Defending Joe (Not that one).
We moved to a new gym just two blocks north of the kid's school at the beginning of the school year. Since Beth starts work at noon, we drop the kids at school and then go to the gym together.
I spend 20 minutes on the basketball court each morning, taking shots and simply dribbling around. On Monday and Tuesday, I usually have the full court to myself. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I rush to get my 20 minutes in before the same crew of ten guys comes in to play.
I've warmed up with these guys for the last six months, never meeting them but kindly rebounding for one another when our shots went awry. I've learned from watching their shooting form. They all are remarkably smooth and accurate shooters.
The oldest man on the court looks like how I imagine Clyde Drexler looks now. He was at least 6'4", with gray curls climbing upwards from his ears but still fading into black at the top. He practices skyhooks; no one else does (he grew up with different superstars). Only one other person looks around my age; the rest are obviously younger, likely in their mid to late twenties.
As I was packing up my ball to go this morning, the similarly aged guy asked me if I'd like to play with them. Two of the regulars called out, making it 7. A complex number to divide fairly in two. They needed one more to make it 4 v 4.
"Just one game?" he said enticingly, hands out like an offering. I felt the sentence, "Thank you, I'd love to, but my warm-up is over, I'm going to go lift now." It was queued up for months, that excuse. I opened my mouth, and out came the word, "Sure!"
What? Who said that?
That involuntarily blurt appeared to rocket through all the typical self-doubt filters. Now, I found myself shaking hands with men I've shared a basketball court with for 40 minutes a week for six months and learning their names for the first time.
Joe is Clyde the Glide. 55 years old and confirmed all of 6'4". I learned quickly the potent strategy of setting picks to switch defenders. Joe whispered to the guy I was defending, and before I knew it, Joe's defender, more appropriately sized, was caught in a pick, forcing me to switch to defending Joe.
We played three games to fifteen, and Joe's team mercilessly forced my 5'7" frame to keep him from scoring and to attempt boxing out a human who could likely arch oneself over my head and make me a little gnome under his bridge.
Did you catch that first sentence above? Remember the enticing suggestion of "just one game?" Our team lost the first, mainly because we'd need to figure out the Mark/Joe thing. There was optimism and peer pressure. "Come on! Another one!"
"Sure!"
This time, I knew who vetoed the "no" vote, the vote endorsed by my aching feet. Agreeing to a second, and eventually a third, came from a rare and often feared guest, pride. I was feeling proud of myself. Proud that I blurted out, "Sure!" because self-doubt always speaks for me.
Self-doubt had no case against me this time. I scored three points in the first game, four in the second, and four in the third. I made several passes that turned into assists and a surprising couple of rebounds. I felt good in my body, even though things hurt. I was able to do this, as a person labeled "fat," and feel not only good but encouraged by what my body was capable of.
I frustrated Joe. He tried to bump me off my spot a few times, getting me off balance to turn and shoot. I felt my two hundred and fifty pounds anchored to the floor. The bumps didn't send me back, and when he turned to shoot, I was closer than anticipated. I had no shot at blocking anything. My role was clear, try to be an inconvenience.
A verbal encouragement that has gone under-appreciated is, "Great defense!" The effort was appreciated. Joe missed shots he usually made.
In a few weeks, I'll turn thirty-eight. I keep sitting with the knowledge that should my body break down along the familiar patterns of my ancestors, I'll be lucky to see seventy-six. I hope for more, but if not, I'm halfway there.
It's weird to think of a life in this way, in chunks. And yet, "we are halfway there…" almost forces sobering reflection. I've been in my head a whole lot. What do my remaining working years look like? What do I need to parent teenagers? Will we ever not be worried about money? What can you do to control your ADHD better so you can have a healthy brain into your elder years?
Today, for three games of fifteen, I didn't have to try to answer any of those questions. I was a little boy, invited to play on the playground, who learned by himself that he wasn't as bad as he thought.
It seems like a life lesson. Or something.