Yesterday I had the good fortune of being near a basket and a ball. When I was growing up, I used to shoot baskets in my driveway or in a gym for hours and hours. In the summer, I never had a tan I was in the gym so much. Even to this day, my leg hair stops at where my ankles are because I taped them so much I ripped the hair follicles out.
There is something about feeling the ball roll off your middle finger, making a gooseneck with your arm and wrist and getting the feedback of the twine on the net barely moving as the ball sweeps through.
I don’t have my legs anymore. I can’t move at all. I tried to do some dribbling drills. I used to be able to handle the ball pretty well. When I was in fifth grade, a coach told us right-hand players were easy to defend because they couldn’t go left. Growing up, I always worked on my left hand because of that. Now, my left hand isn’t what it used to be…alas you grow old.
I still love basketball courts. The lines on the court. The way they are parallel and round. The block. Baseline to baseline and between the rings. I still feel totally comfortable in a gym.
Some people find that pureness in a bike ride, or fishing. I believe you need to do something physical to find it.
I can still drill jump shots and free throws. There is a rhythm to it like a great piece of jazz. That perfect drum solo. The guitar lick that just won’t stop and is so pleasing all you can do is smile. I can get my brain to get into the moment and feel the flow. It is a good feeling.