The day after my 57th birthday I woke up with a hangover. Too much drink. I can't remember where. I couldn't face a greasy bacon-n-eggs breakfast and walked over to the basketball court of McCarren Park. My intention was to shoot until I worked up a sweat. Two young neighborhood kids joined me. They were in their 20s. A little fat and out-of-shape. They talked a big game. I challenged them 2-on-1. My outside shot was on.
Score 16-8.
A W in the win-loss column.
I was asked to join a 3 on 3. I was on fire like you'd expect for a post-birthday game.
Another 3 Ws.
Every new victory can erase an old defeat. Another 200 and I might be over .500.
That night I learned the cost of winning. My right shoulder was enflamed like Pedro Martinez throwing a complete game. The next day I went to my doctor in Staten Island.
"When you going to stop playing basketball?"
"Why?" My answer was really never.
"Because that's the only way your shoulder will ever get better."
Doctor Nick prescribed painkillers. Their effectiveness was minimal. Percodan. I met up with an old dealer. He had a gram of C for me. One line and my shoulder was cured 100%.
"I'm ready coach."
If only I could pass the piss test.
Then I could be an astronaut.
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