Splat! Part 4

As I walked into the hospital for my MRI, my stress levels were hitting new heights. I was going to be jammed into a machine that would invasively scan my knee and discover that it now had the same basic structural integrity as a bowl of chocolate pudding! Never mind that I was moving around pretty well and feeling better each and every day. My brain had no room for cold, hard facts such as that, especially when there was stressing out to do!

Once I was situated in the waiting room, I had to fill out a form that asked all kinds of scary metal-related questions, such as if I had any pins, rods, or screws floating around in my body from surgery, if I had any artificial joints, or even if I listened to heavy metal music on the radio. I quickly got the vibe that MRI machines and metal don’t mix, to the point where said machine might explode dramatically if I left even a single stray coin in my pants. This was pretty stressful and distracting, to the point where as I filled out the form, I couldn’t even remember if I had a pacemaker or not. (My answer: “Mayyyybbbeeeeee???”)

Eventually, after I’d signed my life away, I was called from the waiting room and made to deposit all my valuables into a locker. I assumed this was because it would then be much easier for them to wipe my identity from the face of the earth if the procedure were to go awry and the machine reduced me into a steaming pile of goo. I was then brought over to the MRI machine itself, which is basically a gigantic tube that the technician jams you into, laughing maniacally the entire time. Just kidding, they don’t laugh at all. Instead, they simply ask you to lie down, then pile a bunch of weights onto you, making sure there’s no chance of you ever escaping. When you’re fully immobile, they then suck you into the machine and quickly sprint behind a wall roughly 10 feet thick, for the purpose of protecting themselves from the mysterious rays the giant tube is about to bombard your body with.

Lucky for me, since they were scanning just my knee, I didn’t have to go all the way into the Tube of Horrors and deal with claustrophobia. Instead, I was only sucked in to about my waist. They had also given me headphones, so I could listen to music while the machine growled, grunted, and basically sounded as if somebody was running a load of rocks through a dryer. One of the questions on the form I had filled out was what kind of music I wanted to listen to, and I had confidently answered “country.” As I was strapped in, however, I realized that I may have made a terrible mistake. Maybe it would be a bunch of modern weenie-pop country, which I hate! Maybe I’d spend a half hour listening to Thomas Rhett and Sam Hunt, at which point turning into a steaming pile of goo might be a reasonable alternative.

As it turns out, the process went pretty well. The machine was definitely loud, basically drowning out the music from my headphones. Still, I did manage to pick out some Chris Stapleton and Darius Rucker, so it was by no means torture. (There was one Luke Bryan song that came on, and it was touch and go there for a while, but I managed to persevere.) As the machine grunted and groaned, I imagined the mysterious MRI rays shooting deep into my knee, to the point where I honestly could have sworn I felt it tingling and getting hot, which then made me picture a Hot Pocket being left too long in the microwave and exploding. (Sorry for the imagery, but that’s honestly what was on my mind!)

After about 25 minutes on clunking and banging, the machine finally went silent and I was unceremoniously spit out. The technician ambled casually out of his bunker and removed the hundreds of pounds of weights covering my body, leaving me free to go. I was disappointed to learn I wouldn’t be able to see any of the results that day, and instead would have to wait until my follow-up appointment at the orthopedics clinic in about a week, which would be more than enough time to raise my stress levels to even greater heights. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 3

It was Thursday morning, and I awoke in my trusty-but-now-hated chair to the prospect of working from home for an entire day. Since this seemed like an awfully daunting task, I decided to put it off for a while and instead make coffee. Of course, this was much easier said than done. (Believe me, I first tried saying, “coffee, make thyself and then delivery thyself to me!” but it didn’t work.) Getting out of my chair, crutching over to the kitchen, and making a pot turned out to be an endeavor in itself, but I then realized I had to somehow carry my full cup back to my chair with both of my arms occupied by crutch duty.

My solution was less than elegant. I won’t go into any details, but I will say that it employed two stools as portable islands and took so much time that when I finally arrived at my chair, the coffee had grown cold. Sigh.

Luckily, working from home on my laptop turned out to be not nearly as bad as I thought, mainly because I was able to accomplish useful things, which was the exact opposite of life at home on crutches. Still, it was just my job, so when quitting time rolled around, I was ready to call it a day. I’d been sitting in my chair for basically nine straight hours, and it was time for a break in the monotony!! I happily closed my laptop with a satisfying 'click.' I could now do anything I wanted!! Of course, since I could still barely move around, “anything” basically meant sitting around in the same chair with my legs elevated for another six or so hours before it would be time to fall asleep in that very same chair!! Hooray!!! I mean, sigh.

