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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
| This blog starts Tuesday and ends today... The Rabbit He's one of the rabbits I talk about at the YMCA. They run about the floor like their tail's on fire and look like their running from something that wants to eat them. (I'll have to work on that metaphor some more) But this one -- Matt -- fakes left and drives with his head down to the hoop every time. He's in his early 20s and nice as can be, but plays on instinct and seldom has a game plan. Tuesday, he had the ball stripped away over and over. I did it, others who double-teamed him did it. He got triple-teamed on one play and kept trying to dribble through the crowd. I wanted to help him at one point, but realized he's young and maybe a bit too proud and might not be accepting of advice. I was on the opposing team and I just wanted to tell him you're like a pitcher that needs a change up. You have your fast ball and curve and their working nice, but people can read when they're coming. Do a change of pace once in awhile. I think if he slows his game down he gets hesitant. Indecision kills. But I find, if you look at the floor before you decide to go, you see options open up. Sometimes, I get caught up in that hurry up pace. Now, I fake passes to open lanes. If I don't see what I like, I can take off myself or just pass out of it. So few players just pass. If they catch a pass they feel they have to make a play. When the passes were going side to side and someone cut to the basket behind the pass, they open up on the other side when the ball arrives. Poor Matt was not even passing out when he got stuck. He didn't even have a chance to get stuck by the end of the day. I must have ripped the ball away a half-dozen times including a foul when I blocked his shot. He drives to the basket like he's on rails that eventually bend to the hoop and he'll try to bound over you when he finishes the play. I just run to the basket rather than try to keep pace with him, because I know where he's going. So, if I make a bee line and just cut to the hoop, I have him. I can propel him away or force him into an awkward shot. He seems to throw up a few of those. They go in sometimes, so that encourages his style of play. What also encourages him is people who don't take the time to learn what he prefers doing. He had started going to his left there for a time and it worked, but familiarity is what we all seem to return to, especially when not consciously playing the game to outsmart an opponent. Athletically, he can beat me...if I let him. If I have to guard him straight up, it's not a problem. When I double team, I take a way his lane to the hoop and force him back out. It's simple stuff and actually inspires my play when I can shut him down like this. After our short day of games were over after an hour and a quarter of play, he sat in the middle of the court with his arms bent over his knees keeping his head low toward his lap. Someone asked him if he was alright. I didn't have to ask. I wanted to offer advice. But, so few people want to discuss the game with me and it feels unnatural to just offer my advice. He's got his buddies who mostly tease him when he has a bad day, or feed him when he's hot. I preferred to walk away and not get involved. I feel, if he brings it up when I am in ear shot, I might offer the bit about needing a change up. Just pass out of double teams because someone nearby is open. It worked for Mike and I today. A guy named Phil was on Mike who was trying to feed me in the post. I had Jimmy on me, a big mismatch as he's over a half a foot shorter than me and even older!  I had already scored in the post once when Mike dribbled down to the corner to set me up again. Phil dropped back in front of me and gave Mike a wide open three-pointer which he drained. It broke open the game for us, as we eventually won.We talked about if afterward and how helpful it is to get a good shooter and post player playing two-on-two on one side of the court. You have options like passing out of a double team to feed a hot shooter or vice-versa if a post player can force the action underneath. I made a lot of errors today. It was hot in the gym and I think not having much caffeine to consume before starting slowed me. My shooting was off and I didn't stretch or prepare as well as I should. I have the whole week with the kids at Grandma's, so I'll have another try tomorrow to do things differently. Though, I should get some housework done. Not everyday I can just rip everything apart and put it back together without little hands getting in the mix and making off with my stuff. Matt Learns A Lesson? Wednesday, Matt returned to the gym. I hollered encouragement as he surprised me. He drove the lane, drew the defense and set up shooters on the wing several times for scores. He must have known what he was doing wrong and was thinking hard about it. Things opened up for him yesterday and his play was much better. My play was okay. I didn't shoot well for a second day and my body tightened up. I have not been stretching or preparing correctly. I felt something pop under my patellar strap. I think I had a small muscle pull or spasm, perhaps attached to my hamstring. It wasn't enough to hobble me, but gave me concern. I didn't do anything about it. At that point, you can't stretch it out any more. I opted to play through it, feeling the strap was holding in whatever it was that was trying to pop out. I need to hydrate more and properly stretch. I kept playing at the gym a secret today, as I had given Jen the impression I would be doing other things. I did rush home and rip apart the garage right away. It's still a mess today, Thursday, as I plan to properly prepare to play ball again. I feel this is rare to have no kids and I can get to the gym. But I am being a bit selfish and stupid about it and not doing this the right way. It's like there is a big piece of delicious chocolate cake on my plate, but I'm gobbling it up too fast. Either I get indigestion, or I fail to savor the confection by being too hasty. There needs to be an art to enjoying everything. Sometimes, it just takes eating a whole lot of chocolate cake before you really understand the best way to enjoy it. Hmmm, wonder what we've got to eat around here?  |
| Another poem I could work on, just wanted to hash out a bit here and see if this makes any sense.... Accurate Portrait Now that I'm getting old I want to take a class and learn how to paint forget how horrible the world turned out to be how dreams never materialized from youth as I look on at my own children starving from realizations that pretty ponies and glamorous lives won't materialize don't exist because you never learned how to paint an accurate portrait See what I did there...play on words...probably not the best poetically. |
| I'm making up words to go with melodies in my head today. Good lord, I'm a carboholic junkie! Lord, have pity on me!! Poop-poop, poop, poop, Pa-poop, poop, poop, poop! However that parts supposed to go... Carboholic Cowboy, maybe? I could create a character named Carb who is trying to introduce himself into people's diets, only to be denied by an old fart named Atkins who won't let Carb go near his people. There's a mystery. Someone has gone about the desert lands destroying food pyramids, or something... Carb is joined by a fat Italian fisting bread sticks. Maybe, he's made of sausage-filled, canola-marinated pesto, with garlic cologne and oily. Could have a snooty pastry chef named Frenchie. How about a fast food baron offering flash frozen and reheated meats inside starcy food wraps as the financier of whatever missions he sends them on. Who's a likely suspect now for destroying those pyramids? I don't know where this is going... I'm just not eating as healthy as I should. I need a stick of celery and less time in front of the boob tube. It's days like this where it doesn't feel so much like regression but that I cannot escape who I really am, a muddle-minded, food fantasizer (is that not the correct spellling?) who won't tear away from a tv or computer long enough to get any chores done around the house. I've got better things to do that regurgitate this asinine garbage. Applying plunger to my disposal now...but leaving this little passage back to my wasteland just as a reminder. ...and making PUBLIC today 3.22.12 to expose my drivel. Not DRIBBLE, people! Least I knows sumptin'. |
| Very few people showed at the gym today, which meant I didn't get any rest between games. We started three-on-three until enough people arrived. I enjoyed the back and forth play and the many opportunities to handle the ball and shoot. We had UnderArmor headband guy on our team complaining if I shot too much and missed. I used that to motivate me, but it wasn't much. I played well. We had five-on-five after two games with just the six players. I huffed and puffed a bit, off to my usual slow cardiovascular start. I noticed my heart was beating out of my chest at times and thought after I told others about it they would be able to mention that to the paramedics after I got carted off the court. Cardiac arrest would not be an issue on this day. Though, my legs started to give out after over two hours of near non-stop pick up games. I had a lot of sweet plays. I was stripping out the ball and stealing it from a lot of people...a point that Matt made by saying I had quick hands and get "more steals than anybody." My defense has been especially suffocating of late. My energy was good at times, when I wasn't winded from trying too hard. A lot of what happened today was a blur. I remember finishing off two games with winning shots. The first was a three-pointer to end our first three-on-three tilt. I caught a rebound in the lane and went back up in one motion and knocked down a mid-range jumper with a guy's hand in my face to finish another. I saw Matt flash in the lane on a perfect cut to the basket just as I made up my mind to shoot. I didn't give it a second thought, which is good, because indecision gets me sometimes. I hadn't been getting a lot of touches on offense because we had a lot of scorers on my team. But when I did, I made the most of it. The tallest guy on the court and a fellow that has blocked more than a few of my shots in the past ran at me on the three-point line. But I was so confident stroking my shots all day that I let one off over his outstretched mitt and bent it like a rainbow that was perfectly netted. I did a bit more talking today and doing a little strut after big shots. My team complained about my defense at the end of the day when we went back to three-on-three. I had no legs. I didn't really blame them and they said it kiddingly (that might not be a word). I jokingly (that is a word) used it for motivation when we had a chance to go four-on-four the next game and I discretely switched teams by going skins. My shirt was pretty sticky from sweat, so it was nice change. First play, I got the ball and perfectly netted a three-pointer and yelled with attitude, "Bam!" in my loudest voice. Walking back up the court with my defender in tow, I told them that was payback for 'kicking me off the team," which wasn't true. I was pretending my motivation was to get back at them. It worked. I nailed another three in that game and we finished them off. I think we won three straight before dropping the last one that went to 21 points. I had some sweet drives in the lane and did a lot of ball handling. My old teammates were yelling to strip the ball from me, but I just split the defense and held the ball to the last second. When no pressure came, I rained little overhand and underhand shots from eight feet away to just under the rim. I wished I could handle the ball all day. But, other people like to dribble and shoot, too. I got a little tired and disinterested at the end. My bandana was soaked. I switched headbands midday. I hovered around the conversations later, but they were talking about basketball video games. Not my thing. I left and bought some Lunchables for the kids and picked them up at school, smelling to high heaven. It was a beautiful day outside. Is this really Spring? I did bust my goggles again on a play where I got swiped across the face. They flew to the floor and I kicked them aside and kept playing until the action stopped and then put on my regular glasses. I could have suffered an eye injury, but I didn't care. I'm crazy when I'm in my groove. I will glue them again and hope to get a new pair...SOON. I was so drained afterwards. I couldn't enjoy relaxing in the sun with my daughter outside school while we waited for Alex to be done with his after school program. I actually felt irritable and ached like I had done a hundred crunches in a row. I almost felt sick like you get before throwing up and had to keep calming myself from acting out or getting frustrated with feelings that were difficult to deal with. It all eventually subsided. I showered after I got the kids home. I made myself something to eat and sat in the basement to catch up on the NCAA tournament and recorded shows in the basement. Like usual, I was dosing and waking up, rewinding the bit I missed and repeating and doing over again. My wife had to ask me why I do that and told her I couldn't stay awake. Now, after my little cat naps, I'm up. I should be in bed. This is the time of the evening where I find it difficult to dose off after putting the kids to bed. It's quiet time and I can write or watch TV or do anything else with the dark walls of night to seal me in my solitude. It's nice here, even though I was tired and didn't want to write. I'm forcing myself, Alfred. Not all blog entries can be gems. But you never know what beauties will sparkle the best later on, unless you bury these treasures to dig up later. Even if it's just to write banal metaphorical ditties like that. Later... |
