
The kid from Maple School broke away and dribbled down the court. Just five steps ahead of me, he had a wide open lane for an easy layup. As he lifted the ball for his shot, I plowed into him, sending the two of us into the padding against the gym wall. The ref blew the whistle on me, but I didn’t care. I knew this guy would never make his free throws. I had saved our team two points. And there you have the crowning moment of my basketball glory days on the Chestnut School seventh-grade basketball team.
I suck at round ball, although it took me awhile to admit it. When the seventh-grade coach took me aside to ask why I wanted to play basketball, subtly implying that I would never play because, yes, I was terrible, I only got more determined to prove him wrong. Nope, he was right, and I never joined the basketball team again. Still, for a couple years after that single season of pre-teen basketball I lived with the delusion that those four months qualified me to hold my own on the court. What was I thinking? I’m a hack. I’m not even a good hack; I foul out of games in the first quarter — or I would, if I still tried to play basketball. (more…)


Dan Hill