After another frigid New York City winter and rain-soaked spring, my childhood friend Al—pictured above – check out the sneakers—and I resumed our annual warm weather tradition of heading over to a nearby basketball court to shoot some hoops. We’re both now hanging onto our fifties by the edge of our fingernails, neither of us can believe we’re already here, and it’s difficult to imagine us as high school kids thinking we’d still be doing this 45 years later. But there we were this morning under a bright sky making shots and chasing down errant ones like we did in the 1970s. The movements have slowed considerably and the conversation has changed, but I’m happy to say we’re still feeling fine at age fifty-nine.
SHOOTING JUMPERS WITHOUT CONSEQUENCES
By most measures, Al is probably a very typical 59-year-old guy. Humble, devoted husband and father who wears a shirt and tie to work. But a transformation of some kind takes place once he leaves the office and you put a basketball in his hands. The glasses come off, the humility stays in the gym bag. This guy Al is the pinpoint “shooter” you always hear about during pickup games, and he still leaves the ground when he shoots, especially early in the session. When the fatigue sets in later, especially after a couple of hours of getting beaten down by ultraviolets, more of a flat-footed shot takes over. Still it’s impressive for someone his age to “elevate” while shooting a basketball. I wouldn’t bet against him still shooting jumpers at age 65.
Neither of us wear basketball extras like knee or back braces, mouthguards, elbow sleeves, goggles or any of this stuff you see the athletes wear now that looks like electrical tape. It’s just not that kind of competition.
ED NORTON ZAPS RALPH KRAMDEN. TWICE.
So after some brief stretching, we’re on the court taking some practice shots. Al—and I’ve known this guy forever so I KNEW this was coming—mentions that it looked like I’d put on a few pounds over the winter months. He was right. Actually, we both did, but I was the unofficial “winner” here, depending on how one chooses to look at it.
After shooting around for a few minutes and talking about the possibility of the Knicks missing out on their primary targets during the 2019 NBA Free Agency period, we were ready to play a game. Usually the first one to ten wins, but Al, feigning empathy, suggests we play to five. “I don’t want to burn you out,” he said with an evil smirk.
Now weight-sensitive, I retorted, “There’s a fat joke in there somewhere.”
So I was already down 0-2 before the game even started.
WISHIN’ THEY WERE SWISHIN’
The first game took longer than usual. I jumped out to a seven to three lead—I should have taken Al’s advice to end the game at five—before huffing and puffing to a ten to eight defeat. The rust and lack of stamina was evident. I front-rimmed everything after the first few minutes and Al started to find his groove. I can’t even remember how long we’ve been doing this, but a few years ago the game would have ended in half the time.
But we usually start out like this, then the games are faster by the time autumn comes around. We’ll get there.
A BRIEF JOURNEY THROUGH THE 1970s
Between games we ended up only an afro, some Dr, J Converse sneakers, and some homework away from having all the trappings of our high school days. We rested under a mild sun and—consistent with how the conversation has evolved over the years—talked about recent trips to the doctor, dietary changes, retirement and contemporaries who are no longer with us. Meanwhile, Silver Convention’s “Fly Robin Fly” was blaring from my cellphone as we reminisced about the music of that era. Then someone behind one of the adjacent handball courts decided to “light up”. The resulting “fragrance” enveloped the basketball court and was reminiscent of that of the walkway leading to the entrance of our high school.
A red, white and blue basketball would have completed the scene perfectly.
HERE COME THE TWENTY-SOMETHINGS
By now it was about 11 AM and the younger set was beginning to emerge after a late night of partying or just sleeping in because they could. Right after we took the court for the second game, a couple of guys with backpacks—but no basketball—wandered onto the court and politely asked if we would play against them. These guys looked to be in their early twenties at best, and both were well under six-feet tall, Al and I are both well over six-feet tall.
Later in the summer I might have gone for it, but chasing after a couple of twenty-somethings at this point would have been a disaster. We could have easily split the teams up, but just their presence on the court would have made the action a lot quicker than I was ready for.
Never mind.
COUNT THE BLESSINGS, TAKE A NAP
After Al won a couple more non-competitive games, it was closing in on 12 noon. We’d completed yet another two-hour session in slow-motion, though former gym rat Al looked as if he could have gone for another hour or so. I went straight home and took a shower and a nap, though I’d have preferred not to do it in that order. No injuries, no fights, just a little trash-talking and good, clean fun combined with a light workout.
Just another reminder that being able to rise early on a sunny, low-humidity Saturday morning at age fifty-nine to play ball with a friend of forty-eight years, then go home to our families only means we have so many blessings to count.