I also worked from home on Friday, and as I logged off that afternoon, I swore to myself I’d make it into the office on Monday, even if I had to have my chair – with me strapped into it wearing a crash helmet – airlifted there. Luckily, I was seeing a bit of progress in terms of my mobility, as my crutching around was getting somewhat easier. My ultimate goal was to be walking by Monday, but I realized that might be overly-ambitious.

The first day of the weekend went well – I learned how to use the vacuum cleaner while on crutches – and by Sunday morning I discovered I could now move around with just a single crutch! This happily meant that carrying massive amounts of comfort food from my kitchen to my chair had just gotten exponentially easier. I celebrated by venturing out into the real world to restock at a grocery store. Predictably, I stressed out about looking foolish while hobbling around in public, not to mention falling over and having an entire display of canned goods topple down on top of me. Luckily, everything went well, and that night I was even able to sleep in my bed upstairs! (For the record, I did have to fight back the urge to light my chair on fire, as a sort of both a spiritual cleansing and a symbolic gesture of moving forward.)

I went into work on Monday with my single crutch, where I discovered that my helpful co-workers had been busy. Surrounding my desk was a living room chair, a walker – complete with the much-dreaded tennis balls – and a lamp. I could now recreate my Work From La-Z Boy experience of the previous week! Oh, and our team mascot – a plastic skeleton named Mr. Chill ‘n’ Bones – was also sitting in the living room chair with his feet up, complete with a neck brace and bandages on his left knee and right ankle. How thoughtful and caring! Showing that I was a good sport, I threw the walker across the room and said a few choice words, such as “I”, “hate”, “you”, and “all,” and then settled into my office chair to get to work. As the day progressed, however, I began to feel bad for being annoyed at the prank, and eventually I began to appreciate the thought and humor put into it, to the point of switching on the lamp and stopping in my attempts to swipe at people with my crutch as they walked by.

On Tuesday I again came into the office on one crutch, but I soon discovered I could hobble around without it, which was a major victory. (I’ve never been more proud of walking without assistance to the restroom.) On Wednesday I didn’t even bring the crutch in, and on Thursday it felt like things were finally getting back to normal. While still far from being healed, it felt like real progress was being made! I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed going to work and interacting with my co-workers, and it really helped to lift my spirits and return a sense of normalcy to my life. Of course, it was on that same Thursday when it was announced that we would all be working from home indefinitely because of stupid COVID-19. Sigh.

Oh, and I also had my MRI scheduled for Friday, which was really beginning to stress me out. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 2

The next morning I opened my eyes, hoping against hope that I’d be on the receiving end of a miracle. For example, perhaps I’d be lying in a comfy bed in some other part of the world, healthy and ready to climb some nearby mountain. (Dream big, right?) Unfortunately, I found myself sitting in the same chair in the same living room, with my left knee and right ankle fighting each other for my attention:

Left Knee: “I hurt way more than you do! He should pay more attention to me!”

Right Ankle: “Nuh-uh! I hurt way more than you!”

Left Knee: “Oh, yeah?! You’re stupid!”

Me: “Groan.”

Knowing I had to figure out the extent of my predicament, I carefully began to take stock of my injuries by slowly lifting and flexing each of my legs. A few seconds later – after a flurry of complicated mathematical calculations and extrapolations – I determined that I’d probably be sitting in that chair for about four years, give or take a calendar season or two.

While not surprised by this turn of events – stupid birthday! – I was still disappointed, mainly because moving around freely would no longer be an option for quite a while, and – like an idiot – I’d never followed up on one of my brilliant ideas, which had been to move my refrigerator right next to my living room chair, in case of an emergency just like this or an extreme attack of laziness. On the bright side, I had been smart enough to log into work the previous night and take a day of PTO, picking an Absence Reason of “Lower Portion of Body no Longer Functional.” So, at least I was covered there.

With my entire day free, I quickly realized that I could devote all of my time to sitting in my chair and stressing out over worst-case scenarios. Now, I’m sort of a master at stressing out over things, and it didn’t take me long to conjure up all sorts of convoluted end-games, most of which involved me wearing a full-length body cast up until the day I retired. Realizing this wasn’t healthy, I soon came to the conclusion that I should probably go and have a doctor check things out, just so I’d know which worst-case-scenario I was dealing with (“Your knee will literally fall off in about a day or so. Oh, and you have bad breath.”)

