Bustle Hustle

 

I had a basketball coach in high school who made us do a drill at the end of practices. Foul shots. Each teammate would step up to the foul line, one at a time, and take the shot. For every missed shot, the whole team would have to do sprints up and down the court as fast as we could. He would stand on the sidelines, yelling, "HUSTLE! HUSTLE! HUSTLE!!" By then, we were hot, sweaty, and sometimes annoyed. But more was expected of us. So we did hustle and our foul shots improved. 

Later, when I played college basketball, I really understood how to hustle. I was fast. I could move down that court before you could yell, "Fast break!" I was ready under the net for the pass. Shoot! Score! The other team didn't know what they were up against. Oh, yes, I could hustle. 

But on one fateful game night, the hustle in my bustle was too much for me. 

No one knew what was coming. I didn't know what was coming. And this weird, out-of-body kind of experience went down. 

The opposing team had the ball. They raced and passed, dribbled and jumped, up the court to our net. My team feverishly protected and defended what was ours. The shot was made. The rebound fell into the hands of my teammate. 
And I was ready. 
I was beyond ready. 
Because I was already hustling back down, alive with anticipation at receiving the ball and making the shot. Oh yes, this was my time. This was where I excelled. 
And this was also when it happened. 
Those years of training in high school to take the shot, to react with speed and precision, to hustle, hustle, hustle - well they proved their value, or better said, their folly, in this defining moment. 

Pulse racing. Breath quickening. Eyes ready. Arms tingling. Feet springy. Muscles quivering. 

And I missed. 
No, not the shot. 
But the court. 
I was booking it. 
My legs had, at that moment, developed the ability to move faster than they had ever moved in a short distance. Muscle fibers were firing faster than my brain's ability to control them. 
And in that slow-motion flash of a second, where, in one breath, I was sure I was going to score for my team, in the next breath I was, well, knocked off my feet, wind out of my high-tops. 
The concrete wall of the gym, beyond the net, graciously received my hustling body which crumpled to the floor in shock a moment later. 
I had hustled so fast that I had lost the function of stopping. 
I ran right into the wall, and needless to say, missed my opportunity to score a couple of points. 
The rest of my game was spent with an icepack on my face, easing the pain of concrete meeting the nose and cheekbones. 
I was benched for the night. 
My black eye reminded me of my hustle for days after. 

So, now, I tell you all this, first, to give you a chuckle.
You're welcome. 
Second, because I know how it feels to smash face-first into a wall. 
How the pain hits hard and fast.
How the ache and the bruises last for days. 
How the angst or frustration of something not happening like it should, or like you wanted it to, can grip you and torment you. 
Welcome to 2020. 
Where wild and weird send you running into walls. 
Welcome to life. 
Where people throw you under the bus, and you are misunderstood; where people believe lies about you rather than seek the truth; where people believe what they perceive. 

Are you hitting that wall? Is your face battered and bruised from the moments you are stunned from wondering how you missed the pass because you were lying on the floor in need of an ice-pack? 

Yes, I feel your pain. 
I know that hurt. 
Face on wall. Been there.
Beaten and bruised. Been there. 
I know your pain. 

Here, let me get you an ice-pack. 
Let me put my arm around your shoulder.
Let's watch the game through a swollen eye, with a new perspective, with a deep breath. 
I'll sit on the bench with you. 

"After you have suffered a little while, He will restore, support, and strengthen you, and He will place you on a firm foundation." (1 Peter 5:10, NLT)