SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

Spring In My Step

There's something about March that puts a spring in my step. It could be my own kind of March madness. It sneaks up on me and the next thing I know I boundin' all over the basketball court and making impossible plays. It's like the writer finding his muse and I am writing odes to the basketball gods inside a little YMCA gym where only a few people look on in awe at my former glory returning to life.

It started last week when I nailed about 9 out of my first 10 three point attempts, closing out two wins with three-pointers and racking up 7,8 and 9 points out of the team's 15 in each win. It's amazing what a little caffiene, naproxin and a flash or two of adrenaline can do to an aging ex-super athlete who thinks he's 20 again.

It's gotten to the point where no one says anything anymore, unless some of the elder comrades want to shout a little moral support, hoping some of my good fortune would rub off. I'm grabbing rebounds and stealing the ball, making perfect outlet and interior passes to set up others. Once in awhile, it doesn't work because we don't always mesh on every play. Too many people in the mix and different faces every game. I make adjustments by working inside or outside, even playing point. If defensive stops are needed, I'm the hustle guy rolling around the court after every loose ball. I could be bruised or scratched and not know it, or even remember where all the contusions and abrasions come from when I wake from my reveries. I'm great, I think. I want someone to to talk to, but know I can't boast like I did when I was young...if I ever want to see the ball again.

They'll shut you out. They decide who gets a look, a pass, god forbid a screen to get open. But when I am the fortunate recepient of these benevolent acts, I make sure to make the best of it. I finish those plays and inspire confidence in others to pass me the ball.

Today was hardly different. I had one bad game where I went one of five and had a shot blocked. But with the confidence coursing through my being, I made some changes to my approach to the next game, lauching Jimmer Fredette-style three-pointers from the deep corners nailing every one. Some kids who were out of school for spring break were watching on the sidelines and were practically rolling in their seats after I nailed each deep three. I got a little cocky and pointed to them to say 'that one was for the children.'

We still lost that final game, but I was outleaping everyone for the boards and setting up the guards with outlet passes, helping each possession flow from defense to offense. I felt good, vital. I thought about my old pal Tom Izzo and wish he could be here. I wish I had a do over and could go back thirty years and show him I'm mature enough now for him to consider me as a Michigan State Spartan. Why did I have to be a head case during that week in 1982 on the East Lansing campus when I could have impressed that young assistant coach.

No regrets. God has given me this second, third, fourth and more chances to make use of what talent I have left. He'll decide when that achilles will pop and permanently take me away from all this. I'll be too old to rehab and come back to play like this again. One last shining time to look back on fondly with all the other moments He has blessed me with these past years. It seems a little hollow some times that I don't have some of the old friends to join after the games for drinks and wax nostalgic. Sometimes, I just need to be reminded because I forget what I had.

Thank you God for all that you give. I hope I can appreciate enough what you have given back to me, especially this time each year.