Err Jordan

Something persuaded my father to sign me up for wrestling instead of basketball when I was seven years old. In lieu of running fast breaks, draining Js, and denying weakass shots in the paint, I donned a blue onesie, endured mat burns, and suffered endurance contests of six-inches, a cruel coach’s drill designed to build and strengthen abs. Lie flat on your back, feet together. Lift your legs until your ankles are six inches off the mat. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Aaaaaaaaaaand down. Once you collect your breath and convince yourself you’re not vomiting, do it again. Repeat until tears fall.

Wrestling also required early morning jogs, which is undoubtedly one of the reasons I still loathe both early morning and jogging. If that didn’t suffice, it also started pre-pubescents to diet so we could hit our weight classes. I’m sure some good came out of it, but I suspect I’ll have to ask St. Peter what good that was, as little of it has been revealed in this earthly life.

These days, there aren’t many calls for wrestling. Sure, I tackle and roll with my boys on a regular basis, but I’ve not yet had to apply a half-nelson, cradle, or arm bar. My career in MMA was over long before it ever began.

Conversely, I play basketball twice weekly. And weakly. I possess the shooting touch of a Howitzer, and my ups continue their downward trend as gravity holds me closer to the floor than it used to. Not that I was ever a sky force to contend with; I’ve only touched rim with the aid of a trampoline. I see lanes well enough and my sheer mass is enough to box out anyone who doesn’t have the audacity to outjump me. Mostly, I set a mean pick and roll. Minus the roll.

Once a year, I develop a superpower, in that my reflexes, my perspective, my touch, my vision, and my entire game elevates a dozen notches. Suddenly, I can pop shot after shot from beyond the arc and my baby hook doesn’t wet the bed. It reminds me of NBA Jams, the video game where your players can be “ON FIRE!” after hitting three consecutive baskets. It’s a ridiculous, glorious feeling and if I knew how to bottle it, I’d go pro. Yes, even at 39.

Sadly, those fleeting moments are rare. Worse, I’m such an abysmal shooter the rest of the time that I eschew jacking up bricks with the hopes of starting a new miracle streak. As Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” What he didn’t say is “If you only take one shot and you make it, you hit 100% of your shots.” Which I do. Often.

Sometimes.

Occasionally.

Twice.

Anybody need me to set a pick?