Pass the Ball, Sir!

“Pass the ball, Sir,” the student shouted, breaking for the basket.

At least he hadn’t shouted “please” but still, “Sir?”

I realized he didn’t see me as I imagined myself, still young, fit and agile. A mirror can be one of the most thought-provoking inventions, and at the same time, a source of self-deception.

My neatly trimmed white beard negated my 6’4” height and never-miss hook with either hand. A few steps slower, I could still beat the college kids in pick-up games because of my experience, meaning in part, my understanding of elementary physics: the angle of incidence equals angle of refraction (the rebound will go to a certain spot and I merely have to stand there). And elemental geometry: the hypotenuse is shorter than the two adjacent sides in a right triangle (step diagonally toward the basket rather than trying to keep up with the guy with the ball).

I already had two sports-related surgeries in the past few years: a hernia from many years of pushing the pack in rugby, and perhaps, from trying to squat too many pounds; and when driving to the basket two years earlier, I’d turned one Achilles “ten-don” into a “two-fives-don.” I had played again after recovering from each.

So when I awoke the morning after hitting the game-winning shot in a casual five-on-five, full-court game at the nearby university campus and found my knee swollen, I didn’t worry, because I knew it would go back down in a few days. But when it did, I found that I still couldn’t walk without great pain. Eventually a specialist told me that I had herniated a disc, and I could choose between six weeks of absolute bed rest—impractical to the point of impossible—or surgery.

And so, back under the knife.

Awakening, I immediately felt fine again. At which point my brilliant and patient wife noted, “You play basketball with the college kids and you have surgery; and then you play basketball with the college kids and you have surgery. Do you see the connection? What next? Knees? Or something much worse?”

I had made my last shot, and I still think I could outplay many of the kids I see in the gym. Believing it, I don’t have to prove it. So I haven’t touched a basketball since—except now and then to see if I can still palm one.