Since three of my former high school team-mates read this blog, I am forced to tell the truth. OK, I was a better B-team player than I ever was on the A-team. But I looked good.
Fifty years and two pacemakers later, I have taken up basketball again. Playground basketball. We live three houses down from the outdoor asphalt court and if I get out early enough, I can get a court all to myself before the 8th grade bullies have finished their cereal.
TWO – count ‘em – TWO days in a row, TWO consecutive days, TWO days back-to-back have I made it to the playground to shoot some hoops. Already, I’ve doubled my time on the court. Now, if I can just get EMS to cut their arrival time in half, the Mystery Woman won’t worry so much.
This is more about survival than showing off. Five surgeries in the past two and a half years have robbed me of my self-proclaimed nom de guerre: Geezer Hunk. Three years ago, I was biking at least ten miles nearly every day, bounding up four flights of stairs two at a time and primping on exercise machines. But it takes longer to bounce back from each surgery.
Hence the return to basketball. Gotta exercise the ticker. Although my jump shot needs to be filed alongside dreams of Tahiti, I still try. Damn, I hope I can find the Band-Aides before these endorphins wear off. I cut my nose. Hit it on the rim.
PS -- no doubt you've heard of Minnesota Nice? The boys who played last night left a basketball on the court for the players today. Been there for days.