I read somewhere that the chance of success goes up significantly (read: I can't remember the number and don't feel like making one up but remember I was impressed by the percentage stated). In an effort to increase my chances of succeeding at basketball (or becoming an old man) I will chronicle the events that took place on a basketball court every Monday night. Some people do Lent journals or track their progress in the weight room, running, or whatever habbit they have adopted. I will show the unexpected stories and life lessons learned from the perspective of a former scholarship athlete who is now woefully out of shape.
Last Monday night I engaged in basketball with some men between the ages of 25-50. Mixed in were a handful of varstity basketball players. I hadn't played in over two years. That is an approximation because I cannot remember the last time I played. I think it was two years ago because for the last two years I have been teaching school, and I know there is no way I have played during that time. The only times in the past two years I would have had a chance to play would have been when I traveled home for Christmas where a bunch of old teammates and players past from my school gather and play between 8-12 at night. I purposely did not take athletic shoes home so I wouldn't be able to play.
So I look back to anytime before then and a smattering of outdoor pick up games and church league ball. I remember being in great shape, working out, and being able to run as fast and jump as high as I had when I was in college. Plus I put on ten pounds so I was tougher through the lane. I dominated the old men and baptists who played in the league. I tipped the ball, one game, at the top of the key and took it the other way by myself. I threw it down, and the uptight referree/commissioner of the league blew the whistle before I landed. He T'd me up for dunking. I smirked and ran down the to the other side of the court where the whole time he was warning me not to get another technical because I would be thrown out of his elite league... the league was not elite and nor did he say so. But his confidence that I wanted to play in his league at all costs certainly insinuated that.
A game later I was playing on defense and got called for an over the back. I dropped an f-bomb because I did not have self control and thought my ability afforded me the right to cuss in a league that gave people technicals for dunking. It wasn't very loud and I am pretty sure only three people on the court heard it: me, my the guy I jumped over, and the Wizard of T's. The whistle blew, everyone looked around to see what was going on, "who said it?!" He repeated his question to which two players, one from each team repsonded "who said what?"
He was in a precariouss position because being the legalist he was, no way could he tell us what that mysterious person said. So now there was a mysterious person uttering a mysterious word. He explained it was a cuss word that started with the letter 'f', but he was reluctant to tell us what it started with. I raised my hand and owned it. He then once again warned me to not get another technical. Our team's captain protested that no one else heard it and he didn't know who said it, so how could he call it. The other team kind of agreed.
Later that game, I was face guarding the opponent's best player. They were older men between 40-50, clearly knew how to play, but they were losing a step. He was all elbows and knees trying to chip me wherever he could. Finally, I cut a pass off at the top of the key, elbows and knees was in tow. I went up for the lay up, and would have dunked it if I were allowed. But I went up high because I didn't want elbows and knees to get any ideas. He did, and that bastard undercut me, rolled up on my ankle, and knocked me into the wall. "G-D!" But I didn't say G-D. I took the Lord's name in vain in from of the Wizard of technicals right after he told me not to cuss.
Not only was I legitimately hurt, I was pissed that elbows and knees undercut me like the past his prime bitch he was. I hit the concrete floor with my hand because it seemed like breaking my hand might make my ankle better. I tried to get up but I fell down and then got up on one leg and hopped to the bench. The Wizard decided not to give me a T, and I decided not to punch elbows and knee. I think that was the last time I played pick up basketball.
This week I played two games. I had the opportunity to play them back to back, but I passed because I thought I was going to vomit. Not only could I not move quick enough with the ball to be any sort of effective, I couldn't move without the ball. By the end of the game and several trips walking up and down the court I got that really hot overheated feeling, my neck started to sweat and my stomach dropped. I let my older brother play in my stead. He is as a good athlete as I am, but he has been out of shape longer then I have. Except now he is in sneaky good shape.
He drained threes from the corner, step back jumpers, went to the wrack, and played defense. Afterwards he told me he could have run one more but would've felt it the next day. He played a total of three games, I played two. His team was 2-1. Mine was 0-2. He scored 40% of his teams points. I think I had 15%. Oh, and I airballed my only three. I was lucky I could lift my hands above my head to shoot it, at that point, though.
The worst part was I invited him. That SoB (does that mean I am talking bad about my mother) came, saw, and conquered. Not only could I not play, I was being shown up by my older brother who I invited. Not to mention this was the first time I played with this new group of guys and kind of invite myself the way a new kid invites himself somewhere hoping people will like him.
Lessons for this week: little brothers will always be little brothers; don't take two years off between pick up basketball; being old sucks
No comments:
Post a Comment