My recent conversations have had a distressing theme lately: "You think this is uncoordinated? One time, I..."
I was 25 and in the best shape of my life. Through hard work and innumerable natural gifts, I had elevated my basketball game to "not always a liability." We were playing four on four on my old asphalt court with the threads of chain nets hanging from dunk-proof cast-iron rims. This was a brutally rough court. Blood flowed freely, not all of it mine.
On this day, I was leading a fast break.
Ahhhh. Let me type that sentence again.
On this day, I was leading a fast break.
One more time. Pardon my indulgence.
On this day, I was leading a fast break. I passed back and forth with the guy on my wing (who I'd like to say was d'Andre, but let's face facts: the guy was invariably gasping behind me, hands on his knees, lest he keel over). I decided to lay it in myself. I beat my guy off the dribble, leaped for the rim, and for some inexplicable reason thought that I was remotely capable of changing hands while mid-air. I was going for exactly this:
What actually happened was that I sort of schlubbed the ball in the general direction of the rim and, still at full sprint, rammed my extended knee into the solid iron pole. It didn't make the resounding GOOONG! sound a hollow aluminum pole would make. It made the exact same sound as a cantaloupe being dropped 20 stories on an anvil.
I could not stand, not that I tried very hard. The boys carried me and my broken patella home, depositing me on my couch unceremoniously and returning to their game.
"Did I make the shot?" I asked, hopeful.
Such a cruel, cruel laugh ensued. I had hit the bottom of the backboard, and the ball had ricocheted off and hit my head.