Getting Older
42 is not 15. It is more than twice
what 15 is, what 15 was. I learned this
the hard way on a basketball court
playing against men, boys really,
half my age.
I took a jump shot that looked clean, crisp.
Rattled around the rim, popped out. I'm not
far off, I thought. I wonder if I look as cool
as Obama nailing a jumper in a dress shirt
and tie. The teenager in me gloats
unseemly confidence. I make an errant pass.
Doctors tell us the muscles twitch
more slowly and the cartilage in the knees
wears like cheap leather. Testosterone wanes
as hair recedes, falls out. The gravity of age
like an anchor attached to your soul.
Today I imagined taking up the challenge of
the 15-year-old neighbor boy shooting hoops.
"21?" he asks.
He takes the ball and scores at will, shredding
what ego I had left. I told him once upon a time
I could make that move: dribble twice with the
right, cross to the left, then back to the right
before driving. I wanted to remind him
that his day will come. I wanted to tell him
to soak up the fledgling badges of youth.
Remember that 15 is not 42.