| If this is Tuesday, I can't wait to see what Thursday has in store. No Friday basketball, because my children are performing in music programs at school. I am in awe of Him, and why I'm continually blessed by this divine intervention. How am I overcoming the baggage that comes with being a aging recluse who tries to reinvent his game amid a host of 20-somethings? I keep surprising myself and now others around the YMCA gymnasium. I had some time to warm up today. I did consume my energy drink and other caffeine before hitting the floor with plans to keep my ego and physicality in check. No problems there, though I did some passive chest pounding after making some big plays. I knocked down three pointers in every game. But the first was a bit of a surprise. I've been working onthejumper and it materialized in a big way when we needed a score to tie and put us in contention for the win, which we did. White Kenny, who is my age (and white ), is a smaller, savvy player who tried to trap me in the corner after collecting a pass. I put my back to him and he pressured me toward the wing, so I dribbled away to the corner, spun and leapt behind the three-point (thinking we needed a three-pointer (only needed two). It felt natural but I was thinking the whole time, 'uh-oh, what am I doing' before I regained my composure and leaned in a sweet shot that made the game 14-11, just before we won.I wanted to chest pump, but caught myself. I wasn't going to get as worked up as I did Friday. But it started some talk after the game. I dribbled about and warmed up for the next game when my ears pricked up. I kept hearing my name and kept looking across the court to see people talking to each other and pointing to me. Some of the best players in the gym were talking about my game. I am arriving again. It won't last, and I'm not being pessimistic but logical. But, I'm going to enjoy this for awhile before God says times up. I was high on that energy drink. Dave stopped me while warming up and noticed me spinning about while warming up with my ball. He mentioned that I was getting 'crazy' and I made the excuse that I was just trying to stay warm because with so many people in the gym I figured I'd get rusty having to wait through two games to play my next before confessing I did have a little caffeine. I told him about Friday and he seemed to understand as I confessed my mistake hurting Jeff with the hard foul. Back in action, I got a tough assignment guarding Matt. He's young, wiry, bouncy and can knock down outside shots when not driving a 100-miles-an-hour to the hole. What I didn't expect is on the first offensive play, he'd use his patented crossover dribble and I would deftly break up the play by cleanly swatting it away. He complemented me on the way down the floor. That picked me up even more. Their team had a huge advantage with Matt and Brandon, who has a great inside-outside game, as he can finish with either hand under the basket and get off shot after shot. I won't call him 'old Mike,' but he's not young Mike. So I'll just say Mike had the tough assignment of guarding Brandon. I had no idea how much I would wind up helping him in that game that we eventually could have won in stupefying fashion if we had so few players to help us offensively. Matt took few chances with me, broke off his drives and tried to can outside shots but was off his game. Hopefully, because of me, I did that. The ball started going to Brandon, who will take it the length of the court and dribble away from pressure until he was under the basket. I knew this game and was ready to double team, because he seldom looks to dump a pass. I wasn't going to give him a good look to dump the ball to Matt who wasn't finding a lane to the basket away from me to the rim. Our defensive spacing was good. Brandon crossed the free throw lane to his left and hoisted up a right handed shot fading away. I was coming to help and knew he had committed to this and smashed that ball on release, as it rolled out of bounds. On another play, I got another piece of the ball as he took a shot. It happened so quick and in such muddled action, I can't remember how I got to the ball, but I thought I got a piece of him with that block. All he said was, "That damn, Brian got me again." I knew he wouldn't call a foul because the block probably came before the contact, which was light. I had stuffed him up on another play and slapped the ball as he dribbled, though I didn't get it far enough away as he recollected it. After that game, Brandon came over and high-fived me for my defense. I thanked him, but tried to be modest in acknowledging it felt like cheating when I double team because I'm sneaking up on him to block his shot. I'm sure some luck did play a hand, but I am extremely confident I could give him fits if we guarded one another. I had offered to take him on D, but Mike preferred him over Matt. Perhaps, Mike didn't want to chase the rabbit down the hole. I just kept him away from it. I can't recall if it was in that game that I adeptly ripped the ball away on defense and ran up the court and found my spot on the wing where the ball was returned to me. With a tall, young man flying at me, certain he would block my shot, I confidently stroked a three-pointer over his outstretched hands. It sweetly splashed down in the promise land. That's when I passively made an attempt to talk myself up...about how players rewarded for a defensive play have the confidence to finish an offensive play right away on the other end. I bothered the best and quickest little guard, Elliot. I love to hound him best because it is such a challenge to get after someone so low to the ground who had the option of going under and over you. I recall cutting off his drives and discouraging him from getting inside several times with my double teams and swiping the ball away twice leading to scores for my team. The last game, I was winded and my legs would not propel like before. There were few complaints about my play from teammates and I had one game with three people who could have been in my ear all game long but had nothing to say about my play...we won. I did try to throw one of my patently between the defender's legs passes to young Mike who was posting up. He didn't like that. It was knee-jerk. I was going to go around the guy, but my mind told me whip it between the legs. But, his legs were not open and bounced off his shoes and away to the other team for a score. I acknowledged my mistake and there were no more after that one. I almost won that game with a three. I managed to hit the three that tied the game at 18 for us. Elliot yelled to young Mike, "Hit Brian." while I was open on the wing. He got me the ball out of the high post and I prepared to shoot when my defender came running at me. I had no legs at this point, so less confidence trying to stroke my second three-pointer in a row. The ball glanced off the top of the left side of the rim. No worries. We scored twice to end that game with a win. After that game, I took off my goggles and grabbed my ball and shot around like I always do. The last one in the gym, still perfecting my shot. I thought about that pass I received on the wing and what I could have done to avoid the pressure. I pretended to catch the ball, hold it, give a ball fake and imagined the defender going by or stopping in front of me. I can get my shot off against anyone who hasn't a chance to time their leap. But, it's nice to get them out of your face. I tried ball fake and dribble left. Ball fake and dribble behind my back to the right. In all scenarios, I show the ball like I am going up for a shot all in one motion. You have to sell it and not lean one way or the other so the defender has a chance to adjust to your second move. I have to keep remembering not to put the ball on the floor until I need, until I have all options to create space for my shot. Most defenders aren't good enough to stop the second move, most buying ball, head or hip fakes and putting themselves at a defensive disadvantage. I just need to keep thinking about options and my game will continue to flourish. It was a good day. I had spasms in my knee last night. I took three Alleve before starting today and felt no pain. Now, the aches are creeping back a might. It just amazes me that with a little preparation, determination and the abilities I've been given, I can do so well on a day like today. Then, wake up the next morning, I can barely bend, dragging myself downstairs. It's not as bad as the days of throbbing pains in ankles and knees with other difficulties I overcame to get this far. Can I take this game to other levels, levels I still dream of achieving again? Please say that is in store for me, God. If I don't praise enough the person who granted me such mysterious gifts with a basketball all my life, I shall shout His name even more. No, really, When am I going to dunk a basketball again? I know. I need to get back into the gym and pick up my physical training again. I'm not dropping the weight like I should. I was down to about 240 on the low-carb diet before I couldn't take it anymore. I moderate my diet, but still indulge from time to time. I'm back up to 255, but a lot stronger. How am I carrying this load and doing what I do? Just think what getting down to the playing weight of my yore between 205 and 225, before I discovered deep fried cheesy foods, will do. Got to commit, if I dare to dream. Okay, what's in the fridge. I'm HUNGRY! I'll try to be good.  |
