By Patrick Curry
I vividly recall the moment when my life divided into a before and after.
It’s a muggy summer evening. The sun hangs low, casting the basketball court in burnt orange and penny. I’m playing a pickup game on a blacktop court in a dead-end playground.
I’m 14, six-foot-four, and indestructible. Basketball is my religion.
I’m running — really hauling — my feet pounding the court like it owes me something. I call for the ball, fake, rise and release. Swish.
Game over. Day over.
I didn’t choose basketball. It chose me.
My father died of cancer when I was 10. I didn’t even know he was sick.
One drizzly May afternoon, my mother walked into the house, looked at me, and said, “Patrick, your father died this morning. Get dressed. We have things to do.”
No explanations. No questions.
For a year, I ate. I slept. I watched TV. One afternoon, I wandered into our basement and found a beat-up leather basketball behind the coal bin. I found a nearby court and started shooting. Then I started running. I ran until I threw up. I did it again. Every day for three years.
Basketball erased my pain.
After the last game, I’m leaning against the fence, sipping a quart of cold chocolate milk, when I hear them. A bow-legged man and a kid. They carry a burlap sack of tennis balls, a tennis net and a bunch of wooden rackets.
I recognize the kid — Eddie — from my short, disastrous stint in Little League. He never missed a chance to remind me of my failures.
Eddie caught my eye.
“Wanna play?” he calls. “Bet you can’t win a point.”
That grin — I recognize it. Smug. Cocky.
Hormonal rage kicks in. I pick a racket and step onto the court.
Eddie serves.
I swing. I miss.
He serves again. I swing harder. The ball hits the frame of my racket and shoots over the fence.
I lunge, flail, and barely make contact. Eddie has me on a string, like a puppet master. But point by point, I’m getting closer to hitting the center of the strings.
And then, it happens.
I catch the sweet spot — smooth, pure. It rockets over the net, out of Eddie’s reach. I look at my racket like it’s a magic wand. Something shifts deep inside of me. I feel alive. Real joy for the first time since my dad died.
Eddie proceeded to take me apart that day, and nearly every day for the next two months. But I was hooked. Basketball drifted into the rearview mirror.
I had found the love of my life, and nothing would stop me.
Or so I thought.
In August, a man came to the courts and informed me that Father Deviney — the pope of basketball for our school — wanted to see me. Right now.
Minutes later, I walked up the steps of our parish rectory, a huge, white mansion with three-foot-wide pillars, reminiscent of the pearly gates. As I approached the door, a grim-looking secretary awaited me. “Father Deviney is expecting you.”
I sank into a chair, Father Deviney leaned in. “Patrick, I hear you’ve been playing tennis.”
I gushed, “Oh yeah, Father. I love it. It’s the best sport—”
His hand sliced the air. “Enough!” I gulped.
“Basketball is the lifeblood of St. Gabriel’s revenue. You’re the tallest kid in the school. You’re obligated to play.”
I sat, stunned.
He continued. “Tomorrow, you’re going to basketball camp. Tennis is forbidden. Tennis’ll never get you anywhere. You’re dismissed.”
My tennis career was over before it began.
I did as told, completing my obligation, and played basketball through college. After my last game, I sprinted to the tennis courts, and it was like I’d never left.
It took three years, but I scraped together enough money to follow my dream to Europe.
I played on fire-red clay in France, cliffside at Lake Lugano, and on silky grass in England.
On July 4, 1976, I stood on the Champs-Élysées under the glow of the Eiffel Tower, fireworks painting the night sky. I was in the sweet spot of life.
Back from Europe, reality set in. I became a teaching pro in the Poconos, sharing my love of tennis with thousands of people. Eight years later, I got a call offering me a job as the head pro of the Aspen Club. This month, 40 years ago, I moved to Aspen and never left.
Without tennis, I wouldn’t be here today.
Where’s the sage wisdom in this? There is none. A random opportunity presented itself to a kid sipping chocolate milk on a dead-end playground, and he said, “Yes.”
So, Father Deviney, so much for tennis never getting me anywhere.
Patrick Curry is a storyteller, teacher and entrepreneur based in the Roaring Fork Valley. He recently founded Sopris.ai, a company focused on making AI accessible to adults and helping them navigate technology confidently. With a background in tech startups and digital education, he now spends his time teaching, writing and exploring the power of stories to connect people. He’s an avid tennis player and cyclist.