Howdy,

#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 26
(Unedited, or only slightly)

 

Continued …

He needed to play beyond the blur.

That’s all Jake Jones thought about dribbling his worn basketball, making his way to the closest court — the schoolyard’s outdoor court had quickly become quite familiar and comfortable for Jake.

He had to hurry, sneaking in a practice session on a Monday before school. He’d need to get back home to get ready for his day, but Jake also needed to get on and off the elementary campus court before that school was closed to him.

That school-day morning Jake didn’t mind the rush; he made a connection, deciding that the arriving in a hustle to practice replicated a little of the feeling like the blur of playing with competition that pushed him. Not the same, no, but a little like it.

It made Jake wonder what else he could do that recreate the way scrimmaging with older players had sped up the game, to a pace totally past his experience or effort in any previous game he’d played.

Jake first attacked his natural weaknesses with speed tests. He dribbled with his off hand, his left hand, across the court sideways as fast as he could. Though able to run fast enough to get ahead of his weak hand dribbling skill, it didn’t feel to Jake to be creating the kind of sensory blur he’d experienced the afternoon before. Certainly the effort to move quicker and ahead of his skill had noticeable effect. It was frustrating. Frustrating to Jake to have physical skill eroding under exertion, but it hadn’t touched the mental gymnastics that simply running up and down with the guys had brought on instantly.

The phenomenon had become an extra crunch when Jake simply pondered what he’d have done if he had gotten the ball in the game. He hadn’t even made a mistake losing a dribble out of bounds or throwing a bad pass into an obvious passing lane for easy points for the other team, yet Jake’s worry of how the game would’ve continued to spin wildly around him made for a miserable night and an early morning.

Squeezing his basketball between his knees, Jake blew hot breath into cold hands. He watched the steam rise. Jake knew he had to get moving again quickly; he didn’t want to revert to overthinking his struggles more than he already had.

He was on the court, early, to practice.

Jake didn’t know how to replicate the helpless feeling. It wasn’t merely chaos, so much as it had been an intense … an intense something. An intensification.

The young player went for exhaustion. Trying to perform without enough breath, Jake thought, might be kind of like it. He’d push hard, like he had dribbling fast left handed, but he would keep going: keep going until he was exhausted so that trying anything, left or right handed, would be hard.

Often the basketball announcers that Jake, and sometimes his dad or even his grandpa, listened to when the Warriors were playing talked about tired legs when good shooters missed shots. Interviewed, sometimes coaches or players themselves talked about feeling strong having their legs under them or looking like maybe they didn’t, for whatever reason.

Jake didn’t know if he could recreate the higher action, but he determined to lose his lungs and legs and then slug out layups, fifteen footers, and three pointers — doing his best to stay mentally sharp while shooting hoops with wasted legs.

A last time Jake blew visible breath onto his hands, before dashing into running the oxygen out of his legs.

To be continued …

 

Billy

Reading. Writing. Living.


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