| Very long blog post...peruse if you dare. It was a busy Friday at the Y. Kids in some schools were out for the day and college students returned home. I was walking through the hall to the gym and saw some middle school boys huddled outside the court window and talking about how the guy in the Under Armor headband was pretty good. I knew who they were talking about right away but my thoughts immediately went to, how would they rate me as a ballplayer? Then I thought, I doubt I had any reputation at all. I was about to change that. Since there was a game ending as I got ready to warm-up, I did not get to stretch or shoot around. I let myself be a little late, because I spent a great deal of time backing up my computer and writing a blog entry about Brett Favre before leaving the house with Alex in tow...because he also was out of school. Jen had Maddie, so that made it easier. With Alex in the YMCA's 'Kids Corner', I was able to focus on the task at hand. I was improving in my energy and shooting. And it is difficult to combine the two. What I also realized as the day went on is that guys who defend me on the perimeter would pay as I dribble drove into the free throw lane area and dropped five to 10 foot jump shots over them. My jump shot has returned! And not just from mid-range, but the three-point line. I had been knocking down the shot in warm-ups the previous day and was encouraged to do some leg presses later that night. I came back with strong legs and was pulling off the old feat that gave me so much pride in my younger day. There is such a feeling of exhileration, when you are able to elevate and feel like all those around you can only look up with mouths agape, not knowing what to do. That's my perception of reality and it works for me. It's boosting my confidence being able to feel like I'm young again. The second game I was in, my energy was pretty good. I gave my defender fits. The game went back and forth before our opponent tied it at 12. Both teams needed a three-ball to win. Our opponents failed in their first attempt. We had already tried several times before they tied the score. They were pressing us on inbound passes. I was in the backcourt when it happened again, so the ball came to me. Because I was feeling so encouraged and because my teammates seemed a bit sluggish, I brought the ball up. The pressure was waiting for me before I reached midcourt, so I stopped and just stood their dribbling, begging them to come get me. No takers. So, I made my move. Two of my teammates had finally crossed center court, so I stepped toward my defender before crossing over my dribble. The pick was waiting for me at the top of the key, so I pretended to notice that the defender behind the pick was forcing me to give up my plan to use the screen. That's when the guy guarding me started running out to trap me with the other player who stopped momentarily behind the pick. In perfect rhythm, I dribbled toward the hoop and behind that pick, hoisting up a long three-point shot as I faded to my left. I barely had to look at the hoop, as I watched both defenders coming to trap me before they realized the ball was airborne. The shot landed dead center with a swish! That created quite the buzz around the gym with a lot of atta-boys. I felt pretty good then. Young Mike was on the opposing team and walked up to me to give me the first congratulations and a high five. Another opponent, Jeff, came over and told me I was only allowed to shoot shots like that when I was on his team. Poor Jeff. I messed up later, hurting him while I played defense like a mad man. I wish I could walk off on high notes and not keep playing and turning myself back into the person they all thought I was. It was the last game, and I was getting myself revved up to finish with one more push. I wanted to end on that high note. I did play well and was using that inside game. An older guy named Dan. Good fellow in his 60s and a military guy who drives a White Lexus to the Y was trying to double me when Jeff was guarding me. Dan has long arms and will wrap you up before you can make a move around him. He fouls quite a bit because he doesn't keep his hands up, but rather reaches and tries to bother the ball handler. That's okay, but he makes too much contact. I tried to break his arms off. It could have been the energy drink combined with a Cadbury chocolate egg, while working myself up into a tizzy of an adrenaline rush, but I got a bit insane. I got inside the lane with Dan collapsing on me twice. The first time he winced and grabbed his shoulder like his arm was coming out of its socket. I think I barely missed the first shot. The second time, I showed no mercy for him as he dared to get in my grill again. I went under his arms with a low hard dribble and took the ball into the lane and scored. We had fallen behind in this game and I was determined to get us back into it, having made the score 17-15 their favor with the game ending at 21. I had been active on defense and offense. I was ripping the ball away from their point guard and bothering him every time he tried to get in the lane. After scoring on Dan that last time, I roared "Let's Go!" and added "WE CAN DO THIS!!" in my loudest, lowest voice. Then I laughed and looked around to see if anyone shared my phony enthusiasm. It was tongue in cheek but no one showed any emotion and play went on. They scored to make it 19-15 and we did not score on our next possession. Jeff got the ball and did what he always does when I overplay him to the middle of the court. He drove baseline and under the basket. I thought I could keep up with him because I was so driven, but he had a half step on me the whole way. There were two guys on the other side of the rim, waiting for the play to come their way and I wasn't going to allow him to score or pass. I jumped at the moment I guessed he would do something with the ball and the play developed so slowly that I was ahead of it. I ended up swiping and hitting Jeff pretty hard without knowing what I was thinking. All of my instinctual play and extra effort blew up in my face and I immediately felt very bad and began apologizing to Jeff. He would not look at me or acknowledge my remorse then or after the game when I apologized again. Jeff's been a friend to me on the court and always has encouragement, something kind to say, or a joke. He can be really clever with an acerbic wit and I have not taken the time to get to know him or really anyone else. So, I guess it was no shock that he would not accept my apologies. No one really knows me or what I am trying to achieve now. Even I sometimes forget. But I remembered another part of myself that day. I used to be the 'hot head' that my wife learned about from a couple of guys she ran into at her work about 10 years ago now. They said they were afraid of me because I had been so full of myself back then in the Upper Michigan basketball arenas. I never saw myself that way, a bad guy, but realized I had gone through phases of my Mr. Hyde personality back then. Just never realized an insecure, quiet guy like me could strike fear in others. In the early 80s, I dominated play in the lower B, C and D-leagues. I never dared play A-league guys, mostly because no one never asked me to join their squad. I did run into a guy named Curt Carson who figured out how to motivate and best utilize me on his team. I had become the central focus of the offense and never realized I was showing up everyone else by being belligerent or demanding. Curt was the guy spoiling me like a prima donna. Curt knew our team could win championships, and we did, going from C-class to B-class and then started my own team and won one final trophy before quitting. I didn't care about winning as much as scoring. That's all I ever dreamed about as a kid --scoring average, how many points I had. I took that attitude with me to a team I played for in Escanaba for a year and a half and scored 53 points one night and boasted all game long how I wanted to outscore Jordan who had 49 the night before. I stole passes, drove and scored. I don't recall missing a single shot. My recollection of my play was like my body was outside of myself looking in. Is that an out of body experience, I don't know? I could not have been guided by angels, unless it was the devil, because they would not have stood by and let me humiliate everyone on the court like that. Curt would get me pumped up for games in the old days. Kept talking about how great I was before and after games. He was like the dad I always wanted, who was proud of me. And that reminds me. I even managed to embarrass my own dad one night. My mom would always make dad take her to my men's league games. It was nice to have them there. I would always talk to them afterwards and get mom's feedback. Dad let her do the talking for him. She would tell me later his impressions. One game, mom couldn't come but dad did, which was a surprise. Before the game, a scorekeeper who was on Kingsford's high school team, asked if I would dunk the ball in warm ups. We had played some pick-up games at the community center gym and knew that I could do it. For some reason, in warm ups, I wasn't psyched up enough. I wasn't in my best shape. The rum and cokes and beer were slowly catching up with me. I apologized to T.J. and the game started. It was an important game as we played a team that also contended for first place. The game went back and forth before we finally broke far enough ahead late that we could cruise to victory. I never liked to come out of games and give my teammates some minutes. And in this game, I was pretty amped by the end. With time running down, I got the ball in that little junior high gym and had only one guy ahead of me for another score. That's when it happened. I don't know why, but he just stepped aside as I approached. I was going to try to dunk over him, but he seemed to know my aim. Maybe, he wanted to see it too. I was fueled even more by this opportunity as I rose up and slammed the ball cleanly through. Unfortunately, I aggravated an old work injury on my middle finger as the blood oozed hot. I didn't care. Everyone wanted to shake my hand as I came out of the game. Was I whistled for a technical foul for hanging on the rim? I don't remember why they stopped play. Opponents wanted to shake my hand and they did. They didn't know they were getting a bloody handshake from a smirking imbecile who wanted to rub their faces in it rather than accept congratulations. What was wrong with me? Whenever I got myself in that zone, I was a creep. The game ended. My dad walked down a short way from the bleachers as I turned to him. I blurted, "What did you think about that?" all proud of myself. He just took one look at me like he didn't know who I was and just kept walking by. That was the one time I can think of that I deserved that man's derision. But I didn't learn from it then and apparently I forgot again until Friday. I have tried to be humble. And being a tenth of the athlete I once was helps with that. But when I start to get that old feeling, I lose myself. I try to use it to fuel me, boost confidence, but their are those side affects. I've thought about cutting back on caffeine or energy drinks and just play with the anti-inflammatories like Alleve or Ibuprophine or anything like aspirin for the pain. I take Gloucosamine, because it's supposed to be good for aging guys like me. I've thought about Testosterone supplements, like I need any more of that, right? I don't know. I'm just looking to get an edge. I wear goggles, head band, patellar straps, ankle supports, arch supports (sometimes). I keep trying new shoes and there's the stuff I've been through -- chiropractor, acupuncturist, yoga, personal trainer and more. I told myself I was getting back into shape for Alex, because I wanted to share this game I love with him. Until now, he hadn't shown any interest. And in the last week, he's asked me twice to play with him. Fortunately, after missing out on playing with him the first time, we got into the gym and I shared with him what I could without pressuring him. He seems pretty natural at the game. He's a little awkward, but not as awkward as I had previously thought. And now I'm encouraged that he wants me to show him what I know. He's coming to me as a basketball authority and acknowledging that I can help him. Timing is everything. He wanted me to not play with the men but take him into the small/kids' gym and 'teach' him basketball. I told him I would still play the pick-up games but would give him attention afterward. I also made him a promise of one hour of practice, five days a week all summer long. He just had to promise to let me put him in a basketball program, because he needs that structure to learn. He seemed agreeable. We're still working out the details. There's some hope that a kid with the potential to be eight inches taller than me can learn to love the game I play and maybe do it the right way and better than his old man, who's still trying to learn. BLOG POST I WAS WRITING that made me late for basketball...that I'm told contains grammatical errors and other hiccups too various to mention...for what it's worth... "Divorce-gate"  ...might not be public now. working on reopening old blog posts now. |
