Seventy-seven years ago (or thereabouts) I fell off the wagon. Well, a wagon. Zipping down a neighborhood street with a steep descent, I tumbled out of my cherry red Radio Flyer and cut my arm pretty bad. Turns out that handle doesn't make for a good steering wheel. Nobody was around to see me tumble, although I guess my sister was, or may have been. I told her to give me a push at the top and that's exactly what she did, watching me speed down the embankment and around a sharp corner before I lost control. By the time I brushed myself off and lumbered my way back up the hill, dragging that damn faulty steering wheel handle, I could see she was nowhere to be found.
My sister raced home before I took the spill, probably telling our mother what had happened. True to her stoic German form, mom was neither worried nor upset. As I'm whimpering and clutching my arm walking through the door, she utters the same phrase she always said whenever my sister or I would get hurt when we were kids.
"Serves you right."
A few decades later, the scar from that accident is still somewhat visible, just above my left elbow. I remember this moment because it was the very first time I felt something so physically painful. On top of that it was also the first moment I had no one to comfort me immediately after. Nobody to help me brush off the tiny pebbles in the road now stuck to my skin and shirt, nobody to hastily help with the wound, nobody to help me drag all my belongings back home. It was all on me.
My very short-lived basketball career was honed on a poorly-made court at a park on Webster Street and 10th Avenue. I say poorly because the court was anything but level, with weeds sprouting up through cracks and rusty basketball rims that were often missing nets. On summer mornings I would scoop up my red, white, and blue basketball, hop on the bike and pedal up to the park to get some shooting time in before all the local hoopsters and sometimes hooligans took over the court for the rest of the day. I was often early enough to get an hour or two in by myself, just enough time to feel good about my goofy-looking jumpshot and silly spin moves in the paint.
One of these early summer mornings, my summer shooting routine was interrupted by a visitor. At first I was somewhat annoyed that I now had to share this space with someone. This was my time in the sanctuary, and mine alone. I thought about just leaving the park before he got to the entrance, but something was telling me to suck it up and stick around. It's a public park, dummy. And there's two baskets anyway - one for each of us. So I scooted my game over to the back hoop furthest away from the entrance he came dribbling his ball through. He couldn't have been any more than twenty-five years old, sporting cross trainers and a t-shirt tucked into some shorts. He tosses in a few layups and close shots, then heads out to the three point line on the left hand corner. Twenty feet away and rattles the shot in. Gets the ball, dribbles out a few feet over for another three. Bang. Same thing at the top of the key. Bang, again! Works his way all around the three point arc and he hits all six of his shots. Rotates back around the perimeter and makes five of six. This guy's incredible. And he's making it look so damn easy. Here I am heaving the ball with my puny arms off my lanky shoulders from so far away, and this dude is simply flicking the ball up and in like it was nothing.
Just as I had not hoped, this sharpshooter inevitably strikes up a conversation with me. LEAVE ME ALONE YOU CREEP I'M ONLY TEN. But, I never said that. He seemed to enjoy just talking basketball, like who my favorite players and teams were and all that jazz. Turns out he was a coach at some school I can't recall, and through his persuasive words got me to run a few practice drills with him. Fun! We're dribbling and shooting and running up and down the court while he's shadowing me giving up words of encouragement. For a little bit, I thought it was a good, fun workout with someone who knew the game.
But then, the one-on-one playing commenced. The very thing I wanted to avoid by coming to the park super early in the first place. I get the ball first. His footwork is something I never saw before against players my age, so he's stopping my every drive to the hoop pretty easy. I try backing him down into the paint to get a closer shot off, but he knocks the ball out of my hands the first few times I try it, then blocks another attempt. The last time I try to simply race on by him, but he pops the ball away yet again. The ball bounces down the opposite end of the court. I chase after it, but unlike the previous futile attempts, this time he chases after the ball alongside me. Well, shit. Now I have to really go and get it. Not thinking at all (do I ever?), I dive almost headfirst toward the ball to save it from going out of bounds.
I practically tear my left knee open on the hard asphalt.
Blood trickles down multiple creeks along my shin, but I want to keep on playing. The stranger-coach person helps me up. "Are you okay?" Yes, I'm fine. "You're bleeding pretty bad man, let me go get a towel. He races over to his gym bag parked over by the basket, soaks it in a faucet, and hands it to me. "You sure you're okay?" Yes, I'm good! Let's keep playing, I say as I mask the pain by playing like a gimp on one working leg. After a few more embarrassing possessions where I can't score a basket, I tell him I had somewhere to be by ten. This was a lie, of course, but I just couldn't take it anymore. I could barely walk, and now had to pedal my way home with a bloody knee and a stranger's soaked and ruined t-shirt pressed up against it. Stranger-coach person and I shook hands goodbye and never crossed paths again.
