BitterSweetLife

I took a break from fatherhood the other day, and went over to our local community center to revive my comatose hoops game. Aidan was securely locked in his bedroom with seven stuffed animals, a stack of candy bars and too many balls to count, so I knew I'd bought myself at least an hour of time. At the gym, I shot around a little, said hi to some high school kids who recognized me from subbing as "Mr. V" (not exactly a scintillating handle) and prepared for battle.

First up: I played some pickup two on two, and nearly died, my lungs begging for mercy every time I accelerated or changed direction suddenly. Several games of three on three were slightly better--I could hardly breathe, but due to that third player cluttering up the court, my life wasn't directly threatened. Apparently climbing eight flights of stairs once or twice a day wasn't enough to get me in game shape. [Stepping outside the narrative briefly: With the benefit of hindsight, I now realize that there was a cold/flu bug in the equation. And good thing, too.]

Strangely enough, I still got my points. Despite my legs impersonating a rubber chicken, I hit three or four treys and a bunch of mid-range jumpers. My defense was really what suffered, as I had hard time keeping my dusty shoes under me while I ran around gasping, trying to stop quick, slashing guards from getting easy layups on me. I guess that makes me a North Carolinian shoot-first, defend-second guard (only a foot shorter and without dunking ability). Bill Self would not be happy. Usually, I take pride in stopping my man cold. But usually I am not trying to avoid impending cardiac arrest.

After my team lost, I got picked up to play with the incoming challengers but had to let the opportunity pass, explaining that I was being conservative so as to avoid sudden death. I went and hunched over the water fountain, breathing deeply and taking therapeutic little sips. Less espresso before games, stickier shoes, and more aerobic exercise are the keys here. I'll be back.