The days of fast breaks, floating jump shots, and deft slides past defenders
are but a faint memory.
Experiencing the rush of sailing through the air while others fight to contain,
grabbing the errant shot with sweeping upward scoops.
Feeling of the ball bouncing ever so gently against my hand,
while defenders looked overwhelmed at what was next.
A game played since very young, a mantle of minor fame.
After a half century of wear, approaching the gym is a nasty tease,
daring me to enter, knowing my failure awaits.
The taunts bellow in my head. You can still do this I hear.
Young, lean, tall, flat bellies run amok about the court, the smack easily heard over
new shoes squeaking and the thumping of balls on the court.
Who wants the old guy, no you take him…like the last kid picked at kickball,
is this who I’ve become?
The first sprint down the court reveals a problem that can’t wait,
Why can’t I can’t breathe?
I dribble toward this young buck so confident of himself, so unaware of my past,
prepared to teach this punk a lesson.
This day will not end well to relive past glories,
the sad reality of truth sets it’s teeth firmly.
Maybe this is a game better watched from a lazy boy.
At least my dog thinks I’m still awesome.
