas I would be there every week, ready to shoot a bunch of threes and talk a bunch of trash. If I truly loved the game, then each three would be a big old sloppy kiss and the trash talking would come from the ultimate place of love too. I’ve never been a mean-spirited player. I curse a lot, but almost always at myself when I fail to do the right thing in the moment. I give guys grief when they cover me, mainly to remind them that I’m this old guy who shouldn’t be able to keep up with them. New players, who don’t know my game, are usually surprised when I take off to find that open spot along the three-point line with just enough separation for me to get a shot off.

I’m not only thankful to still be able to play, but to share the time with the crew. We laugh constantly, talk about our families, breakdown whatever sport happens to be in season, and welcome new players with fierce love. We’re brothers. They check in on me when I have tests, celebrate the results, and let me know that they see me doing my thing, whether it’s on the court or on television when I’m breaking down the new film and streaming releases each weekend. I hope the “seeing” part inspires them to keep playing, just like I am now. Twenty or thirty years from now, I imagine a few of them still out there, inspiring the next generation of rec hoopsters.  

***

This isn’t just about basketball though. This mantra applies to all aspects of my life. As a critic, I attend festivals, for instance, now with a different mindset. No longer am I compelled to see five or six films and log in three interviews a day. I want to appreciate and savor the narratives. Even more though, I want to surrender to the feelings the filmmakers seek to evoke. If I’m watching a good comedy, I want to laugh out loud. I want my belly and face to hurt. If, like at this past year’s screening of Ava DuVernay’s Origin at the Toronto International Film Festival, I am overwhelmed and overcome with tragic heartbreak, I want to cry, letting the tears gush and flow. Why hold anything back?

Watching films like Laura Chinn’s semi-autobiographical debut feature Suncoast at Sundance earlier this year make me consider how having cancer impacts my feelings about cancer stories. How many films, over the years, have I watched that dealt with characters living with cancer and been able to remain slightly detached from those characters and their situations? Is it different now, for me, and I suppose I’m asking myself if it matters?

For years, I’ve been a critic who happens to be Black. Now I happen to have cancer. Am I looking for myself in these stories in the same way I sought reflections of my Blackness?

***

I need to nerd out for a moment. I’m a comic book fan, very old school about comics and games. As a child of the late 1970s and early 1980s, I read every comic I could lay my hands on. Older family friends and some of the people my grandmother used to work for (as a domestic) used to give me boxes of assorted titles that I would devour with the insatiable hunger of a child discovering new worlds, places I needed to travel to and play in. Having been dropped in the middle of a narrative, I would want to find the connected issues, the beginning and end of these stories. I see now that my completist approach to the authors that I read or filmmakers that I’ve come to love comes from those early days.

I honed in on the Marvel stories. Iron Man. The Avengers. The X-Men. And The Mighty Thor.

Thor was a bit different though because I was also fascinated by mythology. Maybe Thor spoke to me due to his daddy issues. He was always trying to please this all-powerful figure. Odin. The All-Father.

I sought out Thor’s adventures, primarily those without The Avengers. His solo tales were about a young godling trying to discover his place in his family and the world. He straddled Asgard (the Norse realm) and Earth (Midgard), eager to love and be loved by both. It was quite natural to identify with him.

Recently, he became unworthy of his weapon of choice, his enchanted hammer Mjolnir, which had been inscribed with the words – whosoever holds the hammer, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor. With Thor no longer worthy, the hammer sat unclaimed, but it called out to someone, a past human lover of Thor’s, Jane Foster, who was able to pick it up and claim the power of Thor. The problem for Jane Foster was that she had advanced cancer and was in the middle of treatment. Now, you would think that being worthy of the power of Thor (a god) would defeat the pesky cancer that was ravaging her mortal body. Whenever she transformed into Thor, she could command thunder and defeat great threats. But when she returned to human form, the power of Thor would erase her chemotherapy, leaving her worse off than before. Eventually the transformations would kill her human body.

Of course, she could simply give up her mortal form and remain Thor forever, but part of what made her worthy of the power of Thor was her humanity.

I stumbled upon this Thor arc when I started writing these essays and it spoke to me like very few narratives could. And there were all of these smaller details of her journey and experience that felt so resonate. As the new (and completely worthy) version of Thor, she had to face the expectations of friends and foes alike who only saw her as the Lady Thor, as if she was less than the real deal. Human and a woman. Two strikes against her in a game where it felt like just having one strike was enough to remove her from the competition.

Cancer can do that. It can strip you down, have others look at you with pity and concern, fear that life is already too much for you to handle. I realized that race factors into the situation in similar ways.

Maybe that’s why Black men would rather not know or even get tested for cancer and other health issues. There’s a stubborn sense of being invincible thanks to not knowing. Who needs to be Black and have cancer?

But what I’m discovering is the power of exposing and exploring my vulnerability. I am far more human and heroic because I know. I live with much more intention and can sometimes accomplish incredible things.

Each week that a couple of my threes find the bottom of the net, I race back up the court with a smile and the desire to take the next shot. I’m able to will my 50-something year-old body to jump passing lanes for steals that I used to assume I was too old to make. I’m worthy of my place on the court and glad to be in position to prove it each week.

We all need to know that we’re worthy, all the time and in every way. Sometimes we need a reminder. Personally, I hate that those reminders tend to be harsh negative truths, human failings that kick us in the butt and press down with unimaginable force. But when we find a way to rise up, to stand tall and proud in spite of the struggle, that makes the final shot and the win a bit sweeter, right?

Stepping In (To Fatherhood) received one of ArtsWave’s 2024 Black and Brown Artist project grants, with support from the City of Cincinnati, Duke Energy, Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center, Fifth Third Bank, Greater Cincinnati Foundation, Macy’s, Walter C. Frank, and Peter and Betsy Niehoff.