From Dreams to Reality: My Basketball Story

When I was a little girl, I fell in love with basketball. I was maybe five years old when I first picked up a ball, and I would spend hours in the driveway dribbling and shooting, pretending I was on a team. My dad used to take my sisters and me to Rutgers women’s basketball games, and I was completely mesmerized. I even started collecting basketball cards, proudly showing them off in a home video, much to my family’s boredom.

When I learned that the WNBA existed, that women could play basketball professionally, it became my dream.

But two things happened that slowly derailed it.

Around the age of ten, I began noticing that even short bursts of running left me breathless. A doctor called it “exercise-induced bronchial spasms” and prescribed an albuterol inhaler. I used it before gym class and games, but I still struggled. Looking back now, I sometimes wonder how much anxiety may have played a role in those moments.

The second moment cut deeper.

An older relative I admired once asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation, I said I wanted to play in the WNBA. I don’t remember the exact words that followed, but I will never forget the mocking laugh. The message was clear: find a new dream.

I was crushed.

Someone I loved and respected thought my dream was ridiculous. I was heartbroken, and little by little, that dream disappeared. I stopped playing, even in the driveway. I stopped watching. I stopped caring. As I got older, I’m ashamed to admit I even laughed along with misogynistic jokes about women’s basketball.

Life moved on, and basketball faded completely; until the fall of 2020.

That was the year I got sober. At the time, my AA sponsor and her partner were huge women’s basketball fans. Spending time at their house meant watching games, usually the Tennessee Lady Vols. I remember thinking, why are we watching this?

Not long after, life took another sharp turn, and once again, basketball slipped out of view.

Then, in March 2025, my former sponsor invited me to the SEC women’s basketball tournament. I hadn’t been keeping up with any teams, but it sounded like a fun weekend with friends, so I went.

I wasn’t prepared for what it would stir up.

The joy. The energy. The unmistakable feeling of reconnecting with a first love I had buried for years. It all came rushing back. Something in me woke up.

With the college season wrapping up, I started following the WNBA. I watched Paige Bueckers get drafted number one. At the time, I didn’t know much about her, but there was something about her story that pulled me in. That curiosity turned into watching every Dallas Wings game, learning about UConn, and falling in love with the players and their journeys.

Now, I’m all in. Not just on the teams, but on the stories of these incredible women.

Having basketball back in my life has been a gift, but it hasn’t come without complicated emotions. I’ve had to grieve a dream that died a long time ago and accept that it’s no longer possible in the way I once imagined.

When I got sober, I was told that as long as I didn’t drink, I could do anything. Well, anything except go back in time and become a professional basketball player.

That realization was hard.

Did I cry? Absolutely. Many times. I grieved what could have been, what might have happened if someone had believed in me. Even if I never made it to the professional level, I could have tried.

But I also believe something just as deeply: I am an alcoholic, an addict. I was born that way. And the truth is, even if I had chased that dream, I likely would have lost it to my drinking. In sobriety, we often hear, “nothing happens in God’s world by mistake.” I believe that. I believe my life unfolded the way it was meant to, even if that doesn’t erase the grief.

Today, I’ve found a different kind of peace with it.

I get to be a fan again. I get to love the game. I get to be a cheerleader, even if it’s from my couch, follow players’ journeys, and feel genuine pride in what they accomplish. Every now and then, there’s still a small twinge of sadness, but mostly, there is joy.

And maybe that’s enough.

What this experience has taught me, more than anything, is this: never laugh at a child’s dream.

I have two nephews, a niece, and another nephew on the way, all under the age of five. I know now how much words matter. Even the ones we think are harmless can shape someone’s future.

No matter how unrealistic a dream might seem, it’s real to them.

I never want to be the reason someone gives up on something they love. I want to be the person who cheers the loudest, the one who says, go for it. I want them to look back one day and say, “Aunt T believed in me,” whether they become a professional athlete or a librarian.

I can’t change the past.

But I can choose what I do from here.

I can dream again; even if those dreams look different now. I don’t know exactly what they are yet, but I’m excited to find out.

And I’m grateful to know that as long as I have God’s approval, and my own, I’ll be okay.