My hoop dreams

I played like shit at last Wednesday's practice. I was put on a team with plenty of bigs-types but absolutely no ball handling, so I took over point guard duties out of necessity. I dropped, lobbed and no-looked a number of dimes in the first game, since my targets were big and plentiful right under the basket. But after that, the other teams figured out that there was no one on our team who could handle, myself included. So I started seeing lots of double teams and traps at half court. It didn't feel good to be stripped multiple times barely beyond the 10 second line.

Ball handling and perimeter footwork are things I have been working on a ton in the gym on my own for the past few months. Realizing that marathon training had obliterated what little fast twitch fibers I could muster in my, shall we say unconventional, baller body, and that I could not use my quickness, which was only above average (for someone 5'9"...okay fine 5'8 1/2") on the OC black tops to begin with, against these spry Japanese 1's and 2's, I had no choice but to start on the fundamentals (since you can't exactly return to something you've never done) if I want to derive more joy than frustration out of playing basketball. I gave up my pool time (both water and felt) in exchange for wooden floors and weights (core, shoulders and legs in lieu of beach muscles), I surf the web for any training methods and coaching tips I could find, I even bought videos.

And it has been a series of nagging aches and rude awakenings ever since. Last January it was the realization that I could not trust my left hand for 3 dribbles against pressure. In the fall it was the visits to the chiropractor. Just a couple of month ago, it was seeing my minutes dropping from a quarter against the worst team in the league, to a few trash minutes in the 20 point first round blowout, to DNP in our semi-final loss. Most recently, that rude awakening came in the form of the back numbers of the player(s) going the other way for uncontested layups after stripping me bare at half-court.

So I went to school Friday thinking not about my 4 classes or the video letters I'm supposed to edit, but which 2-ball handling drills I should work on after school. A night of bad practice or bad game is usually followed by drilling by myself after school or me Jordanizing middle school boys at lunch break pickups. And now those handful of 3rd years with whom I play everyday at lunch, whose genuine excitement about basketball cannot be more evident judging by the amount of English they attempt with me at lunch versus in the classroom, are graduated and gone. Earlier this week, I stopped fighting ichinensei dodgeballers and girls peppering volleyball for basketball space during lunch.

But there are sweeter things in life than a full rack of balls and an empty gym after school.

After school Friday, Mura(yama Shuhei) and (Yamamoto) Kenta, 2 graduated ex-3rd-year students, came into the staff room asking for Jeff-sensei.

"Jeff-sensei, えと, could you teach us basketball?"

I spent the next hour and a half sweating with two to-be high schoolers who aren't even my students anymore. I showed them my check-list of basketball handling and shooting exercises, taught them the proper footwork for 1-2 jumpers and jump stops. I didn't do any of my 2-ball drills. It was barely above freezing outside, my work shirt was a darker shade of blue and even my slacks were drenched in sweat, but as I rebound their errant jump shots I never felt happier or more fulfilling as a teacher at Nakayama jr. high. In the end, Mura thanked me, and Kenta asked if he can come back next Monday. They wanted to work hard because they were about to join their high school basketball teams--something I tried twice but never did once.

Maybe on Monday, after some half-court 1-on-1 drills, I can get them to scream "Yes Sensei!"