Not too long ago, I was in the cul-de-sac near my home playing NBA-like defense against my neighbor when somehow my getaway sticks tangled and I hit the ground like a meteor. I tore holes in my new flannel-lined jeans but did barely manage to avoid breaking both wrists as I used them to brace myself for the earth shaking impact.
Each time I play basketball, I realize why I never became a basketball player. This body was bred for hotdog eating contests instead of games that require skill and grace.
If any of you ever see me out trying to act like I can play basketball again, I’d like to ask that you empty the contents of a can of mace directly into my face and sternly remind me that basketball is unhealthy for me. Don’t feel bad when you do this, it’s for my own good.
Let Me Be Frank With You 
In college we played pick up games three nights a week on the big floor in the field house. Two solid hours of run and gun. I had the opportunity to see that place again not too long ago. I couldn’t see from one end of the floor to the other because, apparently, my bifocals need some attention. These days flipping to a basketball game with the remote leaves me winded. I stand in awe of your hoop-a-bilities, in spite of your recent attempt at earth shattering. I’m sure the flyin’ 360’s were still there, right?
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