Wrinkled Hands
The passage of time continues to amaze me. I've spent so much time this weekend missing things that I decided to move around a little with the boys.
The 4th of July holidays of my youth were fun-filled events with a lot of eating, shooting hoops, swimming and drinking beer. I really wanted to turn back the clock a bit, but 2 of 4 days in the car to make it to Maryland for such fun was sort of out of the question.
So, I had to try and force the issue here on the home front. I shook the trees around here by announcing to the kids that we were going to have an epic basketball shooting contest. Sam couldn't have been more excited.
Late last week I was driving in the car on the way to somewhere when I glanced down at my left hand.
"It's all wrinkled," I said out loud. "My freaking hands look like old man hands."
I worked the rest of the week feeling cheated by time. I actually glanced at Matt, Jake & Sam's hands and the perfect skin. All of my replacements hands are wrinkle-free.
Not yet. I was going to whip their ass on the court.
I didn't.
In game one, Matt beat us soundly. I couldn't get enough under my shot to make it to the rim. Everything was clanking off the front iron. Shots that would rain down one after another couldn't find the net anymore. The kids ran around laughing at me, enjoying the game, and in Sam's case, trash-talking, talking, talking, talking.
"Sooner or later I'm gonna' go on a run," I said.
But the run didn't come in the 2nd long game which Sam actually won...he is allowed to move in a few feet...the pain in my bones doubled because of his taunting.
"You were awful," he explained.
"My hands are wrinkled!" I wanted to yell back.
We played two more. The third game was a bit closer but Matt hit a bunch in a row. Eighteen years old...not a single groan as the ball twisted through the net. Time after time after time.
"Enough!" I thought.
I could still shoot a basketball at 46. They didn't need to win to have fun. Wrinkled hands and all.
I concentrated on every shot in game 4. Like a geriatric mess of what was once a good shooter, I lectured myself to bend the knees before I attempted to shoot. Sam danced in front of me trying to distract me. Matt kept hitting shot after shot. I thought of Jake hitting the long ones now with confidence.
I still have confidence! Dammit!
In game 4. The final tally showed me with the 50 points required to win. No one else even made it to 30. At one point I made 16 in a row.
"Wow, where'd that come from?" Sam asked.
"That came from a long time ago," I said.
It wasn't about winning, of course, it was about spending time and laughing with the boys. We are planning to do more shooting today if I can lift my arms.
Ah hell, who am I kidding? It was about winning.
Wrinkled hands and all.
The 4th of July holidays of my youth were fun-filled events with a lot of eating, shooting hoops, swimming and drinking beer. I really wanted to turn back the clock a bit, but 2 of 4 days in the car to make it to Maryland for such fun was sort of out of the question.
So, I had to try and force the issue here on the home front. I shook the trees around here by announcing to the kids that we were going to have an epic basketball shooting contest. Sam couldn't have been more excited.
Late last week I was driving in the car on the way to somewhere when I glanced down at my left hand.
"It's all wrinkled," I said out loud. "My freaking hands look like old man hands."
I worked the rest of the week feeling cheated by time. I actually glanced at Matt, Jake & Sam's hands and the perfect skin. All of my replacements hands are wrinkle-free.
Not yet. I was going to whip their ass on the court.
I didn't.
In game one, Matt beat us soundly. I couldn't get enough under my shot to make it to the rim. Everything was clanking off the front iron. Shots that would rain down one after another couldn't find the net anymore. The kids ran around laughing at me, enjoying the game, and in Sam's case, trash-talking, talking, talking, talking.
"Sooner or later I'm gonna' go on a run," I said.
But the run didn't come in the 2nd long game which Sam actually won...he is allowed to move in a few feet...the pain in my bones doubled because of his taunting.
"You were awful," he explained.
"My hands are wrinkled!" I wanted to yell back.
We played two more. The third game was a bit closer but Matt hit a bunch in a row. Eighteen years old...not a single groan as the ball twisted through the net. Time after time after time.
"Enough!" I thought.
I could still shoot a basketball at 46. They didn't need to win to have fun. Wrinkled hands and all.
I concentrated on every shot in game 4. Like a geriatric mess of what was once a good shooter, I lectured myself to bend the knees before I attempted to shoot. Sam danced in front of me trying to distract me. Matt kept hitting shot after shot. I thought of Jake hitting the long ones now with confidence.
I still have confidence! Dammit!
In game 4. The final tally showed me with the 50 points required to win. No one else even made it to 30. At one point I made 16 in a row.
"Wow, where'd that come from?" Sam asked.
"That came from a long time ago," I said.
It wasn't about winning, of course, it was about spending time and laughing with the boys. We are planning to do more shooting today if I can lift my arms.
Ah hell, who am I kidding? It was about winning.
Wrinkled hands and all.
Comments
Have a HAPPY 4th making these memories for your replacements!