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. Black. My basketball needed air. I wasn't putting any in the ball. The depressurized rock stole any better player's dribble. As i was leaving my landlord's wife shook her head.
"You have coverage?" She has asked the same question when I went sledding in Ft. Greene Park.
"No." My only health plan was wine followed by a hit of cocaine. It was a miracle combo, although no protection 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. I had to stay healthy. At least until I'm 77 when Angie will be 26 and Fenway 21. Outside the air was cool. Not cold. I ran on the sidewalk. I'll never be fast again. Passers-by checked out my dribbling. That skill was not my forte. Defense. That's my game. Stopping the scorer. I entered the park. The baskets were occupied in the full-court by young teenagers. The ones against the fence were dominated by kids, except for the last one, where a lanky 6-4 black teenager practiced set shoots. His release was smooth. He most certainly had game and I asked, if he minded my shooting with him.
"You want to play one-on-one?" He was eager to play anyone. His eyes shined with a competitive urge.
"Let me loose 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."
He hit from the free-throw line. All net. The next possession he glided to the hoop for a lay-up. I was already sucking wind. 2-0. The following attack was a grinding attack in the paint. His shot went 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. This kid was good. He beat Shannon 11-4. His name was Shea like the old Mets baseball park. Second game 11-3. Shea beat me up inside and 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. Shannon went down 11-6. Shea was getting tired. I got a 3-0 lead and didn't score another point. My lungs were red-lining for oxygen and Shea hadn't even broken a sweat. The successive games had a toll on Shea and Shannon had him 9-8. Two more baskets and he could say in the future that he beat this teenage phenom. Shea didn't let him get any.
We spoke to Shea. 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."
"Thanks." No one ever wanted to tell Shea that. He was that good.
Shannon and I teamed up for a 2-on-2. We lost 15-6. I scored no points. My hang-over was not a factor. My legs were too old for this game. I didn't really deserve to be on the court with Shea or Shannon, but I wasn't sitting out this season. All I needed to do waas practice my outside shot. The only time my body will really hurt is when I'm not playing. Old age is only in my head. My heart is still 15. If not younger.
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