Basketball Jones Revisited

And I loved that basketball
I took that basketball with me everywhere I went
That basketball was like a basketball to me

I even put that basketball underneath my pillow
Maybe that's why I can't sleep at night

-Richard Marin and Thomas Chong

(better know as Cheech and Chong)

I coached both of my sons during their important ‘formative years.’  You know, those years when a young boy develops and refines the important things in life: Their shooting, dribbling, passing and rebounding skills in basketball.  Of course coaching my sons also meant I was responsible for coaching seven or eight other parents’ sons as well, and if you’ve never had that (hmmm…) opportunity I suggest you try it sometime to see what you’re missing.*

*Countless second-guesses, unsolicited coaching advice and more ‘why don’t you play my boy more’ than anyone deserves to hear in a thousand lifetimes.

With those vivid memories forever burned into my brain, it was with great restraint and reluctance I didn’t offer my assistance to the young man coaching my grandson in his first season playing on a basketball team.  That doesn’t mean, however that I didn’t have a hand in doing a little ‘preparatory work’ before Krischan took the court for the first time as a player for the Peachtree City Panthers.

I took Krischan to the basketball court at his elementary school several times during the summer to teach him the aforementioned important things in life.  Although we were practicing on a 10-foot basket (his team would ultimately be playing on eight-foot baskets), he did pretty well for someone just over four-feet tall playing a sport he had never played until after his sixth birthday.  His shooting was sound, regardless of it requiring all of his strength to get the ball high enough to reach the basket.  His dribbling was solid, even if he had to look at the ball while he was doing it.  His passing was his strong suit, both the chest and the bounce varieties.  His rebounding was…well, three out of four wasn’t too bad for this tiny hardcourt neophyte. 

A couple weeks before Krischan’s first organized practice with his team I brought my portable (and adjustable) basketball goal home from work, the same goal both of my sons and I wore out over a generation ago in the driveway in front of the house.  (I took it to my warehouse a decade ago when we started holding annual free throw shooting contests.  I was the champion in 2009, I might add.  Not important, just an important piece of history you should be aware of.)  I set the goal up in the driveway, lowered the basket to eight feet and just as it was with both of my sons when they were Krischan’s age, my grandson took to playing basketball after school like Nike took to Michael Jordan.

Playing basketball after school until the sun went down became the norm.  Krischan would ‘win’ our daily one-on-one competition, usually by a basket or two but always with the reddest face and sopping wet hair, a testament to how hard he was playing.  One afternoon I went inside the house and when I came back out he told me he made eight baskets in a row.  He then proceeded to miss his next three shots.  When he made the next one he said ‘nine in a row.’  I asked him if he knew what ‘in a row’ meant and he gave me an explanation that sounded so plausible it actually made sense, similar to an explanation he gave me earlier on another subject.*

*Once at the dinner table Krischan finished his meal and said he was full.  A few minutes later I got some ice cream out of the freezer and Krischan said he wanted some.  I told him I thought he was full and he held his hand up to his chin and told me he was ‘this full’ and had the room above his hand (essentially his head) for the ice cream.  He then burped, lowered his hand a couple of inches and said ‘now I’m only THIS full.’

Krischan was coming along so well I couldn’t wait until he got to his first basketball practice.  I was surprised—and not in a good way but more of a ‘WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?’ kind of way—when he took to the court for the first time.  Not only was his dribbling the basketball WITH TWO HANDS, he was also shooting at the basket with both hands UNDERHANDED!!!  It was all I could do to restrain myself from running out onto the court and offering unsolicited coaching advice.  I quietly bit my tongue and made a conscious decision to save my two cents for the next afternoon when we practiced in the driveway.  Later that evening he bumped into a teammate and fell to the court, landing on both knees and when he rose to his feet he was crying. The coach rushed to his aid while the other boys looked on.  There’s nothing like a little drama on the first practice of the year, right?  I’m glad to report the only thing hurt was his pride, or should I say his G-Pa’s pride.

Krischan went on to cry at the second practice (jammed finger while getting a rebound) as well as the third (another boy stole the ball from him; I found out later the league has a ‘no steal’ policy for the young’un’s and Krischan didn’t have any experience having the ball stolen from him).  Needless to say Krischan and I had the ‘no crying in basketball’ talk as well as a little show-and-tell regarding how to brush things off rather than allowing them to make you cry.  After his fourth practice (I couldn’t attend so his dad took him) when I asked him how he did, all he said was ‘I didn’t cry.’  Mission accomplished. 

