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?
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Oh and do I remember many of hours of Garbage ball. We did have our flash in the pan moments. We were never a Rap Curry but we thought we had moves. Or at least I always had "The Mehlmann" head fake and throw it up towards the rim. Some nights I was dead on and others I was just DEAD. Great read Jim really enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteDon't you remember that the best way to kill a book is to have a teacher assign it? Perhaps signing you up for wrestling was our parents' subtle way of keeping you from being a school bully.
ReplyDeleteNot that you had the chops for it.
While you were wrestling, I was signed up for basketball, although what I did was never mistaken for playing basketball.
Mom and Dad faithfully followed your wrestling which involved getting all of us up, even me, before the sun rose on Saturday mornings to drive to some school or rec center where we could hang out for hours upon hours until you had your three to nine minutes of glory on the mat.
Mom and Dad volunteered to run the snack stand at your home meets. (In reflection, after my own son's one year of wrestling, it may have been so Mom didn't have to endure watching her baby get mauled by someone she was sure weighed fifty pounds more and looked to have gone through puberty a good four years early.) But our parents didn't run the snack bar the way most of us would today. They never ran to a food warehouse to pick up huge bags of Swedish Fish and Pepsi. No, they made homemade donuts and cookies and heaven knows what else between Thursday and Friday so our snack bar was better than the other hosting clubs'.
At my basketball games, I was no star. There was no one I blocked, no foul shot I threw. I felt it was my role to step out of the way when a ball came in my direction, certain that no one would confuse me with someone who could walk and bounce a ball at the same time. I know you can only imagine, because Mom and Dad didn't make you come. In fact, Mom and Dad were truly embarrassed by my ballerina twirls when someone on our team got a basket or recovered the ball. So embarrassed, the two of them only came to three of my games. Total.
But at least I never had a coach demand our team to do six inches or sweat that last half pound off.