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I was always a better basketball fan than player. During the seventh and eighth grades, I came off the bench as a shooting guard and held back-to-back season averages of two points. I was a decent ball-handler but couldn't count on my left hand in a fast break. It is fair to say I was most adept at fouling and heaving the ball over telephone wires or tree branches during games of HORSE.
Imagine my surprise when, decades later, I happened upon the following discovery during a trip to the gym with my son: the hand that cannot brush hair nor teeth, the one that is called upon to sign Santa on gift tags, that which would be called a heel if a hand could be called such a thing, had suddenly become a more capable dribbler.
The genesis of my enhanced coordination remains a mystery and seems unreasonable given the lack of practice and my, err, age. From an evolutionary standpoint, one feels compelled to ask, "What's the point? Why now?"
Career revival? Nah.
Highlight for the eulogy? Ah yes, your grandma was somethin'! Remember that time she improved her left-handed dribble? Uh uh.
It's useless, really. I have no answers. About the only thing this skill affords me is a better escape from my four-year-old in our one-on-one match-ups. Beyond that, it's just kinda fun.
Maybe that's good enough.
