66 IS NOT 16 !
I am still blessed to do at 66, pretty much, what I was able to do at 26, although my speed has diminished, as has my stamina. But, I am still here. We are still here, alive by the grace of God.
At 26 one learns that 16 is far long-gone, at least I did. As I dribbled my brand-new basketball 🏀 for the very first time on that secluded, public, basketball court in Swope Park, Kansas City, Missouri, one evening, the staccato echoes of its throbbing bounce summoned the younger guns from afar to their asphalt court of battle.
They loped in from every direction , vaporizing like genies from thin air. All were polite, deferential, respectful , at first; speaking softly; rebounding my missed shots, even shagging my long misses. Nice boys were these. Some had even called me "sir" in 1977, to my mild surprise, as I had not yet sensed decrepitude .
But as soon their numbers swelled, so too did their swagering demeanor. It progressed from mild amusement to stiff bemusement; their finger-rolls morphed into jump shots; from rebounding, they went to thunder dunks; from playing with and around me, they began to ball, deftly, among themselves, as I watched. Then, enough of them having come, critical mass having been reached; they said, "Let's run."
I thought that expression meant half-court. But no! They meant full-court! I was in trouble and I knew it!They did too.
Still when they selected two teams, they were obligingly kind enough to select me in my color-coordinated head-band, matching shorts, shirt, and shoes. It was , after all, my ball. I was after all, there first. Though I was unable to touch the rim nor slam, this older man--me-- must've been fun for a minute.
So, we "ran." Rather, they ran! Too many Kool cigarettes, or physical inactivity, both, had ransomed, ransacked, my wind.
Like the wind, they flew literally up and down the outdoor court, back and forth; above the rim, forever above the rim. Slam-dunking, shot-blocking , balling; smack-talking! I enjoyed it. Glad to have briefly had the run.
Soon the sun set, so the game ended.
No less do I now enjoy these fruitful memories, even my retrospective recollections of my transitionings: the the good, the bad, the indifferent; glorious, ignominious, in-between.
Age enables retrospection. Youth does not, cannot. That is age's advantage over youth. This advantage must be assiduously worked, gradually supplemented, graciously shared, and enriched. Then, when you say, "Let's run!" young folks will gawk at you, amazed.
Friday, May 26, 2017
66 IS NOT 16....
66 IS NOT 16 !
I am still blessed to do at 66, pretty much, what I was able to do at 26, although my speed has diminished, as has my stamina. But, I am still here. We are still here, alive by the grace of God.
At 26 one learns that 16 is far long-gone, at least I did. As I dribbled my brand-new basketball 🏀 for the very first time on that secluded, public, basketball court in Swope Park, Kansas City, Missouri, one evening, the staccato echoes of its throbbing bounce summoned the younger guns from afar to their asphalt court of battle.
They loped in from every direction , vaporizing like genies from thin air. All were polite, deferential, respectful , at first; speaking softly; rebounding my missed shots, even shagging my long misses. Nice boys were these. Some had even called me "sir" in 1977, to my mild surprise, as I had not yet sensed decrepitude .
But as soon their numbers swelled, so too did their swagering demeanor. It progressed from mild amusement to stiff bemusement; their finger-rolls morphed into jump shots; from rebounding, they went to thunder dunks; from playing with and around me, they began to ball, deftly, among themselves, as I watched. Then, enough of them having come, critical mass having been reached; they said, "Let's run."
I thought that expression meant half-court. But no! They meant full-court! I was in trouble and I knew it!They did too.
Still when they selected two teams, they were obligingly kind enough to select me in my color-coordinated head-band, matching shorts, shirt, and shoes. It was , after all, my ball. I was after all, there first. Though I was unable to touch the rim nor slam, this older man--me-- must've been fun for a minute.
So, we "ran." Rather, they ran! Too many Kool cigarettes, or physical inactivity, both, had ransomed, ransacked, my wind.
Like the wind, they flew literally up and down the outdoor court, back and forth; above the rim, forever above the rim. Slam-dunking, shot-blocking , balling; smack-talking! I enjoyed it. Glad to have briefly had the run.
Soon the sun set, so the game ended.
No less do I now enjoy these fruitful memories, even my retrospective recollections of my transitionings: the the good, the bad, the indifferent; glorious, ignominious, in-between.
Age enables retrospection. Youth does not, cannot. That is age's advantage over youth. This advantage must be assiduously worked, gradually supplemented, graciously shared, and enriched. Then, when you say, "Let's run!" young folks will gawk at you, amazed.
