I got a new basketball, but I hadn't played since I was a kid.
I'm on the court in the park near my house, and I'm going back-n-forth between wondering what I'm even doing here, and feeling like I'm actually not doing so bad. You know, but for a guy who hasn't really played since he was a teenager.
It's cloudy, but bright enough that sunglasses help. There's a chill, but I'm fine in my shorts and T-shirt so long as I keep moving. I was wearing a hoodie, too, but I took it off after it was messing with my shot by tugging on my arm. Which, yes, is embarrassing; especially since I started shooting better without it.
Right now, though, I'm taking my layup for having missed my last shot. I'm playing "Around The World." At least, I think that's what it's called. I'm taking a shot from each hash mark around the paint, in order, and only moving on to the next one if I make the last one. Miss, and I take my layup and start from the beginning. Just like back in the driveway as a kid.
As I'm going for my layup, I'm picturing my step-brother, Danny, and the one-on-one games we played growing up. He was on defense, and, in a rare moment of graciousness, trying to teach me something instead of just kicking my ass. He was working on getting me to drive to the hoop and finish strong, rather than drifting off at the last second for a fade-away shot, like I'd been prone to doing. I was short by basketball standards (and all standards, really). In any case, I was a guard—shooting threes was kind of my thing... I was perfectly happy not driving to the hoop for a layup. Danny was older, taller, and unequivocally more skilled than any peer I'd play against in a game with guys my own age. And I'm still not convinced he wasn't just doing this with me because it let him body me back and swat every shot I'd take.
Backyard sports was just what we did. We'd start with basketball, then switch to lacrosse, maybe to soccer, over to football, back to basketball—again, and again, and again. If it rained, we played Madden. It was definitely an "entertain yourself" kind of vibe, but it worked for the most part.
So I'm on the court today, dribbling toward the hoop for my layup after a miss, and I hear him taunt me "to go up strong." And then I do. Somehow, my body still remembers how to do that, even after all these years. Basketball wasn't even my sport—football was. I played lacrosse, too, but I dropped it in high school after a couple shoulder surgeries. Speaking of... that was the strangest part of this whole basketball excursion today: shooting with adult muscles and limited shoulder mobility. I think my form was ok, but I had no idea how much oomf to put into shooting at first. A few bricks off the backboard and just a couple of air-balls helped to recalibrate things.
I made the layup.
And I even started splashing some threes, too.
Cracking a smile, I had to admit that, in a weird way, Danny's beatings had worked. In basketball and in life, knowing when to go up strong is important. So is learning how to not get pushed around.
I'm dribbling, albeit slowly, and alternating between left-handed layups and right-handed ones. One, then the other. Back and forth. Looking across the empty court, I'm wondering if there are effective ways to cultivate grit that don't involve pain or suffering. That's been coming up a lot recently in conversations I've had with folks around grief and proactive mental health. I don't know that there are, but I'm also not prepared to say I'm sure about that, either.
New ball, same me I suppose.
But it's nice to be having fun again.
The small steps I've been taking are adding up.
Is there anything you learned from a sibling or a friend, that showed up years later as a pretty core life-lesson?
onward.
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