How a Basketball Player Overcame Colon Cancer and Returned to the Court
I remember the first time I saw Coach Gavina's text messages lighting up my phone screen during my recovery. There I was, lying in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm, feeling completely disconnected from the basketball world I loved. The doctors had just removed a tumor the size of a golf ball from my colon - 3.8 centimeters to be exact - and I was facing six months of chemotherapy. Basketball felt like a distant memory, something that belonged to my past life. But then Gavina started texting me daily, sometimes multiple times a day, with these incredibly detailed instructions about footwork drills I could do while sitting, breathing exercises to maintain lung capacity, and even mental visualization techniques. Still, there's a great difference between getting those instructions from text messages rather than Gavina barking out commands himself. I missed the raw energy of his voice echoing through the gym, the way he'd clap his hands sharply when he wanted our attention, the specific tone he used when we were doing something right versus when we needed correction. Those text messages felt like ghosts of his actual coaching - helpful, sure, but lacking the soul and immediacy that made him such an effective leader on the court.
During my lowest points, when the chemo made me so nauseous I could barely move, I'd reread his messages and try to imagine his voice. "Stay low on your imaginary defensive stance," one message would say, and I'd picture him demonstrating exactly how low, his knees bent at that perfect 45-degree angle he always insisted upon. "Visualize making 100 free throws with perfect form," another message instructed, and I could almost hear the distinctive squeak of basketball shoes on the court floor that usually accompanied his shooting demonstrations. The digital words were helpful, don't get me wrong, but they couldn't replicate the way his actual presence filled a room. There's something about human connection in sports that technology just can't capture - the pat on the back after a good play, the eye contact that says "I believe in you," the shared energy of a team huddle. My physical therapist estimated I'd lost about 40% of my muscle mass during treatment, and rebuilding that was one thing, but rebuilding my connection to the game was something else entirely.
I'll never forget the first day I returned to practice, still weak and about 15 pounds lighter than my playing weight. Gavina saw me struggling through basic drills and instead of shouting corrections from across the court like he normally would, he walked right up to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said "Your form's still there, just trust it." That single moment of direct human contact did more for my confidence than hundreds of text messages ever could. The team had won about 65% of their games while I was out, which was decent but not championship level, and I could feel the pressure to perform weighing on me. But having Gavina there in person, adjusting my elbow angle during shooting practice or demonstrating exactly how he wanted me to pivot, made all the difference. The text messages had kept me connected to basketball theoretically, but being back on the court with actual coaching brought the game back to life for me in a way I hadn't realized I was missing.
What surprised me most was how much I'd missed the spontaneous aspects of coaching - the way Gavina would notice my energy dipping during practice and crack a joke to lighten the mood, or how he'd suddenly change drills based on what he was seeing in real time. Text messages are necessarily deliberate and planned, whereas in-person coaching has this beautiful, messy, responsive quality to it. About three months into my comeback, we were running suicides - those brutal sprint drills that leave you gasping for air - and I was seriously questioning whether I could finish. Gavina came and ran right beside me, shouting encouragement with that particular gravelly intensity he gets when he's really pushing us. "Dig deeper! You've beaten worse than this!" he yelled, and suddenly I wasn't just a cancer survivor trying to play basketball again - I was a basketball player who had survived cancer. The distinction might seem subtle, but it changed everything for me.
Now, playing in actual games again, I appreciate the live coaching even more. During timeouts, when Gavina gathers us around with that focused intensity and diagrams plays on his clipboard, I realize how much nuance gets lost in digital communication. His hand gestures, the way he makes eye contact with different players, even how he positions his body - all these elements contribute to his coaching effectiveness in ways that text messages simply can't convey. We've won 12 of our last 16 games, and I'm averaging about 18 minutes per game now, which isn't my pre-cancer 32-minute average but feels like a victory nonetheless. The other day, someone asked me if I thought remote coaching via technology could ever replace in-person instruction, and I just smiled. Having experienced both during the most challenging period of my life, I can say with absolute certainty that while digital tools have their place, there's no substitute for having your coach right there with you, breathing the same air, feeling the same game momentum, and responding in real time to what's actually happening on the court. The text messages got me through the darkness, but Gavina's live coaching brought me back to the light.