Well getting older sucks.
I'll explain. Logan has started playing basketball. This is his second season playing, really, but the first season playing for Sacred Heart, his school's team. It's the same school team I played for back in the 1900's when I was a kid, and the fact that he's on that team and will be playing on that court where my little L.A. Gear sneakers had once tread has brought with it a feeling of nostalgia for me. I'm not exactly an athlete, but I was decent at basketball. I was never aggressive enough, but I could shoot and dribble with the best of them.
Last weekend I had the kids to myself for a couple of hours, and I decided to take them to the park in town. It was a nice, clear day, if a little chilly with a breeze. Logan's dad (I'm his stepdad, for those who don't know) is coach of his basketball team and had asked him to practice his dribbling, so we took our well-worn basketball with us to the park to practice. Abby decided to take her toy soccer ball. We walked along, with Logan awkwardly dribbling down the path, until we made it to the outdoor court that had recently been renovated. It's a full sized concrete court with fresh blue paint in the keys. Logan took to shooting immediately, and I was for the moment preoccupied with making sure Abby didn't wander too far away on the soccer fields surrounding the court. Once I made sure she was good, running around in the field beside us, I turned my attention to Logan.
"Feed me the rock." I said and held out my hands. I'm sure he had no idea what that expression meant (hello 90's slang!) but he eventually understood that I wanted the ball. He tossed it to me.
Watch this, I thought, and edged backward until I was behind the three-point line.
I shot the ball.
It whooshed through the air. My aim was on. I could see it travelling straight toward the goal, and almost nodded to myself before I saw it fall about five feet short of even grazing the rim. I frowned. Logan chased after it.
"Give me another one." I called to him after he'd trotted back from the field that the ball had bounced into. He tossed it to me again. I squared up. Took the shot.
Airball.
The wind, I thought, the wind is knocking it down.
"Again," I called to Logan, and he bounced it to me. I fired, this time using pretty much all of my arm strength, feeling like I was shooting a half court shot.
Airball.
Well this is bullshit, I thought. Thankfully I didn't say that out loud. I always prided myself on my shooting ability. That was the thing I could do. I'd gone to the county free throw competition because of my knack for shooting accuracy. I was put into games sometimes solely to shoot free throws when a technical foul was called. And now I can't even hit the bottom of the net from the three-point line with a youth basketball. My how the mighty have fallen.
I turned forty a few months ago. When I do the math, I realize it's been at the very least ten years since I've played any sort of basketball, save for shooting on the kiddie goal at home that even I, with my 2.3 inch vertical leap, can dunk on. I'd venture to say in reality it's been more than fifteen years since I've really played. I guess your body can only remember how to do it for so long before it just gives up.
My Muscle Memory: "Yeah, this dude's forty years old. He's never gonna play basketball again. No point in remembering this garbage."
I shot about ten more three-pointers that afternoon, and only rung one of them. The others were mostly airballs. I found myself hoping to just hit the rim, for crying out loud. I think it's safe to say Logan didn't walk off the court that day thinking "Wow, he's a great basketball player." He didn't follow behind me as I strutted away, wishing he could shoot like me.
On the upside, though, Logan's shooting and dribbling has gotten infinitely better since last year. Most of what I did that day was let him dribble and shoot while I nursed my bruised ego, and he played well! I guess I'm going to need to sneak out to the courts and practice by myself a little, or he'll be beating me in one-on-one by the time he's ten years old.
And I can't let that happen.
Moral of the Story: Before you try and show your kid how good you are at something, best make sure you are actually good at it.
