The Old Man With Quick Hands

I played in a three on three tournament against high schoolers today. Chronologically, I'm about thirty five. Flecks of grey in my beard, bad knees and a paunch stomach make me appear much more distinguished. As I took the court, I realized the kids were taller than me, more muscular than I had ever been, and faster than I remember humans moving.

I calmly walked out to the three point line, cover closely, then wandered further to half-court. The ball came right to me. Before I realized what I was doing, I launched a deep deep three. I watched the ball knuckle through the air like an Antoine Walker special. Way left, it tumbled through the air, and began to drift back towards the hoop for a swish.

I grabbed my hand in mock agony, deriding my defender. "Too Hot!" I yelled at the kid, "My hand is just too hot!" blowing it off as if to cool it. 1 for 1 on a high arcing shot, and a swish.

On the ensuing possession, the kid I was guarding got the ball along the baseline. I crowded him to the corner, using my girth and old man skills. As he tried to zip the ball past me, I coolly knocked it away. Same thing on the inbound pass. "Keep the ball away from the old man with the quick hands," the other team's best player said.

After twenty to twenty five seconds I realized I couldn't stand up any more. Nearly fainting and vomiting, I had to get off the court or die there. twenty to twenty five seconds of competitive basketball, and I remained a legend in my own mind. I think I could last twenty seconds on Rucker Park.

My next two offensive possessions were awful, a blocked shot and a lazy pass that was easily picked off. At least for twenty seconds, I was able to add to the legend that exists in my own mind.