Byrds in Boots

            Sometimes professional basketball players make it look easy. Too easy. So easy that the unsuspecting fan might forget just how difficult it can be to shoot a ball through a hoop.

            I was watching a lot of basketball. Too much basketball. So much basketball that I somehow convinced myself that I too could play the game with as much finesse as the men I watched on television.

            I bought a ball. I laced up my tennis shoes. I convinced my friend Charlie to go to the park with me.

            We dribbled. We passed. We attempted layups and foul shots and three-pointers. Some of our shots even went in. We played HORSE. One game lasted almost an hour. By the end of it, we felt like pros.

            And then we were challenged. Two on two. Half court. Make it, take it. A game to twenty-one. Win by two.

Our opponents weren’t even old enough to drink. Teenagers. Short chubby teenage brothers. They looked like real-life versions of Chris Griffin from Family Guy, but shorter and fatter and whiter.

And they were wearing boots. Work boots. Steel toed. With no laces. And no socks. And they challenged me and Charlie to a game of pickup basketball.

We gladly accepted. We laughed at the idea.

The game started. They made a quick three-pointer. No big deal. Make it, take it.

Another three pointer. Six-zero. Beginner’s luck. And then another.

We began pressing. They began passing. Through their legs. Behind their backs. Over their shoulders. They shot on the fly. Jumpers. Fade-aways. Sky-hooks.

They looked like short obese versions of Eminem but played ball like Larry Byrd. One bucket after another. Charlie and I had no answers.

It was over fast. Twenty-one, nothing. Game over. Skunked. By two fat kids wearing work boots. Another game? Not today.

I still watch the sport on a regular basis. But I haven’t touched a basketball since.