it was a shot i could hit over and over, for hours.
one, two, square up, swish...running steps, snag the ball...one, two, square up, swish...running steps, snag the ball...for hours. it was my shot, and even after i couldn't play ball anymore, i would find myself out on the court my grandfather put in, shooting for hours, until the security light came on, and it was too much of a hassle to chase the ball down the alley.
one, two, square up, swish...
i can still hit that shot, eight times out of ten, for hours...one, two, square up, swish...i think about teaching my hypothetical children that shot, watching them learn how to follow through, to shoot from the bottoms of their feet, to make a shot with their whole body, to hear the sound a brand- new net makes when a perfectly inflated ball drops right through...to wait breathlessly (if your shot was a little off...) as physics decides whether the rim pitches the ball in, or spits it back out...to chase your own shot and to keep shooting...one, two, square up, swish...to watch them get to that spot where making that shot, refining the mechanics of it, how the slap and shuffle become the only sounds in the whole universe, and the troubles of the day are worked and worried over and made right inside those sounds--there is something holy about the sweet spot.
the shot was something i could always do, like diagramming sentences or memorizing dates for a test. i just could/can do it. you'd think that finding the sweet spot would be more of an intentional endeavor...but the absolute surprise of virtuosity is what what makes that spot so sweet. when no other shots would fall, it's the one i would always go back to, and start reworking the floor from that best of all spots. nothing felt as good as hitting that shot time after time after time, even when no one was watching but me. hitting that shot became like saying a rosary, keeping my prayers, making my mitzvoh...like i was made to hit that shot...
all i need is a wooden floor, a hoop with a backboard, a basketball, and time. i can hit that spot for hours...hours...and nothing but the slap, slap, slap, the swishes, the way you start to rhythmically time your breaths to the shot...with no one watching but the darkened game clock, no one to hear me swear when i miss, or squeal when i barely make one in...
soon, i'll have a ball in my hands, again. and i'll find that spot, and i'll shoot until i can't get my arms over my head, anymore.
one, two, square up, swish...
mil besos,
rmg
