[Bluejay]

The letters above the door have an old look to them, from perhaps the forties or fifties. The plain block lettering conveys a simple message: "GYM." The design has none of the trappings of more modern sensibilities, where things straightforward and efficient are shunned in preference to those that catch the eye and stimulate an ever diminishing attention span. To the right of this and above is an illuminated sign that expands on the message: "Naval Air Station Gymnasium." It too has an old style; it was probably created when the building itself was. As you enter, there is one more sign to the side of the front door. This is a more modern one, printed with modern technology. It says "Alameda Point Gym," and it lists the hours the gym is open.

The seeming contradiction is a result of history. The gym sits on a piece of land that was owned by the U.S. Navy for over fifty years. At that time, it was known as the Alameda Naval Air Station. When the Navy closed the base and began its transition to more civilian uses, it became "Alameda Point." The duality evident in this simple gym can be seen all over the old base. Airplane hangers have been converted into sports facilities. The flight control tower now holds offices. The runway itself, which used to launch machines of formidable power, has been fenced off as a bird sanctuary. Other buildings have been converted for other uses. Some remain unoccupied, save for the memories they keep preserved in their walls. If they could speak, they'd tell the stories they've witnessed, of life and love, of hatred and fear, of pride and patriotism and everything else that exists within the broad scope of human existence.

We're here tonight for my daughter's basketball game. She plays in a Japanese-American basketball league; my children are half JA. As we walk into the gym, my eye is drawn to little things here and there that have survived from a past life - the sign on a locked door that says "Officers Only"; exercise equipment, now stilled through lack of use, visible through a half-closed door; the simple, functional design that sufficed for decades. The gym is long enough to hold five basketball courts side-by-side, and three of them have games in progress. There is the perpetual sound of balls striking the floor, whistles being blown, the timekeeper's horn signaling substitutions, and people cheering and laughing.

For reasons I have yet to determine, I experience a peculiar sadness in this place. I feel as though ghosts are watching me, their eyes misty and sentimental with images of how things once were. The irony of the situation is not lost on me: here, in a place that prepared ships and planes to do battle with Japan during World War II, children of Japanese descent now play freely. Would those who spent their lives here in the early forties be surprised by such a radical change? Would they be happy that the time of war they lived through is over, that their efforts in some way brought about its eventual end?

As the game begins, I lose these thoughts of the past for a while, engrossed once more in the living present. During lulls in the game, though, they peek back into my mind, letting me know they're not far away, waiting to jump to the fore once more.

I think about the gym itself. I have no real knowledge of what happened here, but my imagination creates scenarios, little scenes that could have been played out every day. I see the aircraft technician working out in an effort to maintain the physical shape he had when he first joined. I see the young officer, struggling under the pressures of the decisions he must make every day, blowing off a little steam and escaping from his responsibilities for just a little while. I see groups of men joining together to play games filled with competition and camaraderie.

At halftime, I head outside and walk around in the night, alone. The gym inside has a new life; as change came, it was adapted to new uses. Some of what I see out here, though, is still awaiting that transformation. Across the street from the gym, I can see what used to be military quarters. The buildings sit, locked, vacant, unused. The ghosts are particularly fierce here. I look in the windows and see plain, functional beds, some still with linen. I see curtains that haven't been opened or closed in years. I see bare walls that once held pictures of loved ones and posters and calendars and anything else a serviceman might want to put up to make the place his own. Little dramas played out here every day. Now all is still, and like a hallucination, I can see faint moving images as the idle buildings sit and review their favorite memories.

Can a building or place emit a feeling? Or is it simply the mind projecting its own values on what it sees? These do seem to exist all in my mind. Perhaps the ghosts I see and the action that plays out before my eyes are all my own invention. Though I create little scenes of my own, real stories played out here every day, just as they continue to do now, all over the world.

Each person who has ever lived has taken part in the daily creation of the story of his or her life. We're all taking part in the greatest stories ever made. Not every moment of every day would captivate a reader or a listener, but we all are accumulating little tales with which we'll happily regale reluctant listeners as we grow older. Who hasn't suffered through the retelling of an experience that had no relevance to anyone but the teller? Who hasn't listened enraptured to a story from someone's life that resonated inside and brought wisdom and taught us something about ourselves?

I rejoin the game, and in the end, the other team carries the day. My wife kept score in the scorebook, and the marks and numbers now recorded there tell, in a fashion, the story of the game that just took place. Like all stories, it's impossible to capture every detail. So the one who embraces the story must of necessity do so from a particular point of view. A scorebook's point of view is points scored, fouls committed, timeouts called. A player's point of view might have bits of that, but it would also add the emotions felt during play, the joys and frustrations that come into being with any human endeavor.

So many stories are taking place all the time. What makes a story worthwhile? There are libraries filled with books. Every year a plethora of new books get created. Why do we bother? Surely, there can be monetary incentives to creating books; but the inherent drive goes much deeper. Stories are how we communicate with one another, how we connect.

In the van on the way home, it starts. I hear about the basket missed, about the foul that wasn't called. I hear again about how the scorekeeper's table leg collapsed, and my wife saved the time clock from crashing to the floor. We just experienced it, but the special bits bubble to the top, and we go over them again, reinforcing them, committing them to memory even as we laugh together.

I guess that is ultimately what stories are all about.

We tell stories to entertain. We tell stories to share, to connect. We tell stories to remember.