Why I love the rec center

It's Saturday morning in early December, and youth basketball leagues haven't started yet, so the gym is strangely quiet when I came out of taiji class. There happens to be an old, worn-out ball in the corner, and it called out to me. Since I don't have to be anywhere else right now, I pick up the ball, take a shot. I have no legs and no touch; I haven't played in over a year, but there's nobody here but me, the ball, the hoop, the floor.

Paradise. Pair o' dice.

My first few shots are rough, but soon I find my stroke, and the jump shots start falling. A spin move comes out of nowhere, a follow shot with the left hand, and a hook off the board. The hardwood in the old brick gym resonates with the drum-like sound of the ball on the floor. I start to find my legs enough to elevate a little; both the backboard and the rim are forgiving, and I make more than I miss. Heating up now, I take off my sweatshirt, and movements become freer, ball-handling easier, limbs looser and everything more integrated as I find a rhythm. I'm hitting baseline jumpers, one, two, three in a row, bank shots from the key, and floating lay-ins.

Finally a bunch of young guys saunter in, walk the length of the court, check me out, walk out, come back with a ball, and start shooting at the other end. One of the beauties of the court: it's a two-part universe where two private games can go on simultaneously. A funny thing happened then: no longer in my own world remembering moves I learned in my Detroit driveway in the 60s, I suddenly lost my legs and my touch and couldn't buy a basket. A rational person my age would have yielded to the warning signals coming from my left thigh every time I went up, called it fatigue or an old injury or whatever, and gone home. A few more people came to stand by the door: a younger boy, a couple of teenage girls, a woman with a baby.

I kept shooting, just took a little more time to retrieve each stray rebound, and I got it back - the stroke that drops the ball cleanly through the net, the ankle-knee-hip-spine-shoulder-elbow-wrist uncoiling that spins the ball through the hoop, and the concentration to look the ball into the hole. Eureka or deja-vu or amen.

Eventually I was ready to pack it in, and the young guys were playing 3-on-3 half-court. One short-haired white kid, one Asian kid in baggy pants, four black kids in black shoes, black shorts, black Nike shirt, black head-band, black dew-rag. When I sat down to watch, they started playing full-court and gradually showed their knowledge of the game: a post-up here, a back-door, pick-and-roll, or give-and-go there, moving without the ball, a nice inside pass, good position on a rebound - even some defense. It's a beautiful game when it's played by people who respect it, themselves, and each other.

After a while, the director comes in and tells them they have to take their game downstairs to the other gym (the rec center has TWO gyms!) because it's time for the girls team to practice. Two tall, athletic, serious men enter the gym carrying clipboards and bags of balls - the coaches. I take my own bag and my endorphins and head home, but stop at the deskon my way out to thank the director for the time to play.