| Tuesday is usually the day furthest removed from the last time I played basketball and the day my performance is at its worst. I would say today was no exception, except I got a little motivation along the way. I got to the gym on time, but they were already playing. My first game was a bit rusty. I could have used more time to stretch, warm-up. I didn't make a lot of bad plays, but the longer I played I realized I could not score. So, I focused on setting screens, playing defense and hustling to the ball. Dan is a particularly pesky match up. He is half a foot shorter than me and tries to take me in the post. He has post moves that involve misdirection, ball fakes and wrapping the ball behind his back and switching hands to score. What is difficult about guarding a shorter person on defense is they can get their upper body into your hip area and muscle you for space. Since I was not as limber as I could have been, I could not lower my body to his level to get back that advantage. What I did get from him irritated me. Dan chicken-winged me the first time he had the ball and went up for a shot. Just shot his elbow right into my mid-secton and pushed me out. I was angry and let it bother me, as he continued to lower his shoulder into me everytime he got an angle and gave me a shot to the body to make space before his move. It's not illegal to lay your body on an opponent to make space, you're just not allowed to push. I got so frustrated, I lunged at the ball and my head collided with his body and I looked silly as he flew past me down the floor. I finally hollered at him to stop pushing off, but it didn't really set in with him. All of this was forcing me to hustle more and make plays because I was tired of getting beat by a cheater. I hoisted a three that felt like it was going down and yelled, "Boom!" before it hit the back of the iron and caromed away. I chuckled foolishly knowing that I was not going to defeat anyone using bravado, so I took it down a notch and finished the game. Oddly, Dan and I were cool after the game. As guys, we didn't talk about the altercation and just shot around waiting for the next game to start. My play gradually got better as the games continued. I was getting to the basket, grabbing rebounds and had a few put backs. The YMCA director was on my team one game. Brent used his massive body to take out my defender and his own who I managed to trap behind him by pretending to go behind his screen and then stepping back for a three that still got challenged when both players managed to find a little daylight. I loved a good challenge with a teammate to use as my gunsight, downing a long three that took a hit from the back of the rim. I yelled "Long!" before I had to retract my declaration. "But not too long." And then it was the return of young Mike who I had an issue with as my teammate about a week ago. He was on my team one game and wondered why I had left my guy to trap the player he was guarding under the basket. There had been a mad scramble after several missed shots and I left my man in hopes of securing a rebound. So, I never left when the guy he was guarding came out under the backboard along the baseline. After he yelled, "What are you doing here," I twice pinned the ball in that players hands as they tried to pass out of the double team. I nearly got the steal but had to run back to my guy when a pass successfully broke the pressure. What an idiot, I thought. But, I ignored it and continued on. It was near the end of games and again we were begging people to stay when we managed to get the first of two games of four-on-four going. A young, lanky fella and I chose each other to guard because we were familiar with guarding one another. I'm a good post defender and he fears going into the post against me, hoping to can an outside shot or get a fast break going. But Mike decides to shout out across the court to the rest of his team, "Mismatch!" referring to us. I looked at the kid and said, "Do you think so?" He shrugged somewhat sheepishly. I was going to take advantage of that comment. I shut him down the entire game while I was guarding him. Everytime Mike had the ball I stepped back, extended my palm to the guy I was guarding as if to say, 'give him the ball. Let's see what he's got.' He could not dribble past me, dumped the ball to someone else and disappeared on the other side of the floor, away from the play. I was psyching out my opponent into passivity. And when he did get near the ball, I was extremely aggressive and kept moving my feet so he had no free space in which to room. I got behind that screen by Brent and drained that three. We trounced the other team 22-9. Mike showed his defeat like usual. He takes these games and himself too seriously, though I think I understand why. He doesn't want to be the worst player on the court, or the guy that people yell at for making mistakes. He'll fire off the first salvo. But, disrespect me and I am not an empathic individual. But, I am now. Mike played a little better in the late game and I let my guy take some uncontested threes. But, I would not let him win the game with the second the last shot. He got the ball under the basket on the fly and took his direction to the other side of the goal away from me. It was setting up so nicely as I followed. He turned and went up for a short shot rather than stopping short and putting the ball up directly under the basket, or giving me a ball fake, and I timed his leap as I leapt to meet the ball as it was released and cleanly blocked it. Now, I did not recover as quickly as he, when he picked up the ball and took a dribble past me to put up a second shot back on the other side of the hoop to finish the game. I told him exactly what I was thinking and how I was able to defend him on the play and what he could have done to avoid it, suggesting and up-and-under move next time. I don't know if he has that in his repetoire, but thought a little friendly advice to a young athlete might help. Since, I am not about winning but sharing with others a game I love. I thought about addressing Mike after the game, but he was busy chatting it up with anyone who listened. I wondered if any of them even care, because they shared so little in return. So, therefore, I feel sorry for him. I don't think anyone really takes him that seriously, but if he would stop hating on me, I might be able to enlighten him. Though, I doubt it. Young and impetuous. That was me once. I played the way I felt. I endured a lot of criticism and ignored most of it. I was a superior athlete who could beat anyone I wanted off the dribble. And if I couldn't shake them, I would rise up, outleap them and unleash shot after shot. My goal wasn't to win so much as it was to score, score, score. I alienated myself from one team after boasting a 53-point performance. Yet, if I could, I would shoot the daylights out of the ball still. If I caught fire. If my team would let me. It's not the old days anymore. I can barely get respect from a hack player named Mike. (Got to get home before the kids, since I'm writing this at the library next door to the Y.) |
| WARNING...not a well written blog post. Or, a subject of much interest to fellow WDCers. Lots of stale sports metaphors and word usage. Just wanted to journal about this so I can move on... You know, yesterday wasn't so bad. I have been in a bit of a groove with my game. And, my body didn't ache much when I got up Friday morning. Prior to leaving for the gym I felt somewhat spry, which is a testament to how old my mind feels with the use of 'spry'. I gave myself time again to prepare, warm-up. My rec specs made it through another day. I really need to order new goggles. So, I had that going for me. I had the three-pointer striking fear in the heart of my defenders again. I usually can tell, because their feet are moving quicker and closer to me on the perimeter. Their eyes seem to open wider, dilate. I pride myself in taking the pulse of my opponents while I play. Sometimes, they avoid eye contact or conversation. It's as if they hold their breath until the moment that defender needs to propel himself at you. (Just as a side note...it amazes me still that as a 'legally blind' guy I can still pick up on these signals and find lanes to run in, or catch the ball and shoot. There are days when I am hesitant because I let someone or something get into my head and cannot make a play. But, when the light is on, I just go and let instinct take over. It works well for me when I trust it. Why would I ever not trust my abilities. You get into a funk just because you let doubt creep in? Failure seems to be the greatest signifier of ability and if we let others measure us by it, we fail ourselves. More on this subject another time...) I had them chasing me on my v-cuts. I especially taunted Tyler, a heavy set young guy who was a bit red in the face and kept reminding me that I seemed to be especially quick. I didn't really draw the attention of my teammates, because I seldom got the ball for all my momentum unless I popped out on the perimeter behind a screen. On Tuesday, I even impressed myself with one particular v-cut when I took my defender with me behind a screen like I was going to pop out on the wing. Noting he was ready to duck under it and follow me, I made a quick cut back like I was going to run along the baseline into the corner all alone. He started back, but didn't know I hadn't committed my body to the motion, spun and drove my legs 180 degrees back into my original direction. I punctuated the effort after receiving the pass outside the arc and knocking down a three. That moment could not be topped by my Friday highlight. It was the second to the last game. I was getting quicker to the ball as the games went on. Friday introduced a lot of younger players, suspecting most come home from their secondary institutions of higher learning to take a break with us older guys. I got the best of my guy and his teammate on one particular play. They had been picking and rolling a lot, especially with me. I don't know if it worked out that way or if they were targeting an older, slower player in me. But, even a blind squirrel is going to find a nut eventually. We needed two baskets to finish the game. I always save myself for the final push, and I was finally ready to take on my teammate's object of attention when Tyler set a screen and the ball handler leaked out in my direction. A person knows in these situations the object is not to pass but drive and score. I popped out behind Tyler and left no room for the young fella to squeeze between us. I got down low and waited for that quick, low dribble before he attempted to drive by me through the lane to the bucket. I got him! The ball squibbed a bit on the floor after I knocked it forward. It then rolled in a semi-circle around Tyler's feet. He lost sight of the ball because he was so busy protecting himself on the screen. I stayed low and went around Tyler like I was chasing one of my youngins around a tree. I nabbed it quick and looked up. My teammate had broken away from the play and was just past mid court. I had the ball in my left hand. I can make some pretty sweet passes with either mitt. I needed a little extra hot sauce and used my right hand to help propel the pass from the left side of my body. It hit him perfectly in stride some 25 feet away before he finished at the goal with the original ball handler trailing, trying to defend against the inevitable score. I allowed myself to boast, since no one said anything. I knew it was my highlight reel and roared, "Now that's how you do it!" That's all I said. I didn't rave like Dick Weber's boy in that hilarious bowling win rant. But, I didn't try to sound modest either or back off the comment. I was enjoying picking that young man's pocket and putting that acorn in the tree for safe keeping. I also know these guys tend to be a bit braggadocious themselves, so if you show them up, you can get in their heads and soften them up. Sure enough, those picks continued to be set. However, the kid I got the best of didn't use any of them and never drove by me when he saw me cheating his way for a possible double team. I would not get my hand in the cookie jar for another treat. By keeping him out of the lane, we were able to finish that game when I received a pass on the wing from my ol' buddy Mike and drained the necessary three to complete our mission for a win. The high fives were sweet! I drained a pair of threes in the final game, but could tell everybody was running out of gas. Even Tyler couldn't finish the last game, as we begged other players not to leave and give us one more to finish the day. It would have been better if I had two days in a row with walk off threes. But, I enjoyed running around the court with Kenny, who is a month younger than me. He really knows how to use spacing well, and the screens. He ball fakes and goes under you when you overcommit to drain shot after shot. He did tweak his knee during the game, so we took a play off to watch the younger guys take off ahead of us down the court. I didn't need the rest, but by staying back I also don't allow him to slip behind me for an easy score should the rabbits turn the ball over and send the action back up court. Y ball at its best. Anti-climactic finish deserves no true end to this blog entry. Unless I think of something to add later... |
