Marcus Kwon ‘25
The sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement is like music. Rhythmic, steady, imperfect. The echo carries through my memory like a song I’ve always known. I’m 18 now, but I can still see my 11-year-old self chasing that ball down the driveway, the hoop bent slightly down from dunks by kids with bigger dreams and stronger arms than mine.
I’ve always loved basketball, not for the glory but for the reliable sport. It started with neighborhood games. My dribble was weak, my shot flatter than it should’ve been, but I showed up. That’s what mattered. Kids I’d never spoken to became teammates. Each pass and rebound stitched us closer. Winning didn’t matter as much as laughing together after a bad play or cheering for someone else’s good one.
By middle school, I knew I wasn’t going to be an NBA star. Genetics dealt me a hand too short and too slow, and my heart, though full of passion, wasn’t ready to endure the grind of endless drills and conditioning. I’d watch my friends sweat and hustle, their eyes set on varsity dreams, while I lingered on the sidelines, happy to shoot hoops during lunch breaks and pick-up games.
There’s a kind of beauty in knowing your limits. I stopped trying to measure up to the impossible and started playing for the joy of it. Each jump shot was a small victory, each layup a moment to savor. The court became my sanctuary, the orange rim a quiet therapist that never judged. High school brought more struggles, responsibilities, and things to worry about. Stress mounted with each exam, each expectation. Some nights, it felt like the walls were closing in, like there wasn’t enough time in the day. Sometimes I would wish that time would stop and give me a break. But then I’d grab a ball and go shoot around. The troubles of the day faded into the background, replaced by the simplicity of the game. A basketball is the most reliable thing in the world—you bounce it, and it always comes back. It doesn’t argue with you or complain, and it always listens.
I met people there too. Strangers who became friends, if only for a night. We didn’t need to know each other’s names. We just played. They taught me new moves, and I taught them my old ones. There’s something universal about a sport that needs no words, just a ball, a hoop, and a willingness to play.
Even now, basketball is my constant. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be the fastest or the strongest on the court. It doesn’t matter that my jump shot sometimes veers left or that I can’t dunk. What matters is the freedom I feel when I step onto that pavement, the way the world seems to shrink to the size of a basketball, and nothing else exists but me and the game. I’m not playing to win trophies or make headlines. I’m playing because it reminds me of who I am. A kid who’s still learning, still growing, still chasing that ball down the driveway. And that, I think, is enough.