She's Grabbing the Mike

The Great Plotnik, as all of you who know him are aware, has been playing basketball since he was maybe eight years old. That's a lot of mileage on the knees and hips and ankles and elbows and shoulders, but it has always been worth it, because it's so much fun. Or was.

It's not much fun anymore. This morning, in cold and raw Saint Plotniko October, he had to practically force himself to get out of bed and ride down to the court. And the way he played, he would have been better off to stay home.

After today's games, he realizes the fat lady is grabbing the microphone and she's turned on the p.a. He has become a liability to his team in every pickup game in which he plays. He doesn't care much for the guys in his 'new' game at Edison Middle School, and it has become clear they don't like him much either.

And who can blame them? The parts of his game he could always count on -- shooting jump shots, driving to the basket -- are gone. His defense is OK, as long as he's not defending against someone too much bigger than he is, but that doesn't happen very often. His conditioning might be fine, but what good is it to have plenty of aerobic strength if your legs won't run, if your wrists won't snap, if your heart won't take chances? At this point, Plotnik is playing just to not get hurt. It's time.

Ducknik asks why Plottie doesn't find a game with guys his own age, but what the hell's the point of that? If you take a 60 year old to the rim, you know, like...this is the best you can do?

This is not a fun conversation.