As for those countless second guesses, I’ll admit I’ve had my share.  (Second Guess #1) During the second practice the coach had the team line up at half court and instructed the boys to take the ball to the basket using a crossover dribble (alternating dribbling from one hand to the other).  Suffice it to say: Less than half of the team could dribble with one hand let alone two.  (Second Guess # 2) During the third practice the coach divided the team in half and told four boys they were ‘offense’ and the other four boys they were ‘defense.’  Over half of them had no idea what he was talking about since they didn’t have any experience playing an actual game.  Being the ex-coach that I am, I bit my tongue and will continue to in the future.  (Lord, give me strength.)

Unfortunately I was out of town for Krischan’s first two games; one on Saturday and one on Sunday.  After Saturday’s game Krischan called me afterwards and told me how things went.  ‘We won the game!  No, I think we tied, 14 to 14.  But maybe we won; I’m not sure.  I had fun and I didn’t cry.’    That brought memories back to my coaching days.  Our team had just lost an important game.  Afterwards I gathered the boys around me and tried my best to both console them after the loss and build up their excitement for our next game.  I asked them if they had anything they wanted to say.  One boy raised his hand and asked ‘what are we having for a treat today?’ 

After Sunday’s game I didn’t get a call.  Krischan’s team lost and for reasons unknown he didn’t want to tell me.  I found out later he played a good bit and even took his first official shot (a miss, but still…). 

Fortunately someone took a photograph of Krischan dribbling during the game and I’m proud to report he looks like he knows what he was doing.  That is if you discount the fact he was three feet out of bounds at the time. 

Then again I’ve always been a ‘glass half full’ kind of guy so it looked perfectly good to me.   

Karma with Both Barrels Loaded

Certainly, getting older has its bright side.  Five percent off of my total bill at the grocery store on Wednesdays.  Two dollars off on haircuts.  AARP discounts at hotels.  People offering me their seats on a crowded bus (kidding).  People holding the door open for me as if to say ‘age before beauty’ (not kidding).  But so much for the bright side. 

Let’s take a look on the other side. 

I’ll be the first to admit my memory isn’t what it used to be.  I find myself drawing a blank when asked my wife Cindy’s social security number, a number I’ve known like the back of my hand since our senior year in high school.    Someone I haven’t seen in several years is no longer ‘Yolanda.’  Rather, she is now ‘the lady that used to work in packing…first name starts with a ‘Y’…three syllables.’   

I’ll also be the first to admit I’m prone to doing absent-minded things I never thought possible.  Walking around the house looking for the car keys I’m holding in my left hand.  Wondering where I set my drink down only to finally realize I never had a drink in the first place.    

Finally, I’ll be the first to admit that what used to be simple ain’t so simple any more.  Here’s a good example: Walking up and down stairs.  I now use the handrail—religiously—not so much to teach my grandson the importance of ‘safety first,’ but rather so I don’t fall (and yes, I’ve been known to fall upstairs).  If I carry anything in my arms I need to have both feet on each step before proceeding to the next one.  Sometimes—inexplicably and without warning, I ‘lose track’ of which step I’m on.  (Believe me: If I could explain this better I would.  You might want to ask someone you know nearer my age for clarification because I have a hunch they may be facing the same challenge.)

I knew this day was coming.  I’m going to go out on a very short limb and call it karma: Karma for giving my friend Al such a hard time during our friendship and sharing similar components of his life with the world in many (‘many’ being the grandest of understatements) of my articles, stories and books over the years.  Al’s antics and quotes have become infamous to the point it would be fair to refer to me as the Colonel to Al’s Elvis.  From his ‘put me down for a turd’ quote at Badwater to eating potpourri out of a glass bowl at a party to wearing a cat sweater on his head for a cold winter run, Al now has quite the reputation in the running community.

All these years I knew I was playing with fire and that one day karma would be calling.             

Well, I’m here to tell you last weekend karma came calling.  Loudly, as a matter of fact and with both barrels loaded.

After an afternoon watching college football in the Georgia Dome and consuming a variety of things certainly not recommended by a doctor Cindy and I—along with two of our friends went to an Italian restaurant in close proximity to the Fox Theater in downtown Atlanta.  You know the type; one of those hoity-toity restaurants where it takes less time to eat the special than it does for the waiter to tell you what it is.  Cindy happened to order the special (grouper, I believe) and I promise you I could have fit her entire meal in the palm of my hand.

After dinner I went to the back of the restaurant to find the men’s room.  At the end of a long, dark hall were two doors.  On the door to my right was a sign with the word ‘uomini.’  On the door to my left was a sign with the word ‘donne.’  Beneath both words was a caricature that didn’t do me any good because they were both much too small for me to see without a pair of 2.5 reading glasses that I don’t usually take to the men’s room with me. Figuring ‘donne’ was the more masculine word of the two (After all, isn’t that the name of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?  They’re all guys!) I went in the restroom to my left.  The restroom was virtually pitch black with the exception of a couple of nightlights, the one in the far stall much brighter than the others that drew me like a moth to a flame.  I was in and out in less than a minute.      

