ABOUT MEN

By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

Those who make their coin identifying differences between the sexes tell us that women tend to process feelings through talking and relating. Men process through relating as well, though it sure helps if the process involves a ball.

That's why, as the anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks drew closer, I found myself spending a little less time watching candlelight vigils on CNN and a little more time on the hardwood of Kilauea Gym in Kaimuki.

Part of what made Sept. 11 so difficult for those of us far away from the physical sites of the terrorist attacks was the odd sense of helplessness and inertia that fell over us as we sat glued to the TV news. We were frozen, first out of shock, then out of a fuzzy sense of propriety.

There was some debate over whether the professional sports leagues should stop play for awhile, and most did. For a lot of recreational athletes, the choice wasn't really a choice at all. What could feel more trivial than tossing a football or taking BP while 3,000 fellow Americans were buried under smoldering rubble?

But the truth is we needed to play. And I think this became more and more obvious as the months passed and our national wounds started to heal.

Sports are where boys, traditionally, and now more and more girls, learn to navigate the complexities of life with a sense of fairness and perspective.

These games serve us well as metaphor, as theater — a regular acting out of commitment and loyalty and courage that takes place on fields and courts.

And when the very nature of our beliefs are shaken, as they were last year, perhaps the best thing we can do is to play on.

They know this at Kilauea Gym, a place where my best friend, Mark, and I have spent countless hours playing H-O-R-S-E and School and pick-up games.

At Kilauea, and anywhere guys gather to play, the most valuable lessons are learned at the most literal, concrete level. You learn to hold your ground by staying low, by pushing and bumping and leaning when it's necessary. And you do it with control, with a feel for give and take, because one raised elbow is always answered with another.

You learn that some guys are just bigger and stronger, but that power differentials can be negotiated with good feet and good friends.

You remind yourself that weaknesses can be recognized and exploited, but that it isn't always right to do so.

You call your own fouls.

This year, the gym is also where we go to reclaim language taken away by the events of the world.

When someone yells "shooter" in a pick-up game, you know that you'd better close up the space between you and the guy with the ball.

For a few hours, you regard "terror" as nothing worse that being the "1" in a 3-on-1 fast break. You remember that "shooting out the lights" is a good thing.

It's not denial or escapism, really — it's keeping a space for your life and your sensibilities in a lane suddenly crowded with elbow-throwing nastiness.

At Kilauea, there's one court to share, and every night, guys go there to play hard and fair until the lights go out. And when it's time to go, they leave as friends.

Game on.