During the past two weeks you may have noticed some obnoxiously tall women carrying around obnoxiously bright blue and orange basketballs. This is the project that was delegated to my teammates and I for the next...well, we're not really sure. Upon receipt of the basketballs we were told that we were to carry them absolutely everywhere: to class, to the mall, to the bathroom.
Sanitary? Probably not. But would they help us cut down on turnovers? Definitely. Nobody was to touch the basketballs except her owner and they had to be in our hands at all times, not hidden away in backpacks.
At first, we were irritated. Some of us were concerned about the embarrassment. Personally, I was envisioning dribbling a ball while balancing my toast and coffee on the way to the bus stop every morning. The first morning coffee ended up on the ground and my shirt. The toast didn't even make it to the bus stop.
The second day we still had not fit our new ball-children into our routine. A couple of us had to sprint back to our apartment to grab our balls before class. We were like the mothers of Teen Mom, generally irritated and always trying to remember where we had left our children.
Other students at the University reacted in one of two ways. They would either stare us down with a "Really, you jerk? You couldn't leave it on the court?" expression, or inquire as to why we were cradling a basketball like a child all around Grounds. To the people attempting the stare down, I'd usually attempt to start showing off my handles as if to say "Aren't you ashamed of yourself lacking the confidence to do what I'm doing?" I stopped using this tactic, however, when the ball frequently started hitting off my foot or knee. So I shot dirty looks back, instead. Yes, it has been duly noted that some people may actually not be looking at me and passing judgment. To the people bold enough to ask, I reply with: "Team project. They're like flour babies."
And this is what the basketballs have become to us. Large, bumpy, orange and blue flour babies. They all have names, and to the teammates who have refused to name them, we have given names. Mine is Amelia. I gave her the least athletic name I could think of. To all the Amelias who play basketball, my apologies.
During the past few days, Amelia has grown into quite a sassy free spirit like her mama. She rolls away from me in class, manages to make her way down the two flights of stairs in my apartment when I'm trying to get upstairs and hides under my desk while I'm doing homework. I conveniently almost sprain my ankle getting up. She has also struck up a romance with the ball next door, Skye. Often I find them nestled together in the hallway of the apartment, most often in the early morning when I am trying to find her before class. She is naughty, but mama loves her.
The ball project started out as rather humiliating. Now, when my teammates and I see each other toting our orange and blue basketballs we laugh and bust a move. Our ball children have formed a tight knit family, sitting together at team meals, bringing us giggles when the unsuspecting passerby trips over one of them - just kidding. I'm still waiting for Amelia's first word.
Simone's column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at s.egwu@cavalierdaily.com
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