While the rest of the country is wrecked by the weather out here the grim gray of winter has taken early pause, overpowered by spring.
This was when we’d rip our shirts off on the blacktop and let the rested rays of sun warm our soul while at the same time allowing for a head start in the all important race to see whose skin looked like leather by the end of summer. Without a beach in the area we’d bake on the asphalt as the ball bounced. For hours we were able to run, run, run, and jump with an abandon and energy that went the way of our dream of one day dunking. Somewhere around 30. Funny cuz in a few days as short as our stature we’ll be 46.
Closer to 50 than 40.
To death than our first birthday.
Which is exactly why we are relishing the rhythm of playing again after another “retirement” from the playgrounds of the world. Over the seasons our lust for our favorite game to actively participate in had waned to its lowest level. We’d tired of trying to achieve the edge over our opponent. Of pushing ourselves to get there. It didn’t matter who got to 11. We didn’t care enough anymore. There is something about the sound of a game going on that makes me long to be out there competing.
And I had lost it.
Last birthday I got a new ball, shorts, and cheap orange Puma low tops “Clyde” Frazier might have worn were they suede when Spike Lee and I were simultaneously watching the Knicks win the title though we didn’t know it then, and Spike still doesn’t.
Over the course of the year I grudgingly trotted my ass onto the court at irregular intervals never getting anywhere until just recently when the weather turned and kids half my age began arriving in packs in the afternoon as we once did.
Ready for action. Ready to win.
Feeling older and weaker than ever I decided to join them.
Cigarette in mouth, Tecate in hand, scraggly hair sticking out from under a beanie I sucked them into thinking I was a dipshit who couldn’t ball instead of just a dipshit. The drunk who to everyone’s chagrin insists on invading the court and hoisting a few, breath reeking of alcohol. Any such thoughts they might have harbored in their post-adolescent minds were soon erased as I unleashed a new repertoire of moves more befitting someone whose athletic ability is a shadow of what he believed it to be when he wanted to dunk almost as much as have sex with someone other than himself.
The hands are there though. Quickly striking from an unexpectedly long reach to rip the ball out on the way up from a shooter surprised some hippy stripped him. The eye is there too, whether from outside the arc as always or lofting crazy hook shots from around my ankles. The wind, well that’s another story, but after several sessions it’s improving.
And so am I.
Sorely disappointed on Sunday that it rained, ruining a weekly pick-up game on everybody’s day off I went doubly hard since, and wake excited to see what magic awaits to be created on the court again. And off.
Lift in the legs rekindled I wanna keep playing forever.
Dreaming that I’ll dunk.
Til I’ve pulled a Pistol.
