Forget March Madness…Here’s My Basketball Experience

Ok, this is the sort of thing that happens to you when you reach the point where your emotional age lags too far behind your physical age. Yesterday I had finished up a relaxing afternoon of yard work when I heard the sound of basketballs on the pavement next door. Sure enough, all three Garland pups were out there shooting hoops. So, I think to myself, I know what I’ll do…I’ll go over there and play with them for a while. When I arrived, there they were, each kid with their own specially sized ball, having a good old time. I made eye contact with Cash—the oldest—and he immediately hit me with a perfect bounce pass and I promptly shot an air ball from the top of the key. In my defense, I hadn’t shot a basketball since the first year of the Trump administration, so I was rusty.

But soon I started hitting my stride and made a few shots. It was great fun, especially when I managed to sink a nice fade away jumper from 15 feet despite being hammered mercilessly with a pool noodle by Sully—the youngest. It was about this time when one of my mother’s most famous lines flashed through my mind—It’s all fun and games until somebody puts an eye out! I had just been fed a beautiful pass in the corner by Kennedy—the adorable middle child— when I had the ridiculous notion that I would step back to make the shot I was about to make a “three pointer” The next thing I know I am ass-over-tea-kettles head first in the mulch after careening over a very large tree trunk log. The kids stopped and looked at me with very concerned expressions—“You ok Mister Doug?”

As is often the case after such asshattery, I sprang up like I had actually meant to nearly kill myself, and assured them all that I was fine. I was, I convinced myself, fine that is, or at least I hoped so. I could feel something happening with my left leg and my right knee, but I continued on in our lively shoot around. Then their Dad, Stu walked up and started telling me about how much progress Cash had been making with his game. He didn’t need to tell me. I could see that the kid could shoot. He sunk a couple of long baseline jumpers. I was very impressed. But in all that time, I never checked on any of the spots on my nearly 64 year old body that were now starting to hurt. The reasons for this trace back to a coach I had way back in my childhood who advised all of his little charges to never touch the place where you get hit by a pitch. Just run down to first base like nothing ever happened. I came through youth sports in the rub a little dirt on it phase of trainers and it has stuck with me ever since. 

Anyway, I get home and took a quick inventory. Left leg abrasion bleeding with two long folds of scraped off skin flapping in the breeze. Two contusions on right knee. Three large dirt stains on my freshly laundered shorts. But all things considered, not too bad. But then a couple hours later after dinner I lowered myself onto the living room floor to play with Lucy when I noticed a sharp pain coming from my ribs as soon as I landed on my stomach. Getting off the floor proved far more difficult than getting on it had been. When I made it into the bathroom I raised my shirt and noticed a six inch thin red line across my lungs where apparently my chest had impacted the aforementioned tree trunk log. Just a couple of bruised ribs, I’m thinking.

This is the sort of thing that happens to me more often than it should. I can’t explain it other than assigning some sort of  poor decision-making gene I inherited from one of the more challenged wings of my vast and storied family tree. Nevertheless, I can’t promise it won’t happen again. With age has not come the much ballyhooed wisdom. In my case I’m just as reckless as I’ve always been. Pray for Pam…