My skill at basketball is worse than mediocre on offense. My defense has been called tenacious by my friends and dirty by my opponents. Doctor Nick has warned against any further play.

“A man in his late 50s should know when to stop.”

Sound advice, except I love the feel of the basketball leaving my hands. The unseen arc targeting the rim. The ball dropping through the net. The secret sensation of success. Even better when competing against other players.

It was cold this afternoon. Low 40s. I’ve played in colder weather and headed over to the basketball court on Dekalb Avenue. No one was in the playground. Not for basketball. Not for baseball. Not even for skate-boarding. I shot solo for an hour, hoping for someone to ask, “Mind if i shoot with you.”

No one.

Before I left the States in 2002 the basketball courts were packed with young and old. Something happened in those six years to denude the city of street athletes and my friend Shannon Greer explained, “All the kids are inside playing video games and the old geezers our age are scared of getting hurt.”

“But no one playing?” There should have been one pick-up game.

“I rode around to six courts the other day without finding a game.” Shannon is a much better player than me. He once beat me only playing left-handed. It wasn’t even close.

“So street ball is on the edge of extinction?” I have played basketball over 45 years. The game has given me great joy. when I was lonely, I played basketball. Break up with a girlfriend. play ball. Hung-over. Sweat out the poisons playing basketball. It’s your birthday. Play ball to celebrate.

Someone out there has to feel the same way and I’ll keep going out there until I find them.

For a related article click on this URL

https://www.mangozeen.com/2009/04/11/new-york/shannon-the-easter-bunny.htm