“Thank you, everyone, for your positive comments and support for my writing! This week I’m posting an essay I wrote called Court Sports: Some friends asked me to join their basketball, I mean, softketball, group:
“You look like a lively sort. Do you know how to play basketball?”
My mind flashes back to the years spent playing basketball on the high school team. Or rather, to be honest, years spent watching from the bench, dressed and ready to play, but being called on rarely. Such as, when the score was extremely lopsided in our favour. Then, I suppose, the coach judged an opportunity to give me some valuable experience while doing little harm. My hand unconsciously touched my glasses as I also remembered frequent visits to the optician to repair eyewear that had been sent flying by the ball, or, put another way, what was my head doing in the way of a pass from one team member to the other? Perhaps that’s why I spent so much time warming the bench.
I snapped out of my reverie, answering the woman who had approached me in our exercise class, “Yes, of course. I played on the high school basketball team.” I don’t even think I blushed at this shameless declaration.
The upshot of the conversation was that I was cajoled into coming to a try-out that very evening. Just to observe, I assured Judy, the organizer. Not to play. Just to see if I could still remember a game I haven’t participated in – well, let’s just say it can be measured in decades.
When I arrived at the court, I met a lovely group of ladies. Some were older than me, some younger, and while I think of myself as having a goodly amount of energy (hence the “You look like a lively sort”), they all put me to shame with their ability to run up and down the court and take shots from seemingly impossible distances and still sink the ball.
I guess at this point I should confess that we don’t actually play with a real basketball, one of those heavy, glasses-knocking-off, finger-breaking, too-heavy-to-lift-never-mind-hoist-high-enough-to-score-2-points basketballs. No, what we play with is called a softketball – it’s kind of like a nerfball, mushy and light but with enough bounce to dribble from one end of the court to the other. The main attraction is that it is amazingly easy to throw in the general direction of the net and possibly score two points. It’s even the correct size and has markings to make it look like a real basketball. If only it weren’t for the wonky bounce against the backboard. Goodness knows where Judy sourced such a thing.
As I quickly found out, the ball was just an accessory – something to distract us from the aerobic workout we were getting. In fact, it became obvious that the whole point was the exercise. We don’t keep score. We don’t worry too much about position on the court (or at least, I didn’t), fouls, personal or otherwise, the ten seconds to get the ball over the centre line, the 3 seconds in the key, or the shot clock rule. In fact, the only rule observed seemed to be the “Is that my phone ringing?” rule, in which case the player is allowed to take as many minutes out to deal with whatever urgent matter calls, while the play continues and her teammates soldier courageously on without her. Sort of like a penalty in hockey.
After a few minutes, I started to get the hang of the ball, made some successful passes, got a few break-aways, and even scored some points, although most attempts at the hoop went way wide of the mark or did that wonky bounce off the backboard without going in. But it felt like 16 all over again, and I walked away feeling rather satisfied with myself. Until later that day, and the next day, and the day after that.
The first game was on Monday and I have to admit my muscles were stiff until the next Monday’s outing – and that’s only a slight exaggeration. I thought I was in shape: I’m an active participant in numerous exercise classes, ride my bike, and generally take stairs two at a time. But, running up and down the basketball court sideways and backwards, and flinging a basketball, I mean, softketball, towards the basket was, in hindsight, clearly a shock to my body.
The day after our first workout, I received an enthusiastic email from Judy inviting me to join the group. I was hesitant. My body ached, I might be doing some harm, maybe I’m too old for this sort of high school activity, perhaps if the group met on a more convenient day – I was able to conjure up any number of excuses.
Then I remembered that some of the women in the group are older than me. And if they can do it, one part of my brain was saying, why can’t you? The other part of my brain was saying something that sounded more like, why hurt yourself at this point in your life? A few days later, with the two sides still arguing, Judy sent another welcoming email, saying how much the group had enjoyed having me play with them, how well I played, how much they would like me to join the group, etc, etc. I succumbed to the flattery, hook, line, and sinker.
Now I’ve been to three more practises, and I’m starting to get the hang of the wonky bounce of the basketball, I mean, softketball. My body still aches for days after. And I’m hooked.