Hi everyone, this is Jim, the guy who cuts the lawn, and does some woodworking for fun, actually enjoying it to an unhealthy extent. It's been so long since Kim has posted, and now she's been sick in bed for a week with some strain of the flu (is that bad?). But don't worry, I'm fine, I've been carefully sliding her mail under the door and keeping the Purell bottles topped off. She's finally turning the corner (thank God cuz I've ruined all the good Tupperware) and should be knitting and blogging her fingers off before you know it. So I took mercy upon her (or stole her login; it's really a fine line there) and decided to guest-blog. Understand, this is like ghost writing, but in this 1875 Victorian, I think there are already enough of those lurking in the crawlspace. So if you've come here with the anticipation of reading about knitting or frogging or spit-joining (gross), you'll likely be disapppointed. I make no warrantee, expressed or written as to the suitability of what you are about to read. By continuing to read this, you agree to hold me solely responsible for wasting your time, to the extent allowed by law in the Continental U.S. If you don't like this, I'll understand from your silent protest. You've been warned...
Tuesday, Nov. 30, 2009 - I went and did it, I played in the town 40+ basketball, pick-up league last night. They also have an all-ages league and 30+ league. So I'm officially in the "40-to-death" bracket. Back in the day, trust me on this, I was an actual athlete, with all the accoutrement. In 1983 that merely consisted of Converse High-tops and short-shorts. I played every sport I could. So I was pretty sure I could handle hoops with the guys in this sleepy little Connecticut suburb.
I got there early to assess the competition, leaving my duffle in the car for a quiet abort if needed. But all these grey-haired guys looked harmless enough. So I laced up, bared my pale legs and paid the 4 bucks… cash. After stretching (partway down to my toes) I jogged a couple laps around the court, hoping to look like I actually belonged.
We all joked about the recent Thanksgiving feast as we lazily shot the ball around. I thought, “how hard could this be? I may not even need my A-game." Not considering the 4 years since I’d run full court, or the 27 years (and a few pounds ago) since I was in real shape. “This would be cake,” thought the 16-year-old part of my brain that used to play all day at the local boys club. After all, I occasionally get on the treadmill, armed with water bottle and iPod.
In the 40+ group, there isn't a “shirts and skins” approach (thank God), everyone seemed to already know each other and could easily keep track of the teams. I was to be known as “new guy” all night. With only 13 people, we kept switching up the team members so much that I was never really sure who was on my team. I found myself trying to remember my teammates like “guy with light grey shirt", "grey hair with goggles", "ball hog in blue shirt" and "skinny guy".
When we started to play, something strange happened. These couch potatoes could really run! I barely kept up and found myself hanging around mid-court offering low-5s to the more-productive members of my team, yelling “Good work!” or “Nice D!”, wondering if I should have upped my Lipitor for this. You see, I’ve shot a lot of baskets from the driveway, nice and easy, flat-footed, with all the time in the world, and no sweaty behemoths falling on me. Like comparing a liesurely bike ride at the park, to being a bike courier on the streets of Manhattan.
After playing 4 games, I was finally on the bench for a while, trying to sit upright. I looked at the clock and only 40 minutes had passed. This was worse than church! I think my spleen gave out after game 2. But I actually did score… once. It wasn’t very pretty. If there was a video camera, I'd have made the top 10 clumsiest videos on YouTube. But my pride wouldn’t let me leave early, and I continued to let my adrenaline (and Big Dave) abuse parts of my body I didn’t know could hurt. By the end of the night, there wasn’t a single part of my body that hadn’t been elbowed, kneed, stepped on, torn, pulled, spindled or mutilated. Not bad for a non-contact sport.
In closing this way-too-long post, I’d just like to thank Elaine, the kind nurse who propped up my head long enough for me to type this with a pencil in my mouth.
Next week, maybe skydiving! (or maybe I'll just finish the mud-room)
