I am not 18 anymore. Or even 22 or 25. I'm 33, almost 34, and I am reminded of that more than ever one night each year when I play in our school's annual fundraiser basketball game.
I used to be a decent athlete. I've played sports since I was a little kid and played volleyball and basketball in high school. I've always been pretty athletic, and still am for the most part. My muscle memory kicks in from years of shooting jump shot after jump shot, and I manage to shoot the ball well enough to score a few points. What doesn't come back so naturally, however, is my ability to successfully run up and down the court play after play, let alone the agility or quickness that is needed to play such a fast paced game.
For some reason, however, I walk on the court and believe in my heart that I still have the same "moves" as I once did. I convince myself I can still use a quick crossover dribble to drive to the basket and kiss a layup off the glass. I convince myself I can move my feet fast enough on defense to challenge a ball handler and possibly even swipe the ball away with one swift motion.
The reality is that I'm not 18. I'm not in high school. My quickness has long since left me. I no longer have any "moves" but instead, am happy that I can even move today at all after playing last night. I may have made a few shots last night, including a three pointer and a nice layup while being fouled, but I aired balled two shots, threw the ball away more than once, and walked up and down the court more than I ran. Truth be told, my entire body is sore today, a nice reminder that I used muscles that hadn't been used since last year's fundraiser game.
Despite the aches and pains, I still had fun. I laughed at myself and my colleagues. I got to remember why I still love the game of basketball after all these years. That's something I will gladly relieve each year, even if it means I might have to relive it in pain.
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