New York’s newspapers reported that this January was the warmest January on record, but I can’t recall a single day since early December with the temperature out of the 30s. Yesterday the thermometer hit 45 and I picked up the telephone to call Shannon.
“You want to shot some ball at deKalb.” The playground was three blocks away from my apartment.
Shannon was willing to meet at 3 and I pulled on my sneakers and shorts. My basketball needed air, but I wasn’t putting any in the ball. The depressurized rock stole the dribble from better players. As I was leaving my landlord’s wife shook her head.
“You have coverage?” She has asked the same question whenever I sledded in Ft. Greene Park with her two children.
“No.” My only health plan was wine followed by a hit of cocaine, although the miracle combo offered little comfort against a twisted ankle or a popped knee. “I’m just shooting the ball. No games.”
“Right.” Katie’s dismissive comment was for the good of my kids in Thailand.
“I’m not getting hurt.” I had to stay healthy. At least until I’m 77 when Angie will be 26 and Fenway 21.
Outside the air was cool and I ran on the sidewalk.
I’ll never be fast again.
Passers-by checked out my dribbling, which was not my forte.
Defense was my game and I entered the park.
The baskets were occupied in the full-court by young teenagers. The ones against the fence were dominated by school kids, except for the last one, where a lanky 6-4 black teenager practiced set shots.
His release was smooth and I asked, if he minded my shooting with him.
“You want to play one-on-one?” His eyes shined with a competitive urge.
“Let me loosen up a little.”
Shannon would show up soon and I took a bunch of shots.
My aim was off and the ball felt funny in my hands.
It wasn’t going to get any better, so I said, “Hit or miss for ball.”
We exchanged names. His was Truckee.
“Like the river.” It was outside Reno.
“I guess so.” Truckee opened his palms for the ball and hit all-net from the free-throw line.
On his first possession he glided to the hoop for a lay-up. I was sucking wind by 2-0.
His following attack was a grinding attack in the paint. Truckee’s shot bounced off the backboard and in. 3-0.
Shannon came into the park and stretched watching us.
I scored 3 points in a game to 11.
Truckee was good.
“Next.” Shannon stepped onto the court. Truckee beat Shannon 11-4 and me 11-3 on our second game by beating me inside. I fell over twice, blown out of my socks by his move to the hole. If I wasn’t 57, this would be humiliating instead of simply embarrassing.
Next game Shannon went down 11-6.
Truckee was getting tired. I got a 3-0 lead, but didn’t score another point. My lungs were red-lining for oxygen and Truckee hadn’t even broken a sweat, but on the next game Shannon had him 9-8. Two more baskets and he could say in the future that he beat this teenage phenom. Truckee didn’t let him get any.
Afterwards we spoke to Truckee. He was a 16 year-old sophomore starting center for the local high school. His team had lost in the play-offs this weekend. He wasn’t happy about his play.
“Truthfully I haven’t played against anyone better than you in all my years.” Shannon had played a lot of ball.
“Thanks.” No one ever wanted to tell Truckee that. He was that good.
A friend of the teenager joined us.
Shannon and I teamed up for a 2-on-2. We lost 15-6. I scored no points.
My legs were too old for this game and I didn’t really deserve to be on the court with Truckee or Shannon, but I wasn’t sitting out this season. All I needed to do was to practice my outside shot. For the only time my body will really hurt is when I’m not playing.
Old age was only in my head.
My heart is still 15. If not younger.
“Next.”