Happy to have something to do besides sitting in my stupid chair – which I was quickly beginning to hate – I made a bunch of phone calls and got myself scheduled at a nearby orthopedics clinic, then arranged a ride to and from. Pleased with my efforts, I leaned back and tried to relax. A moment later, however, I realized that I’d have to find a way to get out of my chair, which I couldn’t envision happening without the help of a crane and a well-placed hole in my roof. So, after about five seconds of blissful relaxation, I was firmly back on board the Stress Train.

Several ulcers and a few hours later, my ride showed up. Calling upon a well of inner strength I didn’t even know I had, I was able to get up and out my chair and make it out into the waiting car. Still, it wasn’t pretty. The entire process was a symphony of grunts, groans, hops, and shuffles, complete with the help of a stool that I used as a sort of makeshift walker. Like I said, it wasn’t pretty, and I shudder to think of it now.

Once I arrived at the clinic, however, it was free sailing, as I was able to upgrade from my makeshift walker to a full-blown wheelchair. This was easily the best part of my day. In fact, it was so fun that I may have made engine noises with my mouth as I was wheeled into the building: “Vroom, vroom!” After getting myself checked in, I passed the time by trying to master the chair’s controls, all while trying not to accidentally run over anybody passing within several feet of me. This little game managed to amuse me until it was time to be seen by the on-call doctor, who broke the ice by saying, “So, you’re a mess, huh?” Telling myself that he was only stating a fact, I fought back the urge to reply, “Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, buddy!”

After some poking and prodding, I was sent to get a few X-rays, despite the fact that I was sure I hadn’t broken anything. Still, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to make a quick getaway or anything, and so I relented. Upon being wheeled into the X-ray room (“Vroom, vroom!!”), a group of technicians swarmed over me. Eventually, one of them said – and I’m paraphrasing here a bit – “So, you have a bad left knee and a bad right ankle, huh? And you can’t walk or bear any weight at all? Well, stand over here for a prolonged amount of time, so we can run off into another room and take some pictures at our leisure.”

Luckily, getting out of the wheelchair for the X-rays turned out to be much easier than getting out of my chair at home, since the X-ray room is build for people who can’t walk. There are handles and railings and poles everywhere that can be used to haul yourself up and move yourself around on, and I soon felt like a cross between a model at a photoshoot and a gymnast on the parallel bars. (“Now turn this way and stick out your ankle! Good! Now look back over your shoulder! Beautiful! Now spin this way and show me your knee! Perfect! Now get up and stop crying!”)

In the end, the official diagnosis was a sprained ankle and a sprained MCL, which was seriously welcome news, as avoiding tears and ruptures had been my best-case scenario. I was issued crutches and a walking boot and sent on my merry way, with orders to get an MRI on my knee to verify that no additional damage had been missed. (“The MRI reveals that your knee has fallen off, and also that you have bad breath.”) I was then to come back for a follow-up appointment.

After being driven home, I used my new crutches to grunt, shuffle, hop, and groan my way back into the house, at which point I collapsed into my chair, vowing to never move again, even if I had to have Dominos deliver right into my lap. Armed with some newly purchased supplies and ice packs, I was soon left alone to fend for myself. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was only mid-afternoon, which meant I had an awful lot of time to kill before I got to go to bed. Luckily, I had books to read, an iPad to rot my brains, and a ceiling to stare up at blankly for endless hours on end. Plus, tomorrow would be less boring, as I’d decided I was ready to rejoin the working force and WFL (Work From La-Z-Boy). That, however, is another story.

Splat! Part 1

I recently celebrated a rather momentous-but-troubling birthday, and – in the spirit of meeting all of life’s challenges head on – I decided that my best option was to simply ignore that it had happened in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, as it turns out, just because it’s out of mind doesn’t necessarily mean your body still isn’t paying attention, especially when it comes to situations of a chronological nature. Let me explain. Several weeks later I was playing wallyball, which – for those unaware – is basically a game of volleyball that takes place in a racquetball court. This is one of my favorite sports, mainly because it’s very easy for players to lose their bearings while trying to track the ball and run full speed into a wall. Now, while I realize that it’s absurdly childish to be amused by this, I honestly don’t care. I mean, it’s hilarious!! Plus, it’s not like all of my juvenile behavior was building up a bunch of bad karma or anything!

Or was it?

