Shooter!

“Look, there’s shooter,” somebody called out as we were matching up, getting ready to start the game. I realized, sadly, they were referring to me.

Shooter? I’m anything but. Most of my mid-range jumpers bang off the rim or, worse, come short of hitting the rim. I swear a lot when I miss a shot. The f-word, usually. I swear too much. I don’t know where I got it from. Probably all that grunge music I listened to as an adolescent. I blame Kurt Cobain. Kurdt Cobain, too.

It’s gotten to the point that the ball gets passed to me, and the defense backs off, daring me to shoot. That’s not a great thing for the game I try to play in a way which involves creating space to get the ball to open (and better) shooters or streakers.

I’ve started driving when my defender gives me room. Driving usually opens up lanes for players to cut to the basket, and then I can make a pass. I even hit a contested layup the other day. Take that, shooter.

***

I’m a few months into playing noon basketball at the field house on the west bank of the University of Iowa. I can only play on Tuesdays this semester, because I teach on Thursdays. The experience has been, in a word, humbling. Shirts and skins, and I’m often skins. I’m making sense of playing basketball in this 44-year-old body.

I typically get to the gym early. Shoot for ten or fifteen minutes. I can hit 75 perfect of my shots in practice but, come game time, I clang and clank my way to glory or, as it were, infamy.

It’s okay. I hold my own on defense, hustle after rebounds and loose balls, and look for angles to pass the ball to teammates. And I keep taking open shots. Maybe the shot will come. Maybe the speed I had when I was younger will return. And maybe I’ll lose some weight and regain my Brad-Pitt-esque physique. And maybe it won’t and maybe I won’t. And maybe that’s okay. I’m making some peace with my body these days. And I really do love running up and down the court, sweating, and playing noon basketball.

***

I had to run to a meeting directly after basketball the other week. This meant, unfortunately, I had to make use of the shower in the locker room. I have a healthy anxiety about showering in front of and with my peers. An unhealthy anxiety, I guess. This likely has something to do with the trauma of changing for gym in middle school. I was a chubby, sensitive kid. Many of the other middle school boys found me an easy target.

Sensitivity and chubbiness be damned, I flopped my way to the locker room to shower nakedly after basketball the other week. Showered quickly (but not too quickly), and made my way to the next meeting. It was totally fine. Take that middle school bullies. Shooter? Sure. There’s nothing about that comment that has to hurt me. In fact, it makes me laugh a little. Shooter.

The power I have given others to hurt me over the years is astounding. The power we give others to hurt us is astounding. I’d rather enjoy a nice game of basketball, take a quick shower, and be on my way to more moments of being alive.