With my face a mask of concentration, I stepped up to the
free throw line, determined to make my first shot a good one. I dribbled hard
three times, bent my knees slightly, and then, in one smooth motion, rose up onto
my toes and lofted the ball towards the hoop, using the textbook form drilled
into me incessantly by my coaches during the seventh grade.
Airball. Not even close.
I smiled. I still had it!
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and I was out testing my
newly-purchased basketball via the age-old activity known as “shooting around.”
Now, it’d been years since I’d last shot around, but I figured the occasion called
for me to get out and make the effort.
You might ask: “If you never shoot around, then why do you need
a basketball in the first place?” Good question, and the answer is “just in
case,” which is, for the record, the exact same reason I have a water canon in
the trunk of my car that I’ve never used, despite owning for well over a
decade. You just never know when it might come in handy.
The court I was using was located at a seldom-used park
about a mile or two from my home, as I’d decided against using the hoop that
stands just behind my house. My reason for doing so was simple. I didn’t want
any of my neighbors to see me, which I was positive would elicit whispered remarks
such as:
“Hey, who’s that old guy trying to recapture his
youth?”
“I don’t know, but it looks like he’s out of breath after taking
just a couple of jumpshots.”
“To be honest, I don’t think you could actually consider that
jumping.”
“Did you see that? He’s down! He clanked a layup off the
bottom of the rim and it came back and hit him in the face!”
“I know! I know! I got it on video, and it’s already
trending!”
Anyway, after airballing my first shot from the free throw line,
I began to expand my range to other portions of the court, and soon I was missing
from everywhere, just like old times. However, even though I’d entered a zone
of familiarity, the whole thing was still a bit awkward. I mean, it’s not like
I was practicing for the next high school season or something. I was just some
old dude randomly shooting around at a park for what appeared to be no reason,
which isn’t something you see every day. Or maybe ever.
However, regardless of the inherent awkwardness of the
situation, I quickly found that shooting around was just as fun as it’d always been, and
soon I got into a groove. I shot off-balanced jumpers, fadeaways,
teardrops, scoops, hook shots, and finger rolls. At one point I even pulled out the ol’ spin-around-only-to-be-blinded-by-the-rising-sun shot, which, to no surprise, missed by roughly a mile, but was still a heck of a lot of fun to try. Then, later on, I even managed to sink a
wrong-handed layup, which took me back to the athletic highlight of my life, which was when I miraculously made two of them during the eight grade championship
game, helping to propel my team to victory.
The minutes were now flying by, and soon I was practicing
yelling, “And one!” as I got my shot off, along with, “The bank is open!” after
putting one in off the backboard. It all culminated in me somehow defying the
laws of probability and nailing a corner three-pointer, which left me wanting to
stretch out my arms and scream, “Did you see that??!!” to everybody within a
three-block radius. Luckily, however, I was able to restrain myself, and the local
police didn’t have to be called to come and ask me to leave.
By now I was sweating profusely, and I soon began to wonder
just how long I was supposed to play. This may sound a bit strange, but the
truth of the matter was that I was breaking new ground. You see, back when I was
a kid I shot around nearly every day with my brother, and we’d always play until somebody got hurt, I broke my glasses, or Mom called us in for dinner.
Barring a helpful ankle sprain or a missed dribble that came up and hit me in
the face, however, I was now on my own.
Fortunately, my lack of conditioning soon got the better of
me and I began to tire. I still managed to push on for a few minutes longer, but there
was no denying it was time to quit. However, any basketball player worth their
salt knows there’s one rule you can’t ever break, even if you're shooting
around for the first time in years: You’ve got to leave on a make, preferably a
three-pointer.
And so, with my chest heaving, I dribbled behind the arc,
steadied myself both mentally and physically, and proceeded to jack up an airball
of stunning magnitude.
Stupid crosswind!
I retrieved the ball, dribbled back, and tried again.
Brick city.
This occurrence then proceeded to repeat itself over and
over again, to the point where I began to wonder, since I could barely catch my
breath, if I was ever going to get off the court alive. “He died doing the
thing that he loved, but was extremely terrible at,” is what I imagined they’d
soon be saying about me.
Then, mercifully, I somehow managed to bounce one in, and a
moment later I was staggering towards my car, cackling with delight.
Later on that day, sitting in the comfort of my home, I
began to reflect on what had transpired, and I soon came to three important conclusions:
- From a straight up skills perspective, not much had changed, despite the passing of years. You see, I’ve always been the Rocky Balboa type, making up for my lack of talent through sheer stubbornness, and this approach had ended up paying huge dividends. I mean, how could I lose a step if I’d never had one in the first place?
- On a more philosophical level, I realized that I’d initially felt awkward because, to the untrained eye, it may have seemed like I’d been trying to recapture my youth. However, that was not the case. I’d merely been trying to have fun, which in turn made me realize that I’d accomplished something far more important than attempting to chase down my past. You see, trying to recapture one’s youth is never fun, because it is, in fact, impossible. However, bolstering one’s youthful exuberance, which I believe is one of the most important things a person can do, is most definitely possible, and is always fun.
- Finally, despite all of the time that had passed since I’d last shot around, I was proud to realize I still had just as much of a chance to make the NBA as I did all of those years before, and that, at least for me, made for a pretty good day.