It had been a fun night, and we were playing what would probably be our last game of the evening. However, instead of winding down I found myself getting more and more intense, probably in an attempt to prove that I’d never really celebrated that momentous-but-troubling birthday. Suddenly, the ball was hanging up near the net, and I jumped like I had a million times before, trying to make a play. This was when my body – which has always had a terrible sense of timing – chose that very moment to give up on performing anything of an athletic nature ever again, and I suddenly came crashing down to the ground for absolutely no reason at all.

It sort of looked like this

Now, I’m normally pretty good at falling down – probably due to a lifetime’s worth of practice – but this time it was different, as I somehow managed to sequentially land weirdly on both of my legs. (My theory is that I was too busy flailing about wildly and/or screeching like a child to devote enough brain power to sticking the landing.) About a second later I found myself sitting on the ground, feeling warning signals emanating from both my left knee and right ankle. Immediately I knew my male pride was on the line. I couldn’t be injured! And, if I somehow was, I was going to need to walk it off, not to mention make some sort of dry, humorous comment about needing to just “tape it up.” So, calling upon every ounce of stubbornness and courage I had in my body, I made a Herculean effort and heroically managed to move myself about an inch.

Uh-oh.

By this time people were gathering around, wondering why I’d decided to fall over for no good reason at all. I brushed off their concern, saying it was no big deal, but I think I lost a lot of credibility when I then tried to scoot over to the door on my butt. Thankfully, after a few minutes of rest I was able to stand up and walk off under my own power, which led to a thunderous round of applause from the crowd that exists in my head for just such an occasion. (Looking back, I wish I’d have given a thumbs up as I stepped out into the hallway.)

Calling upon the power of deductive reasoning, I guessed that my right ankle was sprained, mainly because it no longer resembled a right ankle, and I assumed the same was true with my left knee. While not a great turn of events, it seemed manageable, as I was still moving around with relative ease. In fact, I was able to get cleaned up, walk out to my car, and drive home without much trouble, all while being able to make a few dry, humorous comments. (“It’s no big deal. I was getting sick of my feet pointing in the same direction, anyway.”) However, by the time I’d parked my car in the garage, my lower-body motor skills had begun to erode dramatically, to the point where going up the stairs to my bedroom seemed on par with climbing Mount Everest. So, I decided to sleep in the chair in the living room (chair nap!), all while cursing my momentous-but-troubling birthday. Closing my eyes, I hoped that everything would miraculously turn out better in the morning, but, unfortunately, I was going to be sorely (har!) disappointed. That, however, is a story for another day…

The Facial Hair Blues

Recently, I’ve found myself in a predicament where I scare myself every time I look in the mirror. Granted, there comes a time in everybody’s life where examining their reflection is just a bad idea in general – and I certainly reached that point years ago – but surprisingly, my current problem is unrelated to the ravages of age.

It all started about five or six years ago, when I suddenly decided that my head was without a doubt the most boring thing in the entire world, and in dire need of some additional decoration. At that point I was totally clean-shaven, including my head, since my scalp was permanently on strike from growing anything that could be considered a meaningful amount of hair. This left only my nose and glasses as potential points of interest to casual viewers, but still, that was really pushing it. To put it bluntly, my head consisted of acres and acres of boring white skin, punctuated on occasion by something equally as dreary, such as a dull green eye or a slightly misshapen ear.

As a result, I decided to grow a little facial hair, even though I had previously sworn off doing so, since it seems like that’s what all bald guys did in order to make up for their follicle-based deficiencies elsewhere. However, I justified it to myself by saying that since I spent so much time shaving my head, growing facial hair would give me some of that time back, as it would reduce the amount of upkeep needed around my mouth and chin. Genius, right?

Happily enough, Operation Facial Hair turned out be a rather rousing success, to the point where I was perfectly content with it for many years – and by that I mean up until last December. Then, one day, I suddenly decided I didn’t like it anymore. I can’t say why this was. I just looked in the mirror, frowned, and said, “Boy, that's gotta go,” and so, not long after, I was back to vaguely resembling a giant thumb.

However, as it turns out, seeing yourself without facial hair after many years of sporting it can be a very scary thing, as it seems like you’ve suddenly turned into a totally different person. Unfortunately, this was doubly-scary for me, since I don't like meeting new people. I mean, maybe the man staring back at me in the mirror was a vegetarian who despised bacon! Or, even worse, maybe he liked to talk about politics in public!

Despite being scared, I told myself to give it the ol’ “college try,” and so I did, for over an entire month. But it only sort of helped. While I did get used to seeing the new man in the mirror, things were just off. Plus, there had been a couple of times when I’d caught myself wandering into the produce section at the grocery store, which was no good. At that rate, it might not be long before I was trying to discuss foreign policy with the cashier. So, I recently decided it was time to re-implement Operation Facial Hair.

