My wife has forbidden me from dunking a basketball anymore. The reasoning behind her request is simple: I end up hurting myself. Not always. But sometimes. The odds are not in my favor. Each year earth orbits the sun, the percentages plummet further. Nosediving like America’s current economic situation.1
Defying gravity momentarily + the impact of returning to earth where the feet of men rests is not kind to my lower back or hip area any longer — not at my age. Not that it ever likely was, and for that, I now pay. Step foot on the basketball court where I grew up playing2 and all questions as to why I now have a bad lower back and hip are answered. It’s old school blacktop. Thick. Full of chunky rocks and pebbles. A killer of shoe tread in all its forms.
Charley Horse: Incoming
In late fall and winter, I heed Allison’s advice. Partial credit? Dunking has turned into a seasonal activity for me over the last five years. If the weather is cold, jumping up ten feet in the air is a big no-no. My tendons, ligaments, muscles, and bones need a certain degree of warmth lest I injure myself some kinda good.
But when the weather is balmy, when the seasons are starting to change or in full bloom, my momentarily lapses in judgments intensify. The sun casts its rays over me. My body feels good. Nice and warm. My blood is pumping. My calves are firing on all cylinders. So, being the rebel I am, I don’t always take my wife’s sage advice.3
Which is why yesterday, on an unusually warm March day that reached upwards of 73 degrees, I caught a charley horse in a place I didn’t know you could catch one: my gluteus maximus. Specifically: my lower right cheek. I didn’t even know I had enough meat on my narrow a-double-s for such a thing.
The decision to dunk was impromptu. My daughter had walked outside with her phone. I saw an opening. Her phone is tethered to her hand. But she’s outdoors. How can I find a way to interact with her while she is holding her phone yet outdoors in the natural world? If I tell her to put down her phone, she’ll balk at my suggestion — because I’m her parent, duh — and walk back inside.
“Take a video of me dunking,” I said laying the bait. “I haven’t done my birthday dunk yet this year. And it’s nice out today.”
“Okay,” she said.
Hook, line, and sinker.
My daughter likes making short video clips for her amusement and ours. No, she doesn’t post them on social media. Social media is off limits in our house. We haven’t crossed that burning bridge yet, and we don’t plan on it any time soon. I’m with Jonathan Hadt on the subject.
I go up for a dunk. The attempt is lame. Hmm, need to knock the rust off. It’s been almost five months since I last dunked in early October. The dunk goes in but it’s mediocre for my tastes.
I go up again. A rim grazer. Reminiscent of my first dunk almost 30 years ago now. Maybe my age is finally catching up. No, I tell myself, hushing that defeatist nonsense. Just need to get warm. Been a while. Third time’s a charm.
“Alright,” I say. “Last try. Make sure you capture it.”
Complete flat tire.
Determined, I go up again immediately, unaware the camera isn’t rolling anymore. That my daughter has stopped recording.
“Sweet mother of pearl! What a dunk,” I think to myself as I float down from the sky.
Then my feet touch earth. And a spasm grips my right ass muscle. I drop to the ground. What in the hell?
“What’s wrong with you?” my daughter asks.
“I think I pulled my ass,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Eww,” she says, more grossed out than concerned.
“Ahh!” I stumble to lean against my car parked in the driveway. The charley horse is trying to take not only my ass, but my soul. I lean back off the car and one-leg it toward the house.
The scene is ridiculous. I’m grabbing hold of my behind. Limping to the door. I don’t know if any of my neighbors see what is unfolding before their eyes. If they did, they may have thought I was hit with a bout of the runs. But no runs. Only walks. Walking my spasming behind to the front door and toward a bed to lay down.
I thought I saw a touch of empathy in one of my wife’s eyes as I moseyed on past her in the kitchen. My slow motion sneak-by was doomed from the moment of conception. But then a tinge of disappointment mixed with a splash of frustration entered her other eye. An emotional competitor. Who will win out? The answer:
“Did you just dunk?” she asked, shaking her head.
“I did. I think I pulled a butt muscle.”
“I told you to stop dunking.”
“I know,” I say in pain. “But it was nice out. Can you grab me an ibuprofen?”
A few minutes later I realize, thankfully, I didn’t pull anything. It was just a cramp. A series of spasms. Deep into the tissue. A good old charley horse in a place I’d never once in my life gotten a charley horse before.
My wife comes in to check on me.
“Remember this next time you get the idea,” she says. “No more dunking.”
“No more dunking,” I repeat.
“Today,” I silently think.
“What was that?” Allison asks.
Did she just read my mind? Are we telepathically connected now?
“No more dunking,” I say.
(Today)
Does this story resonate with you?
Are you the spouse of a stubborn man who still thinks he’s in his late teens or early 20s? What’s something your significant other does that makes zero sense whatsoever, yet they continue doing? Why doesn’t he just grow up, you may think. It’s a good question; and my fair lady, it’s the age-old question in which no one knows the answer — not even us.
There’s a reason, after all, that one of the strongest memories I have of my dad is of him pulling his hamstring. He was trying to relive the glory days of his high school baseball playing career — only he was playing weekend adult league softball now. He’d rounded third, hauling freight home trying to beat a throw in from the outfield. And wham! Tore his hammy. Black and blue line right down the back of his leg. It was quite the sight in those cut-off Levi’s shorts he used to sport.
Those were some short shorts.
Footnotes
- Don’t worry though. Dear Leader has said it’s a “transition period” and not an intentional sabotage of the economy to restructure greater wealth into the hands of the few. ↩︎
- In Phenix, Virginia, I was born and raised. On the playground is where I spent most of my days. Chilling out, maxing, and relaxing all cool, and all shooting some b-ball up the hill from the pool. ↩︎
- Mistake no. 1 ↩︎