Full Court

It's a good hurt, I kept telling myself. By now, my breathing had reduced to a heavy wheeze and I started having serious questions about my heart holding out. It'd been no less than ten years since I last jumped into a full court basketball game. Now I was paying the penalty. Sure, I run. I exercise a little. But anything outside the usual strain of my exercise routine is quick to send me to my knees and keep me popping Aleve for the next 48 to 72 hours.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o'clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and "good game's" like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented "good job" swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o'clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don't remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.