| What a difference being prepared makes for an afternoon of basketball. I remembered my Alleve, had the wife super-glue my busted rec specs so I could see, downed my energy drink at 10 a.m. and got to the gym early enough to go through my routine of stretching, shooting and thanking my maker for the opportunity to do what I love. And then, it rained threes.   The level of competition was just where I needed it. I was faster than the guys chasing me and getting to open spots to nail three-pointer after three-pointer from beyond that arc. The first pass thrown to me in the corner was deflected by a defender jumping the passing lane, but I eyed it and grabbed it and smoothly went into my shooting motion with firm determination to score and it went down. That first one is what you need to start any good day of shooting. They were getting me the ball and I could feel the love. I knew I could score. I had no doubts and no one yelling at me to pass and not heave. And heave I did! At one point, I had just scored on the previous possession, when I got the basketball on a ball screen at the top of the arc. Two guys were running at me from either side and I have a split second to decide, but my green light was on! Heave! I don't think I even saw the basket, just threw it up because everything was going in and down it splashed between the nylon ropes. Everyone was hollering about that shot, even after the game. The legs were getting tired and my defense was good but a bit lax. I did not chase as much because I was conserving energy for offense. The final game was coming up. I had gone from being on the losing team to the winners, thanks to everyone on my team catching fire. It was infectious...and enjoyable. Last game to 21 and I made one three pointer and was too tired to get myself open mid-game and just ran up and down the court to ensure the other team didn't blow us out as we fell further and further behind. But we made up ground and caught up, down to last basket to win. Only, we needed a three and they only needed a two. I was flying about on defense then and wearing myself out. I double teamed every player with the ball. I forced them into decisions, some bad. They could not get down one shot. Meanwhile, on offense, we couldn't get a decent attempt at a three-pointer. I had one look in the corner, but I alligator-armed the release. Probably because I was running on fumes. We had a guy on our team that had dominated other players early in the day, but you could tell he had little in the tank and took his time making decisions with the ball in his hands. He couldn't catch up to a pass I placed in front of him leading him to the basket -- a play that I pitch to perfection every time I find that crafty cutter who can get behind his defender. We had one more chance after getting a stop on defense. This guy I just mentioned was dribbling up the court on the left while I was filling the wing to the right just a tick behind hoping the defense would sag on the ball and leave me alone. And they did! His eyes met mine and that was all I needed to know, hitting me with a pass without hesitation he yelled, "Make that!" That is a command I love to hear. A direct order is something I cannot disobey. In perfect rhythm and stride, I went up with the ball securely held in my hands and stroked the shot like I have done thousands upon thousands of times before. My body was finely tuned and conditioned for this day and watching the ball nose dive over the rim and ever so harmoniously play with those twines was such a sweet crescendo for this symphony. There were high fives and remarks how the final game was the best they had been a part of and I had a hand in it. We all talked a bit after the game, which was good for a change. I wasn't off on my own muttering about something I was bothered with. I finally could wink and nod and walk off without regretting a turnover or that I should have done something differently or better. This was satisfying. I'll be in the gym one more time tomorrow. It will go differently, but not if I can help it. I will try to prepare. I will make sure I order another pair of sports goggles, because if my old pair break again I'll have to make do with my regular glasses, and that could be disastrous. I would give up writing, if I could have the same athleticism I had in the peak of my youth. I would not waste another second tinkering with words, if I could merge what I could do with the game now with that body of yore. What a splendid union. And now I regret that I didn't make more of it back then. But, I was young and ignorant. And, in many ways, still am now. Of course, I would not trade this for that. This is the natural progression for my talents. I am nearly ready to be finished with this game and return to the sideline pines of life, yearning for something new and exciting the way basketball took up the void in my youth. |
| There are days when I ask myself, should I be on this court playing basketball. And then, someone echoes my sentiment and I respond with my mixed feelings somewhat passive agressively. My quads felt tight today after another night of nocturnal unrest. I fell asleep on the couch for two hours before bedtime. I got to bed late, because there's no one to tell me to get my butt upstairs. I sleep another three hours before my wife's alarm goes off at five a.m. (I have to turn off because she got up before it's loud report) I sleep another hour until my alarm and my mouth is dry from dehydration, can't think straight, legs and arms feel weak and am unable/unwilling to motivate. Fortunately, I have the kids to yell at to get me through the first part of my day. After dropping them at school, I made a trip to the store for a stimulating energy drink. I don't drink it for another two hours because I need it to power me through my basketball session. I remember that I forgot to pack Alex's lunch and wait 'til the last second to do chores before I have to head back to his school with lunch bag. Up against it still, I'm off to the YMCA. I haven't stretched. I have forgotten to take my usual Naproxin and wonder all afternoon why my limbs still creak. I have little time to warm up and have to don safety glasses because my rec specs sports goggles broke last week from too many blows to the face. The flimsy eyewear prove only good for protecting my eyes. They smear and fog up and slide about my head from jostling on the court. I had two pair that I alternated during the day, but by the end of the games, they weren't much good. So, I switched to my regular glasses for the last game and it was like I had just picked up a brand new plasma TV with its high def and sweet, sharp colors. This is just part of the usual preparation for my YMCA outings. I am stiff going in before I hype up with hard rock music, pain killers and a good dose of caffeine. Then I take the floor after a little thanks for my maker and wonder how it will all go. It's usually slow going at first. By the end, I'm outplaying most people on the floor. Maybe, my rope-a-dope sucks them into complacency after I get them to wear down their legs. Either way, I like a satisfying end to my day. Unless, someone is trying to show me up. On this particular occasion, yet a different guy named Mike was highly critical of a few plays and suggested I was culpable of inept or lax play. I was not. But, who has time to defend themselves when the ball is quickly put back into play. On one occasion, I turned over the ball and heard him grumble at me only to see him run up the court and throw the ball into the hands of a defender. He had yelled, "What are you doing!" So, I yelled, "What are you doing!" Only, I was mocking him. I kept talking to the guy who was defending me that Mike seemed to imply he was the only person who didn't make mistakes on the floor. I was being passive aggressive and flying in the face of my mentor Tom Izzo's encouraging positivity for players who make boneheaded mistakes, including harshly criticizing their teammates. Mike had blamed me for not running out on a guy who was wide open on the wing when my guy was hanging under the basket. It wasn't my responsibility to cover him. He got upset when I got picked off by a screen set for my guy who was able to score. No one called screen, nor did they pick up my guy. I had to pick up opponents who broke loose from their defenders, leaving my guy to clear rebounds because I wasn't in position to box out. Mike was only seeing the end result of these plays and not the failed communication or effort of other players to help me when I was helping them. If I don't do my part and stick to my guy, I get publicly ridiculed. If I do my part and pick up the man rolling open for an easy score, I hear it because I forced that guy into a miss or giving up the ball, and then my guy gets the rebound or an open shot. I couldn't win. I took bad shots more often than I wished, so I went right down and got a turnover the next possession and scored the ball to make up for it. Didn't hear any praise. I got tired of being ignored on offense and seeing my team force the ball into coverage. The other team would get the steal and a fast break. I was in position to chase down the opponents and try to recover the ball, and I did on one occasion. But, for the most part, I just watched their blunders and thought it's their fault. I'm standing alone, wide open on the wing, and they won't trust me to make the right decision. I'm not bailing them out. Wrong attitude on my part. I had a word with myself later. I felt like apologizing afterward. By the way, we won that last game 21-20, after making a come from behind victory. There were no high-fives or atta-boys. A select few huddled about, talking about sports on one sideline. I shot around for a few minutes alone, talked to myself, got dressed and left. I wanted to make excuses about having problems with my goggles or not getting help from teammates who hung me out to dry in most of those situations. I cannot defend airballing a few shots. I knew I was tight going in and I should have been more patient with my game, instead of trying to force the action. But, I don't think I was as atrocious as Mike seemed to make me out. And then I was reminded just before I left the gym of a day I defended him. I had another player confide in me one day that I should not toss the ball Mike's way after a play when I got him the ball in the post and he failed miserably to make a play. I remember being appalled by the comment because I would not want to be shut out by another player. But, it also made me feel like someone trusts me enough to be an option on offense. I still tried to find ways to get him the ball and to bring up his confidence that day. He had a friend on the court, even if he didn't know it. Now, he victimizes me with the treatment he may have been mentally conditioned by other players to dole out. Situations like this make me feel like a code of etiquette is needed in that gym. I don't believe a philosophy of treatment of others that the Y stands for (or stood for) applies on the hardwoods during noon hour pick up games. I think we forget how to treat each other like humans who deserve respect. No matter whether you have your A-game or not. I have to uphold my belief that everyone has value and that if you are inclusive, they can do great things. Loyalty toward one another creates strong bonds. If you know what a person is capable of, you foster it, nurture it. It's possible to see that someone is having an off day, and not just because they airball a shot or two and turn the ball over. Each person has made a decision to play. They can decide if they need to check out and go home. I made the choice to play. I don't think I played badly. In fact, I played well. Especially on defense. I did make several key three point baskets, too. I think people like Mike just need to keep it positive, encourage and sit back and watch how they can affect the outcome by facilitating everyone's needs on the court. I tried to compliment him and encourage him after I had my missteps. I don't know if it was acknowledged. It is hard to hear on the court at times, or hear who is speaking when there are nine other people about. I hope I can continue to keep my composure and do what is right and ignore bad behavior the next time we play together. |
