I spent ALOT of my life with an orange-and-black ball. I first started playing basketball in 3rd grade. My first career choice was a professional basketball player. Throughout my life, I played on 13 different teams. I spent hours on end traveling to tournaments for school or AAU, and even spent two nights a week over the summer in mandatory Summer League ball.
But I loved it. I would dribble around my block in the freezing cold winter, shoot baskets under the streetlights, and even taught my dog how to play defense (seriously). For me, sinking that game winning shot—or really, any shot at all—was one of the best feelings in the world.
Yet, until today, I hadn’t picked up a basketball in years. Sure, I could blame it on Track rules—No partaking in intramurals during season—but, really, if I could break rules regarding, ahem, drinking before 21, I’m pretty sure the fear of punishment for a few free throws wasn’t the deciding factor.
But lately, I’ve been dreaming about basketball—almost nightly, in fact. Maybe it has to do with not being part of a team since the time I was 8, but I’ve lately my subconscious has been telling me to get back to shooting.
So today I did. Solo. I’ll have to admit, I was a little worried: Was I going to be able to sink a single shot? I was definitely a little rusty, but I surprised myself. I still hit 14 free throws in a row, and threes weren’t out of my range. I ended up shooting for over an hour, and I came back with an enormous endorphin rush.
I’m not willing to stop running, but who said you had to be monogomous when it comes to sports? As they say, you never forget your first love. And, in my case, perhaps my first love will be my rebound.