A Silver Lining In Every Turnover

A sad thing happened the other day. And no, I'm not talking genocide in Darfur sad, or even the death of Tanya Harding's bodyguard sad. I'm talking FO REAL SAD: I realized I am old. And on top of that, I realized I suck at basketball. I mean truly suck, like mac marston suck. So in this my 27th year, with 28 only a few months away, I've officially become the guy I laughed at merely a decade ago, winded by a simple jog, self-satisfied with a made layup. In what perhaps might be my last venture into competitive sports, my intramural team, the Young Brothers, took an ungodly L to a bunch of acne faced college freshman. Yet while my athleticism has gone down the shitter, my propensity to start fights has only improved with age. What better way to compensate for repeated airballs then call an overweight teenager a fat fuck, a tall/skinny man a piece of shit, or an under-armour clad hebrew a bunch of inflamed sticks. I'm so ashamed. What's worse, I'm a knee brace away from calling every stare a foul and walking the ball up the court for a top of the key check-ball. My vertical might as well be my ten inch penis - simply nonexistent. If I so much as get off the floor on my jump shot it's an accomplishment of epic proportions.

So where do I go from here? Give up playing a game I very much enjoy? Stop looking up to teenagers who weren't even out of diapers when I was being Bar Mitzvah'd? Buy a glove, polish my ball, and turn my attention to official old man sports where bald is cool, fat is expected, and glasses are encouraged? In some respects, I've embraced this whole aging process. I mean by default I have a built-in reason for being out of shape, forgetful, and constantly in need of taking naps. On the other hand, I'M FUCKIN 27. True, if I was a tennis player I'd be washed up. But if I was an incredible basketball player, I'd be entering free agency for the first time (or be an Israeli freshman on UCONN), ready to collect on a serious pay-day, or trying my hand at a second career in rap. The fact remains, this is no time to feel sorry for myself, but it's also not a time to hop on the treadmill and work towards getting fit. So, if those are my options, I'm choosing whatever is behind door number three. And door number three reveals taking count of everything I have to look forward to while making up stories of past athletic success.

In no time I will be a law school graduate, which means I have wasted both years of my life and plenty of money...all at the same time. It means I have also achieved commendable levels of confusion, and had the opportunity to make fun of people to their face who otherwise I likely only would have teased behind their backs. So with a law degree, a new love for Carolina bar-b-que, and a new team to root against, things are looking up. Fast forward a few years, and I might even get married to one of heaven's angels, have sexual intercourse, and produce a few kids of my own . Moreover, the Phillies are winning the fuckin World Series sometime soon. I'm talking "another Cincinnati Bengal gets arrested" soon. Now that Howard is toweling off with 100 dollar bills and Brett Myers has spent an entire off-season teaching his wife a lesson, not only should the NL East beware, but the majors at large should take note: the Phightins' mean bidness.

With my early 30s behind me, surely, mid-30s will bring even greater pleasures. By then I should have adequate reserves to waste in depressing/thrilling places like casinos and strip joints, all the while managing to piss my wife off and offend my relatives. In no time my obligatory midlife crisis will be upon me and I will have a reason to buy a fancy car, throw on a hair piece, and start wearing Hawaiian shirts to work. You think being able to hit a jump shot at 27 or tap the backboard on a made layup is worth more than cashing in on my right to live vicariously through my child's domination of 7 year old soccer? If so, you crazy like a muh'fucker. Wait to my kid is being written up by Tom Amodie in the Chestnut Hill Local for scoring 8 goals all while wearing shinguards over his jeans. You just wait.

So I guess this is my form of therapy. Let this serve as a reminder to the collective reader. When the passage of time has you down, and you find yourself thinking about shit that you could do ten years ago that you can't even stay awake long enough to consider now, remind yourself what the next ten or fifteen years will potentially provide. And I'm not one to assume a sunny disposition on my future, but a brother can dream...even if that brother is creeping on thirty and feeling like sixty. When your look down and your balls have apparently dropped almost six inches below your shaft, don't cry! think about celebrating a Sixers championship in ten years, and the election of our fair city's new mayor. When you start feeling ashamed that your favorite college basketball player is the son of your once favorite R&B singer, shun that shame and start telling your kids and their friends lies to make you look cool. And when things are really looking down, smoke some weed with your cleaning people and pretend you are black.