Taking it to the Hole

Tonight, being watched by a bloated, blousy-faced moon, I went to the gym to play basketball for the first time since September. I was ready. I ate well, had protein working in me, felt awake, was hydrated and the ankle was giving off fizzes of excitement to run, cut, backpedal, leap, sidestep, and just explode. Digging in the back of the CRV, I found my ankle brace and put it on over low athletic socks and pulled it tight. The hoop sneakers that felt too tight a few weeks ago, felt perfect, snug yet giving. Instead of athletic shorts, I put on my loose green "working" shorts, the ones with the creosote stains all over them from when I was hammering rebar into railroad ties last summer for the Taos Rock Garden Amphitheater. So ready. I stretched and then rotated the ankle, which was giving me more go-get'em feedback. Sweatshirt over gray tanktop, mushroom cap, navy blue sweats and I was ready to roll. Backing out of the driveway I slid out of the good ruts and ended up crunching into a rock hard snowbank, but Montez took it in stride and powered on. Onward, straining into a window of dried mud spray, Montez bounced and slid in and out of the tracks on Tune Dr., rocking me back and forth. It felt good, and like a driving game. In fact, the past couple of weeks have been a driving game out here. It's starting to crack me up, belly laughs, and hoots, like I'm bustin a bronc. Out to Hwy. 64, the stumbling moon with the double chin making it's way across the valley toward the river, tossed stainless blue light at the Taos Range pulsating in fresh white sheets laid down and stretched tight by yesterday's 10" dump. Moving at 65, sometimes near 70 (Montez is not a speed car), I hit the blinking light and made the ralph toward town. At First Community Bank the digital thermometer read 21, and the time 7:43. I was focused, not thinking of much else but basketball and stretching my muscles, even in the car as I drove. And they all felt good. It's not like I've been sitting idle for 5 months. Nope, I've been hauling up, down and around Divisadero 4 or 5 days a week, and usually on down the canyon to the river on the other days. So, my lungs are good, and muscles are fairly supple. I've been stretching my trunk every morning, hitting the heavy bag, doing a ton of pushups and situps. It's just been that the ankle has felt tinny, hollow, crunchy, and tight...until the past two weeks. So, here it is, the Guadalupe Gym, next to the Lady of Guadalupe Church. There's a bunch of cars pulling in, moving out. Seems like a good sign. Almost too many cars. Maybe the game is packed and it'll be hard to get in a game? Out of Montez, I go in and see that the Los Tigres boxers, the youth boxing club of Taos, are finishing up. They all depart en masse, and I'm left alone in the gym stretching. A guy comes out of the equipment room, 40s with long, dark hair in a ponytail and a thick fu manchu, wearing a Los Tigres windbreaker. He strides across the basketball court floor and looks at me. "Where are your cohorts, bro?"
"I don't know. It's my first night of the year. They're still playing on Wednesdays, right?"
"Most of the time, bro. But, eee, it doesn't look so good tonight."
"Guess I'll wait a bit."
"Enjoy, bro."
Nobody is showing up. I start running around the court, stopping short, changing directions, changing speeds, sprinting full out and tapping the backboard on each side. I backpedal (one of my strong suits...I can run backwards faster than most people and almost as fast as people going forwards). There isn't a ball to be found so I start making believe I'm dribbling. I move to the top of the key, throw a head fake, crossover my dribble and drive to the hole. I finish the layup by tapping the backboard. The ankle is feeling secure in the brace and giving me no trouble. I KNOW I'm ready to play. My air feels good, I have some quickness and my body is just jones'n for action. Still nobody shows. Just me, alone on the basketball court my sneakers squeaking and my footfalls echoing off the walls. I do a couple of suicide drills, 3x to foul line, half court, the other foul line, and the other end line, and then the same on the return trip. Good breathing. No sweat because it's probably 55 in there (it's always cold in that gym). I feign taking some shots from 3 point land. It all feels right. As I sit here and type, it's 9:32 and usually, I am wiped out. I didn't sleep well last night, but here I am with xray eyes, and my legs buzzing and twitching. They want to run, like a thoroughbred needs to be let loose to go through her paces. This boy needs to run! And jump! And hit a few shots, teardrops and jumpers, and running one-handers, even a hook.

But it wasn't to be tonight. Turns out the hoop posse was at the Taos Adult League championship game at a little school just around the corner. I hopped in there for a few minutes, but if I wasn't going to be playing, I had little interest in watching or talking to the people in the stands. So I snuck out and headed Montez back home.

All that not playing has made me ravenously hungry.