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My Athletic Death
8/9/05
by Clay
On the second double-screen ending in drained jumper from just inside the three-point line, I began to sense this might be a long pick-up basketball game. I was already winded, bending over gripping my shorts in a gym without air-conditining in the Virgin Islands. It was approximately 150 degrees and on the other end of the court there were three future astronauts doing push-ups to train for the heat on reentry into the earth's atmosphere. The score of the game was 3-1 and I had absolutely nothing left. But gamely I persevered.
Earlier my life had been much simpler. The girl had been the last pick and my team had been quite confident we were going to win. That had been approximately ten minutes before when I still believed my body contained an ounce of athleticism.
The ball was inbounded. Back door fake, run through double screens at the top of the key. Basket drained as I lunged in her direction and lost my balance to fall at her feet. The only thing that saved me was my ankle brace. Yes, I had on an ankle brace.
"You o.k," she muttered casting a disdainful look at my sweaty body on the hard gym floor. All I could see were her running shoes. That's right running shoes. She hadn't even bothered to put on high-tops.
I didn't bother answering. Instead I considered my options:
I chose option four. "Let's switch," I said to the two other guys I was playing with. One of the guys called a huddle. A huddle in pick-up basketball. He might as well have called a twenty as he was falling out of bounds.
"I don't want her," one of the guys said immediately, pulling off
his headband and mopping his brow.
"I don't want her either," I said.
"I'm defintitely not taking her," said my teammate sans headband,
"Besides you have on an ankle brace."
This was a verbal checkmate. Inwardly I cursed my ankle brace.
We emerged from our huddle and the ball was checked in. My thighs were actually shaking from all the cutting. I had never played a pick-up basketball game where more than one screen was allowed before. This time she didn't go backdoor. Instead she ran me through the double screen then passed and ran back through the double screen the other way. Swish. This time at least I didn't fall. The long strings on my ankle brace were absolutely still and laced.
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The woman Clay was playing against looked like this except she was 5'5, white, had on running shoes and weighed approximately 110 pounds. |
"Timeout," I said, and retied my ankle brace even though it didn't need to be retied. Sweat was running down my legs.
At 5-1 she went backdoor. One of the guys on my team hit her so hard he lost his own headband. She didn't call anything and we ended up with the ball. She waved off assistance from her teammates and refused to call the foul.
"Post," yelled my teammate without a headband. So I posted her up. She was 5'5". I caught the ball and raised it directly over my head. Twice we scored this way. I felt like the really tall guy in elementary school with no talent but who thinks he's good because he is approximately as tall as your fourth grade teacher. Then the girl stepped in front of me and stole the post pass. She dribbled out to the three point line and drained one. It was worth two points in our game, but I think that was the shot that broke our team's spirit. Headband rolled his eyes and again refused to switch men. It was 8-3 and she reeled off two more jumpers off double screens and then fed a cutting teammate for a layup when sans headband finally managed to step out on one of the screens. It was 11-3 and the game was over.
She leaned over and touched her toes. She wasn't even sweating and she looked like she could run approximately forty miles more if necessary without sweating. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had taken off for a jog to Puerto Rico. On the water.
We talked a bit as I regained my breath. No matter how much air I took in, however, my pride was could not be reinflated. It came as some small consolation that she was in the basketball hall of fame. Ok, the women's high school basketball hall of fame for northern Massachusetts.
"Bad ankle," she said inclining her hand in the direction of my
right ankle brace.
"Yeah," I said.
"My coach wouldn't let us wear ankle braces," she said.
"It turns really easily," I said.
She nodded her head in a way that conveyed her absolute superiority.
"Guess so," she said.
Now I know what playing against Reggie Miller is like. Or at least what playing against a 5'5" female version of Reggie Miller is like. That is if Reggie Miller were good enough to be a member of the northern Massachusetts women's high school hall of fame.
Somehow ankle braces are cooler when you aren't wearing them while a girl is raining jumpers on you.
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