Three Point Seven

Men seem to like putting balls in holes. Stop right there, women do too, from golf balls to basketballs. Whatever bounces and rolls. We slam it, spike it and smash it as if we are beating on the planet itself. According to an eminent historian (that would be me) basketball was invented when an exasperated writer ripped his manuscript from the typewriter, crumpled it up and threw it across the room into a wastepaper basket.

Imagine yourself suiting up in colored underwear and running up and down the court 2 ½ miles every game, before twenty thousand screaming fans plus another three million watching on T.V. This is professional basketball. And you do this three times a week from October to June for as many years as your agent was able to negotiate a long-term contract.

Your career is behind you now. At thirty-seven you are an old man. You are sitting at the end of the bench watching with 3.7 seconds left in the game.

This is high drama. The game clock is winding down. The Lakers are up by one point. A foul is called, two shots. But wait, time out is called to freeze the shooter. Cut to commercials. Chevy trucks, lite beer, plugs for other shows. Back to analysis of the options. Announcers set the scene. LeBron is cool; he doesn’t freeze and sinks both free throws.

The clock doesn’t move. Now the Lakers call time out; still 3.7 seconds on the game clock. More commercials: Korean car, e-trading, car insurance. I’m thinking about how we are paying these salaries. The median annual paycheck for an NBA player is over 3.7 million. The sponsors see it as money well-spent. Go figure.

Ten minutes have passed in the 3.7 seconds. Now the  buzzer sounds, it is all over. Your teammates are aching, swollen and sweaty. You had no playing time. You are there in case two or three men were injured or the team is up or down by 37 points. Not tonight. Not ever again. You are spent. Finished.

Is everything in your dreams a roly-poly? Marbles, ice cream scoops, bagels, balloons, apples? Do you slam dunk in your sleep and dribble the moon? Does your competitive drive ever clot or your blood keep flowing, by the pint, in every vein? Is there a hoop hanging over your garage?

3.7 seconds, minutes, years. It seemed like such a short time between the all-star game and the old-timers gathering. You have lost a few inches. Now you are 73 and living like the rest of us, without adoration. Nobody notices you anymore. You didn’t like it before, so you said, but you actually did. No interviews now. Who cares what you think? The ovation in your head is distant and dim. 

Teammates have moved to the obit page. You are back on the bench, feeding pigeons. Times hang heavy. These past three point seven decades have taken forever waiting for that last flagrant foul when the clock stops.