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.