thirteen

Came home from last night's run so disgusted with myself that I was ready to throw my shoes in the trash, burn all my basketball clothes, and NEVER EVER pick up the pumpkin again. Two buckets last night --TWO -- along with some VERY ugly misses, more heinous turnovers than I can count or care to describe, shit defense...the works. The four points came on a little left-handed jump hook in the center of the lane, which literally bounced on the rim three times before finally falling through, and an easy open jumper from the right elbow -- not unlike the handful of others I missed from the exact same spot both before and after. As for the rest: bricks, air balls short, or off the front rim, wide left off the side of my hand, flat off the back rim...if there's a way to miss a shot, I used it. But at least I didn't have anything blocked. At least they were all in theory good, open looks.

My knees remind me almost daily that I'm rapidly approaching (if not already past) the age where it is time to pick up golf clubs and begin working to screw up my back. I know I would be much better off simply walking the dog or riding my bike, swimming, hiking, cross-country skiing. But I keep looking around at the guys older than me who are still out there running the floor, and I think that maybe I have a few more runs in me still as well. But God my knees ached this morning. And my pride. And if that weren't enough, I also jammed the pinky on my left hand, which has now become a lovely shade of black and blue. That'll teach me to be the thirteenth guy to show up at the game, on the thirteenth of the month....