| I was looking up rookie NBA player stats tonight and noticed the low shooting percentage of these phenoms coming out of college. It made me think about how rookies always have that first season with unusually low shooting percentage compared with the rest of their career. What is this statistical anomaly I wondered before it hit me. No one sets them screens and runs plays for them. They have to work for their own shots, for the most part. It's percentages. So, it doesn't mean the team doesn't try to run the offense through them sometimes. Just not as often as a 'seasoned' veteran. I think about my own struggles some days at the Y. No one gets me the ball. At times, I become less focused or interested in the movement of the ball because I'm spending all my time chasing my guy on defense knowing I'm not the first, second or third option on offense. In fact, I'm not an option at all some days and it is a bit mentally draining. I could be wide open on the wing, ready to facilitate the offense and a ball handler sees me. You can tell he considered it, but looks the other way. I'm standing there all alone with my hands out, ready to swing the ball around the perimeter, or find a shot. Whatever reason, they don't trust. Maybe I made an error in judgment in a previous play. It's more about what you've done lately and not that they know you're capable. That pass seems to go to someone double-teamed or lobbed somewhere difficult to catch where the recipient can't even move or make a play. I see a lot of turnovers. I don't say anything. I don't want anyone to say anything to me if I make a mistake. But, I would not make the mistake of forcing the ball into difficult situations when I've got a man completely open who has taken it upon himself to walk out onto the court and risk humiliation if he cannot simply receive a ball and properly send it on its way once received. This gets away from the point I initially make about rookies. But, it reminds me I am like the rookie everyday on the YMCA hardwoods, in a place where I've become known as a somewhat deadly outside threat. People are warned many times not to leave me alone outside. I manage to find my shots most games, but when I'm drawing so much attention, you'd think someone would set me a screen. I take it as a challenge to find ways to be an effective player on the court. I hustle after loose balls. Try to get my back into my defender when a shot goes up or just crash the boards if I see a lane. It's difficult at times, because of my limited vision. I have to be certain of where I am running, so there are no accidents. I try to work in small spaces, eluding my player as much as I can and hoping I'll be rewarded with a pass. Even if it means I'm not going to get an open shot, you feel like your efforts are rewarded when you can have a few touches. It gets you in a rhythm and helps keep your mind sharp. But, I'm dealing with a lot of guys who only trust a select few on the court, most days. But when they trust me, good things happen. If a person hits me with a pass, unhesitatingly, my productive value increases immensely. I'm a better ball handler, decision maker, and shooter once I know that guy looking at me across the court puts his faith in me. I will go to war for players like that. And that's the way it should be. Unfortunately, we don't know each other. We haven't got any game plans. We're just a bunch of guys standing around the perimeter wondering who'll be the first cutter. We can only communicate with a few brief words, gestures, or our eyes if we manage to get on the same page somehow. There are days when I know my limitations. I don't hit the accelerator right away, but ease into each game gradually giving more until I become dominant by the end of the day. There are just a few days when I walk out there thinking I'm going to slay every dragon they put before me. Some of those days are killed by someone who won't share the ball. And because I let them, rather than trying to overcome. I have gone through a period where I've had to put my emotions aside and limit my passive-aggressive manner toward others who shun me. I realize after the fact that it isn't effective, nor does it do my soul any good. I feel foolish afterward. Can I help it if I am passionate? Actually, I can. Because, by limiting my verbal reactions when things transpire on the court, I am able to tell myself to go out there and prove them wrong. I remind myself that we all make mistakes, have bad plays and we don't need to judge ourselves based on the remarks or actions of others. So, today, for instance, I made a few mistakes early and got on a team with one guy who likes to dominate the ball. And if you cut to the basket and he can't get off a shot while he's driving, he'll dump it on you. You just have to be ready for a difficult pass, which isn't good for someone with tunnel vision and loses depth perception the closer he gets to an object because of the blind spots in my vision. I find myself stepping back and roaming around the perimeter and becoming a ghost on offense. But, teams change. And, by the end of the day, I was making plays and flying all over the court. Partly, because I conserved so much energy and partly because I was playing with different guys who didn't want to score the ball in every situation and gave me a look when my guy kept doubling down after I wasn't getting many looks. Some three-pointers went down. I got some significant possessions and helped my team on offense. And then with one basket needed to win, I followed my old buddy Mike down the court. He had one guy on him and nobody was chasing after me yet. He knew what to do and dropped the ball behind his back to me. Using him as a screen against he's own guy, i perfectly swished a three-pointer (even though we only needed a two) to finish the game and day on a satisfying note. It's not always going to go your way. You are going to feel like a rookie most days in that gym and feeling like you don't have a friend in the world. But sticking with it, you get your moments to shine, if you are good enough and persistent enough to have faith in yourself. Putting stock in what you know you are capable of doing without relying on the assuage of others can make you feel like a man, even for one such us I at fifty who's trying to find some self-esteem that was stripped away like layers as a youth. If you can command a little respect for what you do, those picks and plays will come for you. And if you are prepared and believe in yourself, it's possible to make something happen that will reward your efforts. There are guys on that floor much worse than me, less in shape than I am. I don't have to get down in the mouth, just because no one will make use of my talents. I do try to find myself on teams where I know there is one person who will support me, throw me the ball and offer some encouraging words. They will tell me good shot, even after I miss because they know I can make that three-pointer. But as I write this now, I realize that is not good enough for me. I have to do more than be that guy standing around the perimeter. I want to be in the best possible shape, so I can lay leather/rubber to pine and do something to make myself shine like I did when I was younger. I am an effective passer and can set people up for easy score. Especially, given that, I am feared as a shooter and can get a defender to over commit so I can use their moment away from the basket to propel me further towards my goal. Yeah, that's good. Sorry rookies. In another year, especially those who were drafted high, you'll get the attention of your coaches and players as your shooting percentages marginally go up. For me, it's day to day, depending on who I am playing with and how I can best be utilized before I know if I'll be able to make the best of my opportunities. I'm definitely at a disadvantage, because I do not command respect day in and day out. |
| Take the emotion out of your writing and what do you have? Logic? It is difficult to censor onself when trying to communicate an opinion that is intrinsically linked to your heart. As a writer, you try to separate yourself from the paste, but the harder you flail in this morass the more you're stuck. I want to shout from mountain tops, but the echos back reveal how illogical my rants can be. How else can I vindicate these feelings and be understood, even if I don't see eye to eye with others? Do I write it down and shove my musings in a drawer, so to speak, only to look at the scrawling days later and wonder what were you trying to convey? No. Write it down -- all the emotion. Feel foolish and don't self-edit those lusty words in the heat of passionate writing. Writing is part of the growing and healing process. Get it all out -- angry, sad, whatever. It's heartfelt. That's what's important. You will be judged. Criticism is the hard part of the maturation process. With a discerning audience viewing your insanity, what will they think of you if you sound like some psycho coming unglued? You don't have to blog everything, just take a little time to seperate from those feelings you have writ and use the forementioned retrospect to get some clarity. Just don't lock it away forever. You might forget why you even wrote. And, when you pull this epistle to yourself out of the drawer, is your passion still alive, or does it die in the dark like the rest of your thoughts and opinions that never truly become expressed and see the light of day outside of your skull? Be true to yourself. You know what's right in your heart as you listen to the critics or the silence. Your resistance, arrogance, defiance and the rest are what define your words in these moments. Don't burden yourself with unexpressed emotions that uncorked could breathe like a properly aged bottle of wine. Okay, I didn't know how to sum this up and have been writing and rewriting these thoughts for several days. I could use some examples to make my points clearer, but am mentally whatever the writer's version of tongue-tied is right now. |
| I had a strange feeling wash over me when I read this line... Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me. ...which comes from a yahoo story I just read here... http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/letter-freed-slave-former-master-draw-atten... http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/01/to-my-old-master.html If you have time to read the story, a freed slave is propositioned to return to work by his former master in Tennessee. It's a bid odd and bizarre to read. The freed man goes back and forth like I seemed to do with my dad as a child. You know him and you were conditioned by living with him and so you were ready to crawl right back into that den of snakes, but you want assurances that he will treat you better this time. I'm impressed with the letter and I'm sure very candid and courageous for its time. You can see the former slave is empowered now that he can raise his family somewhat comfortably after the civil war. But he would actually consider returning to the place where he was stripped of all dignity and treated more or less like a common farm animal. I don't think this story is too far removed from the way my dad treated my family, especially my mother, as I am sure growing up in his Italian family he witnessed his own father's atrocities towards his kin. So many generations it takes to separate us from the past and even shift the balance of power to the family matriarch while dad becomes duller and more dimwitted (like me) these days. I was bullied by kids and put up with it as a child, because my dad conditioned me not to respond 'or else' I would get the stick...a three foot long flat wooden cane kept above the entry door frame. We never thought to hide it, except when we knew we were really in trouble, ran for it and took it with us wherever we found safe passage to barricade ourselves from him. 