Sold Out And Ready living what they preach

This article is not nitty. It’s not gritty. It’s not slimy or grimy or scandalous.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

This article will tip its hat to a group of guys who left a distinct impression on a guy they didn’t have to humor or care about.

This article will highlight a group of guys who took the chance to let their ministry manifest itself from 14 feet in the air.

Recently, I was hiding behind a camera, intruding on a SOAR Dunk team practice at the Tolsma Indoor track.

The assignment was easy enough, and practice went smoothly. I had been chatting with team captain, Brent — Fortenberry, I would learn later — about their upcoming show in Ohio in front of thousands and of the numerous injuries the team has suffered from slamming basketballs from insane heights 40 minutes at a time for months without rest.

He didn’t have to entertain me. They had business to accomplish. Balls to dunk. Ministry to rehearse.

The conversation was brief, but refreshingly genuine.

Brent called the practice to an end, mindful of the litany of taped fingers, wrists, swollen hands and knee braces. I start to detach the lens from my camera when Brent stops me.

He waves over to the trampoline positioned just inside the three-point line at the top of the key.

“Ever done this before?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Want to?”

“Are you kidding? Of course.”

Brent turns to the nearest teammate.

“Get this man some shoes.”

It wasn’t until I was shucking out of my boots that two distinct things registered in my mind.

First, I was going to die, flailing and screaming, shortly after being sprung into the air by a trampoline.

Second, Brent and his teammates didn’t have to offer me shoes and the chance to dunk a basketball. Practice was over. They hadn’t been home in months. They were tired and sore and a million other things. They didn’t have to.

Brent gives me a crash course on the mechanics of the approach, the jump etc., and gives me a clap on the back.

No backing out now.

The first jump ends as precisely as I had imagined, except I lived. The rim seemed impossibly out of reach and suddenly I realized I was airborne and flailed accordingly, landing square on my nose, spread eagle, on the blue mat under the goal.

Well, that was athletic.

“Good,” Brent says. “Try it again.”

Good? Again? This guy was either blind or very encouraging. I leaned toward blind, because he didn’t have to be encouraging. He was tired and sore and a million other things. He didn’t have to.

The second attempt was only mildly better than the first. Higher, but just as much flailing.

“Good,” Brent says. “Try it again. This time with a ball.”

I tried to dunk that ball a solid six or seven times, each time not quite getting it. Each time I landed face-first on the blue mat, Brent would say, “Good. Try again.”

One more time. I got it. Brent cheered. I cheered. The whole tired, sore team cheered.

Brent told me I needed to dunk it one more time so I could have a picture of it for my Facebook. So I dunked it again, still landing square on my nose.

Brent’s a pretty good photographer. But he didn’t have to be. He was tired and sore and a million other things.

Like, genuinely and distinctly Christian. This was one of his two weekends “off” this semester. He didn’t have to throw a ball to a skinny guy with a camera and wait time and time again for the skinny guy to get up off the mat saying, “Did I get it that time?”

He didn’t have to encourage, he didn’t have to teach. He didn’t have to compliment. He just plain didn’t have to. But he did.

And he helped make a white guy in boots feel like Jordan, Game Six.

Thank you, Brent, and all the guys on the “Sold Out And Ready” dunk team.