When I returned to the table Cindy asked me where the restrooms were and I pointed to the long, dark hall.  Five minutes later she returned and said ‘you’ll never believe what just happened.’  She went on to tell me she was in a stall when she heard someone using a urinal and realized she was actually in the men’s restroom.  Then it dawned on me.  ‘Which restroom did you use?’  ‘Uomini,’ she replied.  Somehow both of us—totally independent of one another—had not only guessed at but went ahead and used the wrong restroom.  Fortunately neither of us was ‘caught in the act’ which is a good thing because it would have totally humiliated Cindy.  Me?  I couldn’t have cared less.

After all, sh*t happens.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

Even if in both of these instances it didn’t.  Not literally, anyway.      

I can practically feel Al smiling right about now.     

 

Following Doctors' Orders

Preface:  I have as much use for doctors as I do protractors.

I rarely go to the doctor.  In fact when I do it is usually at the insistence of my better half because she thinks it best that a doctor determine how much damage I’ve done to myself ‘this time.’

For instance there was that time in the early ‘80’s when my left knee was causing me so much pain—probably due to me taking up running in 1978 and putting in far too many miles than were good for me at that early stage of my running career—when Doctor Frankenstein gave me a cortisone injection in the muscle directly beneath my knee cap (much more painful than the pain caused by running, I might add) and instructed me not to run for a day or two.  So what did I do next?  I stopped at the local high school track on the way home (yes, from the doctor’s office) to give my knee a test drive to see if the injection had worked its magic.  Sorry to report: It didn’t.  If a doctor ever points a needle loaded with cortisone in your direction, do yourself a favor and run—even if you have a sore left knee.    

Then there was the time in the early ‘90’s after I did something (much too dumb to get into here) that resulted in so much pain in my left shin I wound up in Doctor Jekyll’s office.  He promptly diagnosed it as a stress fracture, put my left leg in an air cast and told me not to run for at least a week.  I’ll admit my runs the next three days were painful as well as painfully short, but on the fourth day I ran virtually pain-free.  Time heals all wounds, right?

Then there was the time I had cataract surgery and Doctor Johnny Fever told me not to run for a few days while my eye healed.  Since he was well aware of my running streak I asked (more as a courtesy, actually because there was no way I wasn’t running) if it would be OK if I ran ‘really, really easy and made sure my head didn’t bounce.’  He conceded and I’m here to tell you my eye was never any worse for the wear.

Then there was the time about 10 years ago when I did something much dumber than what I did about 20 years prior (I’d rather not talk about it) and Doctor Scholl told me to ‘stay off my left foot and let it heal.’  Since he also was well aware of my running streak I asked (again, out of courtesy) if it would be OK if I ran ‘really, really easy and made sure my right foot took most of the impact.’  He conceded and I’m here to tell you to this day my left foot is no worse for the wear.    

Then just this week I went to see my General Practitioner Marcus Welby for a suspected hernia beneath my naval, the result of either (don’t laugh) running over 150 miles in an event a month ago, carrying a heavy piece of furniture up two flights of stairs two weeks ago and/or maintaining the horizontal leg lifts I do every day for much too long (one of my special talents that also includes wiggling my ears and falling asleep at the drop of a hat).  The good doctor said it appeared the hernia was trying to heal itself but that I should see a surgeon just to make sure.  He may have mentioned it might be something else that started with an ‘a’ and had three--maybe four syllables but I forgot exactly what because I wasn’t really listening.  However, if he also happened to mention it may be life-threatening, it’s not that I forgot but rather because I have a really, really bad memory and in this particular case a potentially very short life expectancy.    

Time for a comedic interlude:

 I told the doctor I thought the hernia was about the size of a marble.

After he inspected it he told me it was much, much larger than a marble, perhaps as much as four or five millimeters wide.

 I asked him how wide four or five millimeters was and he held two fingers about ¼ inch apart…slightly less than the width of a marble.

   Doctor Welby – Countless years of higher education; no knowledge of marbles.    

Me – ‘C’ in high school biology; intrinsic knowledge of marbles.

Doctor Welby, a long-distance cyclist who was well aware of my running streak didn’t even wait for me to ask whether or not I could run.  He may have said something like ‘take it easy, limit yourself to fun runs and 5K’s and don’t run any up hills.’ Then again it’s hard to say because this time I can say for sure: I wasn’t really listening.

So for the sake of argument let’s just say he told me to keep doing what I’ve always done since he knew damn well I had every intention of doing just that. 

As it has many times before, time heals all wounds in the long run.