'Children are to be seen, not heard' he joked. He laughed when he heard some old man down the block tied his wife to a plow and made her till the garden. He would try to get my mom's attention by whistling after her in the yard like a dog, "Here, Marget!" he bellowed. He killed family dogs that wouldn't hunt. They went out in the woods with him and never came back. He'd get another, we'd befriend the pooch, and it would happen all over again. We got back at him in the end, as I became a teenager who surpassed him in strength. I remember the night my brother and I were out past our curfew and tried to come in the house through the back door so as not to wake anyone. We didn't expect him to lynch us in the kitchen. And he went after my 15-year-old, scrawny brother. My mom tried to intervene and he hit her in the face while revealing a gleam in his eyes that seemed to say I don't want to be deprived of my wicked fun. I had put him in a reverse arm lock and listened to him mock us all. And when he started to mock me and told me things about how I wasn't a man, I set out to prove him wrong and went on a wild rampage of my own. After wrestling him into the living room, I threw him on the couch, sat on top of him and repeatedly hit him with glancing blows off his thick noggin. I seemed to be pulling my punches while yelling at him how much I hated him (though secretly I still loved him), as all he could do was look up at me in shock, maybe terror. I don't remember how it ended, but after that day he stayed away from me and my younger brother. I moved out several times and kept coming home and he never bothered me again. He still had his veiled insults and other innuendo and never gave me credit for anything I yearned validation, as I continued to grow into manhood. I eventually landed in radio and was the local news reporter and my mom told me that he said he was proud of me. And he started to converse with me more civilly and would be chummy with me like his friends. That was okay. I felt like I can do this, but somewhere in the back of my mind I didn't trust him. I couldn't be there for him during his last days, because I was so conflicted. He hadn't changed much. He took my sister-in-law to some senior citizen's dance a few years before his death and was threatening to knock the block off some other old guy. I could not see him ever changing his habits. I would always be his victim, if I let him. So, I found my emancipation away from home. Though, I returned to it several times up until 1993 before I finally got my act together and eventually met my current wife and taskmaster. I let her control me now, but she can be kinder and more nurturing than my former master. It's been 10 years since his death. I didn't acknowledge the anniversary. Forgot about it actually. That's good. But I'll never truly be free. I will always restrain myself in one way or another and not think I'm good enough. I will always be tempted to crawl back into that den with the snake and be treated like a nobody, because that was the way I was raised. Fortunately, being bullied is not an option anymore. But, it gets in my head from time to time whenever I'm in a social situation that tears me down. I've had my virtual moments in places like this, too. I pick myself up today, having the epiphany from the slave's liberating letter. A little bit freer, a little bit wiser now. Thankfully, I had my mom to take the figurative 'pistol' from my dad. I hope comparing my child self to a slave is not too racially insensitive. |
| So, I was in a bit of a foul mood yesterday. I won't get into the why or what of it, just that I had a little word with God before I went to gym asking him to help me when I start to feel frustrated and want to misbehave like I'm prone to do on most days when I visit the YMCA. As usual, I prepare at home by combining Naproxin and Ibuprophin and be sure to eat to avoid nausea. I have a little caffeine, sometimes an energy drink. Though, that's not always effective. I've sat in front of the computer or tv all morning and let the drugs help with the stiffness before I stretch. I had four hours of sleep, about one less than I usually get and about three less than I normally need to help my body recover (from what I do not know, but must be getting old ... I'm in denial about that). I dress in my tank top and shorts and pull on a t-shirt and sweats so I'll be ready to go when I walk into the building. Like I'm ever ready. But I will play without warming up if the chance presents itself. I gather together a gym bag, realizing I forgot to grab a Powerade from the basement fridge as I'm walking out, but certain that I have one still in my bag from the last day at the Y (which I would later not find until after our games were done ... forced to drink water!) and pile into the truck. Was that a run on sentence? What's my hurry? This is what it's like each day preparing for my punishment. Some days, I don't want to go and wait and wait and wait until finally I have to scramble and get everything together before remembering some stuff I forgot or will have to do later before I fire up the truck. I put on loud music, preferrably Razor 94.7 which plays the hardest rock. I'm lucky if I find a tune I like to motivate me. I usually find a commercial break (if I'm really running later, because it's no longer drive time) and have to tune into some oldies station and find ELO or EW&F, if I'm lucky. I might get a tired old Fleetwood Mac hit but never tire of the Bee Gees. Thankfully, I still have Sirius radio until April and crank "Warrior's Call" by Volbeat and pound the steering wheel as I drive. No not really. I don't remember any good songs coming on. But I sometimes get a good song to fire me up, as I drown out the lyrics with my horrible rendition. Then, after weaving through construction and cutting a few people off before getting to the exit, I arrive at the gym. Today, I sit and pull off my new winter boots and fleece-lined jacket. Pull off my tee and sweats and sit on the bench at the back of the gym and proceed with the ritual of preparation. I put on the smelly high tops I wore ouside all summer with their mud stains. My wife won't let me bring them in the house because they smell like 'cat pee'. Google what causes your feet to make smells like that and learn more about me and my diet. I fish around in my bag for my patellar straps. You think I would put them in a zipper compartment, so they're easier to find. But, I've gotten into the habit of dumping everything in and go though the hand towels, back up sneakers, bandanas, half-drunk sport drink bottles, mp3 player with headphones, goggles and more to locate what I need inside the black cavern. The bag has a hidden compartment from a side pocket that goes all the way under the bag. The zipper had broken and the compartment was pulled out and twisted and apparently hiding my last powerade. I still don't find that for another two hours. That's how much torture I was in for. Right in these moments of preparation, I was thinking I wished I had kept paper and pen in here too, because I could write about my odd preparations. I pull on my patellar straps and proceed to fold a bandana in half and then roll it into a flat cigar shape to wrap around my forehead and tie in back. I pull out my googles, stained with drips of the last struggle's sweat and wipe that off with my tank. I finish by wrapping my head with the headphones attached to my mp3 and proceed to find songs that suit my current mood: Somber. I fire up and then I cool down with some Patty Loveless. Yeah, I'm stretching...a little. Bend over and touch my toes with ease, mostly because of my long torso to short legs ratio that makes it easy. Not that I'm really that limber because I could grunt with every effort to bend at the waist. I forgot my good ball today -- the old ball. Since I have a new one that sounds like a giant racquetball when I pound it into the harder portions of the gym floor, I don't get the full appreciation of handling a good basketball. It's smaller than the regulation size it says it's supposed to be, so I can palm it and it's a little sticky making it harder to release cleanly when I shoot. But, I'm not going to complain, though I'm clearly frustrated and not getting into my usual groove. So I stop. "Thank you God for this opportunity to play. That I might be here and just have the ability to do this," I remind myself. Sometimes I whisper the words soft so no one could hear, but usually say it mentally in my head. I have these brief moments with my maker quite frequently (at the gym), though I sometimes get out of the habit. I need to remind myself that it is a privilege (even though with the family plan it nearly costs $60 a month) and I must honor Him before putting myself before all others. I was going to be patient today and I was going to mind my behavior. Little did I know how much he was going to test me. More later... |
| I wrote in my notebook today: Epiphany: I'm never going to be naive again, and I miss that. I felt more alive when I was vulnerable than the tired old skeptic I've become. Sticking with tried and true without the romance of taking a chance on something new doesn't mean you're wise but unwilling. Note to self: Take a risk today. Jaded is one word that comes to mind. Usually, when I see something unfolding, I'm already playing out the endgame in my mind. Apparently, I think I know everything about everything and I'm the prognosticator, the predictor of the future. In a world full of pundits (news and sports and around the table where you clutch coffee) people are know-it-alls. What do we know? History. History for me is from personal experience, but only what I'm willing to take on. Because I take so few risks, calculated risks, I seldom get to peer into the maw of something so great it might consume me. I don't walk on high wires between tall buildings. I'm pretty sure I'm crossing wires laid on the ground. See what I can do? See what I know about? Now, I do take risks when it comes to my limited vision. Stupidly. Like, driving at times or places when/where I shouldn't. Rollling around on the floor with the kids without my glasses on when I know I could take an unexpected blow to the head. Or, maybe, trying to read something in small print in a dimly lit office. (When am I going to start using those bifocals the doctor gave me/when am I going to figure out where I put them) Putting my words out there. That's a risk. I'm afraid I can't write the novel. I make excuses because I don't know where I'm going with a story. I struggle with character development. Well, it's going to take time, research, organization. I might have to actually sit down and write an outline. Of course, the tried and true, when am I going to find time? I need some sort of writing routine. Nanowrimo actually forces you to realize the process with writing x-number of words a day and I don't even do that. I could commit to writing like I do my daily trips to the gym. I could sit here and talk about all the trials of jogging up and down a basketball court with guys half my age and younger who can actually see what they're doing while I flail about trying to look like I know what I'm doing. But basketball is what I know and it is what makes me feel good about myself when I do play. Writing is the cruel mistress among other cliches. We write because we love the game, but we seldom get to win. And, if we do, it's a little ditty of a poem that got an awardicon here. I can proudly show off the little gems, put them all together in a collection and publish on Amazon, but it doesn't make me an accomplished writer. It reveals that I am not a risk taker. I didn't even commit my poetry to print...not even on demand. I just tell everyone I did it because my wife kept bugging me. But I'm on kindle direct publishing every day checking to see if I sold another copy. No, that's not success. That's not how you succeed. You win when you give it you best effort in the midst of the most horrible disaster and walk away from it unscathed and a little wiser. I can sip on some brew and reread my failed efforts down the road and perhaps find a bit of myself. I might learn what I was thinking, or what my shortcomings were. I might find new inspiration, or new direction, that might lead me to some new goal. I might look back at this blog entry one day and think, 'okay, that was good. Let's take it a step further now.' Or, 'I can't do any more with this. Time to move on to something new.' Life is like Flip Wilson's 33 different flavors of ice cream: chocolate and vanilla. I can find another ice cream vendor and more flavors. Stop. See that's a bad metaphor, because I guarantee no one who reads this blog has experienced the comedian the way I did growing up. But it is about understanding that even while we cannot relate to everyone, we can relate our thoughts to ourself to get a deeper appreciation of where one is as a writer. And, if you should happen to connect with someone else who reads this open diary to the world and they get what you are saying, that's topping for your frozen dairy treat. So, experience something new and exciting. Take a chance on yourself. Learn from it and hopefully grow from it. And, maybe you meet someone else who might have even more insight and wisdom to help you transcend from where you are. Transcend. That's the word. Ascension into a new dimension. Now we're writing.... Okay, now I'm done. For now.  Signed, Some guy who thinks he's really smart right now....shhhh, don't wake him. Thank you emoticons for saying/showing what I'm too lazy to express in words. Stop!  |