Now, you’d think this would be the end of it. It had all been an interesting experiment that had failed, and now I was going back to the status quo. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. Instead, as my facial hair slowly returned, it too quickly began to look out of place. Yup, you guessed it, I’d grown used to being boring and clean-shaven! Aarrgh!

And so, that explains my current dilemma: I don’t like how I look clean-shaven, but I also no longer like how I look with facial hair. Both options scare me greatly, and I really don't know what to do. I guess my only hope is that eventually I’ll grow used to having facial hair again, but at this point I can’t count on it. Instead, I should probably come up with a Plan B, which may or may not include throwing out all of the mirrors in my house. Still, that’s pretty short-sighted, as there are plenty of mirrors out there in the world for me to stumble upon. On the other hand, my Finnish heritage mandates that I walk around while looking at my feet, so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with a stranger and run the risk of having to make – gulp! – small talk, so maybe I can actually manage to never look in a mirror again!

And, if not, I guess I’ll have to move on to Plan C, although I have no idea where one would buy a toupee.

Fat Budge, Skinny Budge

Several years ago, feeling suave and sophisticated, I decided to publish a book on Amazon.com. At the time not only were all of the cool kids doing it, but it just sounded like fun. I mean, I'd be a (self) published author! How cool would that be?! Unfortunately, my plan quickly ran into a snag when I realized that in order to publish a book, I'd have to first write one. Distraught by this revelation, I frantically scanned the hard drive of my computer, hoping to find some manuscript that I'd at some point written but had long since forgotten, but to no avail. Left with little choice, I was forced to call upon the can-do, never-say-die attitude that's made this country great and do it the old-fashioned way, by which I mean cheat.

Not wanting to invest the time and effort into writing a book from scratch, I took a bunch of old essays and blog entries, cleaned them up a little, and compiled them into a collection. Problem solved! I had a book! (A cheater book, yes, but still a book!) Happy with my ingenuity, I then published Who Says You Shouldn't Smile Today? which quickly went on to sell upwards of eight total copies! Success!

This project was supposed to be my one and only foray into the self-publishing world, mainly because it'd been a total pain in the you-know-what. You see, even though most of the writing had already been done, self-publishing Who Says You Shouldn't Smile Today? was way more work than I ever expected it to be. Besides putting the book together, I also had to edit it, obtain a cover for it, re-edit it, write the promotional blurb for Amazon.com, re-re-edit it, and – worst of all – compile it into a viable e-reader format, all of which took a staggering amount of time. So, once I'd finally finished, I had no intention of ever repeating that horrible process.

However, deep down inside I was never really 100% satisfied with my efforts. Sure, I was technically the author of a book, but it was really more of a bolted-together, Frankenstein's Monster of random essays than it was a work with any sort of cohesive narrative. This always bugged me, and every now and again I'd toy with the idea of writing a real book from scratch, despite the fact that it would mean even more work. However, since I could never come up with an interesting enough topic to write about, it wasn't something I strongly considered.

Until that fateful day when I suddenly had an idea.

At first I tried to ignore it, mainly because acting upon it would mean I'd have to devote a lot of long nights and weekends to writing, which would cut deeply into my treasured free time. However, I subconsciously knew it was what I really wanted. I mean, if I went through with it, I'd no longer have to consider myself a cheater author! (Also, it's not like I was doing anything useful with my nights and weekends, anyway.)

And so, sometime last summer, I allowed myself to put together a rudimentary outline. At the time I pretended I wasn't yet fully committed to the project, but I now realize that I was only fooling myself. The decision had been made, and it was going to happen whether I liked it or not.

With the outline complete, I got down to some serious writing. It was agonizingly slow work – mainly because I spent most of my time distracting myself with random videos on the internet – but eventually the chapters began to come together, and late last year I finally found myself with a finished first draft of an honest-to-goodness book!

Now, I'll spare you the rest of the details, as I'm sure you've already figured out that the point of this blog post is to advertise my new book, which I've just published on Amazon.com. It's called Fat Budge, Skinny Budge, and it's about health and fitness. So, if it sounds in any way interesting to you, click on the image below and check it out.

As for me, I'm so sick of writing and editing that I never, ever, want to self-publish a book again. Still, that's what I said last time, so I guess I should really keep an open mind. I mean, if this thing does really well and happens to sell nine or ten copies, you never know what might happen next!!

Shooting Around

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:

1. 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?
2. 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.
3. 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.