Over the past few weeks I have been dealing with some unfamiliar shoulder pain. After some research and consultation with a chiropractor friend, I think I managed to discover the issue at hand, and have been taking measures to ensure it goes away. It was a pain I've never endured before, but managed to suppress it without the aid of strangers or my mother telling me it's probably arthritis. While there are still somewhat visible scars on both my knee and forearm from those injuries in my past, I'm reminded how fortunate I am to not have suffered worse fates than these random bouts of ouch.
My sister raced home before I took the spill, probably telling our mother what had happened. True to her stoic German form, mom was neither worried nor upset. As I'm whimpering and clutching my arm walking through the door, she utters the same phrase she always said whenever my sister or I would get hurt when we were kids.
"Serves you right."
A few decades later, the scar from that accident is still somewhat visible, just above my left elbow. I remember this moment because it was the very first time I felt something so physically painful. On top of that it was also the first moment I had no one to comfort me immediately after. Nobody to help me brush off the tiny pebbles in the road now stuck to my skin and shirt, nobody to hastily help with the wound, nobody to help me drag all my belongings back home. It was all on me.
My very short-lived basketball career was honed on a poorly-made court at a park on Webster Street and 10th Avenue. I say poorly because the court was anything but level, with weeds sprouting up through cracks and rusty basketball rims that were often missing nets. On summer mornings I would scoop up my red, white, and blue basketball, hop on the bike and pedal up to the park to get some shooting time in before all the local hoopsters and sometimes hooligans took over the court for the rest of the day. I was often early enough to get an hour or two in by myself, just enough time to feel good about my goofy-looking jumpshot and silly spin moves in the paint.
One of these early summer mornings, my summer shooting routine was interrupted by a visitor. At first I was somewhat annoyed that I now had to share this space with someone. This was my time in the sanctuary, and mine alone. I thought about just leaving the park before he got to the entrance, but something was telling me to suck it up and stick around. It's a public park, dummy. And there's two baskets anyway - one for each of us. So I scooted my game over to the back hoop furthest away from the entrance he came dribbling his ball through. He couldn't have been any more than twenty-five years old, sporting cross trainers and a t-shirt tucked into some shorts. He tosses in a few layups and close shots, then heads out to the three point line on the left hand corner. Twenty feet away and rattles the shot in. Gets the ball, dribbles out a few feet over for another three. Bang. Same thing at the top of the key. Bang, again! Works his way all around the three point arc and he hits all six of his shots. Rotates back around the perimeter and makes five of six. This guy's incredible. And he's making it look so damn easy. Here I am heaving the ball with my puny arms off my lanky shoulders from so far away, and this dude is simply flicking the ball up and in like it was nothing.
Just as I had not hoped, this sharpshooter inevitably strikes up a conversation with me. LEAVE ME ALONE YOU CREEP I'M ONLY TEN. But, I never said that. He seemed to enjoy just talking basketball, like who my favorite players and teams were and all that jazz. Turns out he was a coach at some school I can't recall, and through his persuasive words got me to run a few practice drills with him. Fun! We're dribbling and shooting and running up and down the court while he's shadowing me giving up words of encouragement. For a little bit, I thought it was a good, fun workout with someone who knew the game.
But then, the one-on-one playing commenced. The very thing I wanted to avoid by coming to the park super early in the first place. I get the ball first. His footwork is something I never saw before against players my age, so he's stopping my every drive to the hoop pretty easy. I try backing him down into the paint to get a closer shot off, but he knocks the ball out of my hands the first few times I try it, then blocks another attempt. The last time I try to simply race on by him, but he pops the ball away yet again. The ball bounces down the opposite end of the court. I chase after it, but unlike the previous futile attempts, this time he chases after the ball alongside me. Well, shit. Now I have to really go and get it. Not thinking at all (do I ever?), I dive almost headfirst toward the ball to save it from going out of bounds.
I practically tear my left knee open on the hard asphalt.
Blood trickles down multiple creeks along my shin, but I want to keep on playing. The stranger-coach person helps me up. "Are you okay?" Yes, I'm fine. "You're bleeding pretty bad man, let me go get a towel. He races over to his gym bag parked over by the basket, soaks it in a faucet, and hands it to me. "You sure you're okay?" Yes, I'm good! Let's keep playing, I say as I mask the pain by playing like a gimp on one working leg. After a few more embarrassing possessions where I can't score a basket, I tell him I had somewhere to be by ten. This was a lie, of course, but I just couldn't take it anymore. I could barely walk, and now had to pedal my way home with a bloody knee and a stranger's soaked and ruined t-shirt pressed up against it. Stranger-coach person and I shook hands goodbye and never crossed paths again.
Over the past few weeks I have been dealing with some unfamiliar shoulder pain. After some research and consultation with a chiropractor friend, I think I managed to discover the issue at hand, and have been taking measures to ensure it goes away. It was a pain I've never endured before, but managed to suppress it without the aid of strangers or my mother telling me it's probably arthritis. While there are still somewhat visible scars on both my knee and forearm from those injuries in my past, I'm reminded how fortunate I am to not have suffered worse fates than these random bouts of ouch.