| You know, being 6'2" has always seemed a shortcoming for one such as I who had dreams of basketball stardom. I think my limitations were all in my head when I felt I needed to be taller, at least 6'5", to make something of myself as a professional athlete. It would have made things easier for one who did not have the necessary/desired encouragement until it was too late to find himself among the redwoods on the hardwoods. Now comes my son. He's always been a big boy and we did his height predictions early on that said he might be 6'5" when he's done growing. He's always been in the 99th percentile for height and weight. His mom and I are both tall and both enjoy basketball with the ability to teach him everything we know, but he has shown little interest so far. For me, there wasn't much else to distract me growing up. It was basketball or baseball while cartoon programs were only shown on Saturday morning. My parents made me play outside every day until the sun went down. Not the same any more. Everyone is vying for our children's attention while my little one keeps growing out of his shoes as his feet turn flatter and pigeon-toed. Recently, Alex had his yearly appointment with the doctor and we got his official measurements. I decided to do one more height predictor on Parents.com. The results only remind me how cruelly ironic parental expectations can become dashed. Though he's 5'5" (and 1/4) and weighs 128 pounds on his 11th birthday, he apparently still has a lot of growing to do. Parents.com gave me the results with the message, "Congratulations! Your baby has a good chance of being 6'10" tall." o_0 Why you gotta do me like that God? Can't I somehow impose my will for him that he might live out my dreams by being the basketball athlete I was with the potential to be something I wasn't. Even if he could play first string in college (for my ol' buddy Tom Izzo), it would be heaven sent. We know we are not supposed to force our kids into life choices, but can't I steer him in this one direction...somehow, someway? He's brilliant and could learn complex schemes: he's top 5% for his age group in math in the state of Wisconsin putting him in the accelerated program. He's an avid reader who won his school spelling bee. More than musically proficient, he's played piano since five and plays beautifully. I want a well-rounded life for him, rather than one washing dishes or raking coals from a furnace. He could have a college scholarship and the athletic life, if I could just get him off Star Wars and Legos and into a Packer's jersey and a pair of orthopedic high tops. There's your irony. Twist of fate that I should be the one pounding a ball into the floor three days a week in hopes of being in the best shape when he's ready for those one-on-one match-ups in our driveway. I'll stay the course a little longer, waiting for divine intervention. I needed someone to idolize growing up and found Lew Alcindor and Johnny Bench, but Darth Vader?! He's just made up. But isn't the idolatry of athletes also a bit fictionally driven? I'm guessing the people who market icons nowadays find real people too disappointing or ordinary. If I could just unmask all the fake ones and show him a real role model, maybe there's a chance. By the way, it's not me. I've taken him to the gym and let him watch me play. He just wants to leave 15 minutes after we arrive. If I could dunk the ball again like I did 25 years ago, I'm sure his chin would drop to the floor. But watching an old guy in goggles, patellar knee straps and bandana swishing a three-pointer doesn't cut it. 6'10?! I hope he doesn't expect any more piggy back rides. |
| Words. Put them in a sentence. Put sentences together to make a point. And, collect all those points and they point to what? Well, if words and sentences are as aimless as mine.... I think each day about what I should write. I jot down ideas on scraps of paper that disappear for days and months on end only to be rediscovered in a cloud of confusion. What was I attempting? I push myself to make a blog entry now about what I don't write. And, I think, it's because I think too much. I don't commit these thoughts to a more permanent format...like the blog...not to those lost scraps of incomplete wisdom. I don't even know if what I'm writing now is going to go anywhere. I am writing for the exercise. And what I am also learning is that I need to read. I don't pick up books. It's easier to click on a computer or television and sit and wait to be entertained. I'm not wading through texts to find hidden gems. I'm not exercising that part of my brain that could create words with some direction. Am I going to neatly tie up all these thoughts into some pearls of wisdom? Okay, this is going nowhere. I can accept that. I should write and read more. I'll take that much away from what I've just wrote. Blog tomorrow? I have to kept the flame lit. Don't let the pilot light burn out. Note to self: write a poem called "The Pilot Light". I challenge anyone reading this to try to do the same. If you beat me to it and do a better job, that will teach me to just idle on these thoughts. |
| If I don't stay in shape, I feel another injury is coming. I got off gloucosamine for awhile. I quit my diet for awhile. I was playing well up until about two weeks ago and then I really started pounding the seasonal food. I didn't play ball for eight days and it was like I was the offspring of the Michelin man and/or the Pillsbury dough boy. I couldn't get limber. Drinking caffeinated, five-hour energy kinds of drinks weren't giving me the zip I was hoping for and I knew it was time for a reality check. I played two times since Tuesday and started to feel a bit better today but really tired because all the kids here at the Y are home for spring break and the run, run, run. And I didn't get my pick of the usual slow, old fart fatties. I held my own in stretches. Played really well with my passes and defense, keeping my head until the third game when I panicked and took a three-pointer to close out a game and airballed. Looking ahead to 2012, I need to get back to the diet. Stick with the gloucosamine and get back to what I originally set as my goal...to jump high enough to dunk again. I think I'm further ahead physically with all the two steps forward and one step back approach to getting myself back into game shape. I still keep thinking of Tom Izzo, or someone from my past who used to get me pumped up to play. I wish I had someone's ear like I did then. All the time they spent sitting around building me up so I could go out there and best the opponents we played. I could use a motivator, a positive influence. I only have myself now and I keep having to remind myself to think of what they would say. I have to shut out those few who still punctuate some of the errors I make on the court and find a way to maximize on what I do right. Why am I so insecure about myself still at this age? Why do I feel like a boy among all these college aged guys? I look at Alex and think I was doing this for him, too. I wanted him to get excited about basketball the way I did. To see what he could offer physically with his size and his intelligence, the genes handed down to him by his parents, and to think he's only interested in Star Wars toys and building Legos when he's not winning spelling bees or solving difficult, advanced math equations. I still didn't get that interested in the game until I was his age and I got an eyeful of the few NBA games I would watch on the weekends. Now, there is such a huge confluence of pasttimes with modern technology that kids seldom see the outdoors unless they are really motivated by sports to be active. I guess time will tell. In the meantime, got to get my own act together. |
| Why do I bother defending myself? That was the biggest question after my tirade at the end of the last game. I was getting harrassed by the same guy for the way I played. He bugged me enough Monday that I stayed away until Friday. But the big old straw on my back busted me, and my desire to take the high road, so I let him know what I thought of his criticisms. I then began thinking about the way I play and the way people perceive the game at the gym. It's sloppy ball at the best and I'm outted as the guy who's play made our team suffer. I rather point out that his selfishness and scapegoating took the rest of us out of the game, forced to watch him play 'Kobe ball' as I would described it. Essentially its four guys committed to playing fundamental ball while one guy does whatever he wants pointing out everyone else's bad play. On Monday, I won a game with a three pointer and the next game had a perfect opportunity to seal the deal with another and missed and didn't hear the end of it from him and a Packer player who shall remain nameless. I didn't appreciate being blamed for that loss when I stepped up and took my only shot of the game and nearly won it again. It's like they didn't even acknowledge how I duped a pretty good defender in the previous game and landed a perfect swoosh to get us another run on the court together. I wasn't going to come back because my body has been breaking down from playing a lot of ball and doing a lot of workouts wiht my personal trainer. Plus, I need to stay rested as we rip apart and remodel our kitchen. But, I was tempted and now regret putting myself in a situation where I look a fool for stepping up to someone who was still ripping me behind my back after the game was over. All this business about me reaching too much? The one play that put it over the top was me trying to deny an entry pass and force my guy to the baseline. He didn't make a move but threw a pass to a cutter who made a shot and I was told that was my fault because my guy was out of position behind me, apparently planning to help me? Why? I wasn't beaten off the dribble, the guy had only one place to go, under the basket, where I planned to squeeze him and trap him further. I play solid defense and I'm smart, but no one gives me credit. If I reach, it's to bother the guy rather than take the ball away. Or, force him to make a move before he's ready. It's basic pressure basketball and nearly everyone does it. It's sloppy ball at best out there, like I said, and it bears repeating because none of us is playing for some kind of championship. He defended himself by saying he's a competitive guy. I defended myself by saying I'm all about being positive and complimenting people when they do well. Where does this mentality come from that you have to point out people's flaws in front of god and man without being positive about it. It's okay once in awhile, but you have to let people do what they know is best. I told him I appreciate he knows the game very well, but he doesn't know me or what I'm capable of. He's taking on two guys when people like me are wide open on the wing and can nail a three-pointer easily. He basically walked away from me after I went into rant after rant about these issues. If he had just kept his mouth shut instead of trying to blame me for our poor performance in the last game, I would have been alright. It made me think about how I could have been less combative and confrontational. But the guy rides a lot of people out there and sucks the life and the fun right out of the gym. I cannot get behind someone who cannot be constructive with his criticism. It's okay to let everyone do their thing and fail on their own. Most people on the court were pretty quiet while I ranted with Eric. He is a good guy and he has complemented me in the past for my play. But he should realize I do my best with what I have and I don't want to be someone's stooge out on the court. I have a right to be trusted with ball and should not be made to fend for myself out there and take the heat when something doesn't go the way he thinks it should. And, it's just a game. To me, it's been more than that at times when I look at the clock on my life. I don't want someone dictating my play in what could be my final hours with this game. (Metaphorical) This has been a second chance that God has given me and the window is closing with this body and failing eyesight. I'm doing all I can to compete on every level out there with guys who should be way better than me. But, I'm learning to bridge the gap with my mind and certain abilities with the ball. With basketball, I have some purpose. I get to recall former glory and make some memories to savor for the days when i can't play any more. Soon, I'll be relegated again to tossing up shots in the driveway with my son who I hope learns to love and learn the game the way I did. Hmm  , sound like I love the game more than my son. Should I strike that? Let it stand. I have flaws.Had a bunch of typos. Took me a long time to get around to editing this. |
| 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. |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
