I plan to apply for a patent on something which I should have learned long ago, but which I have just embraced and come to understand.
Generally speaking, you can always spot the couples in a restaurant who have been many years married. They're not speaking to each other. One or both have shut down their communication channel, which morphs into permanency unless corrected in a timely fashion. But, how do you reach someone who can't hear you?
In truth, complexity is at play here. The notion of understanding has escaped and eluded the relationship which becomes tainted by the dirty hands of the one who has gone off the track and sincerely believes his own stinkin' thinkin'. Whether he knows it or not, he is in dire need of an epiphany. And this, if the relationship is of soulmate status, is where fate comes into play. Happenstance is the unlocking key, the traffic controller of lives and emotions.
The lost partner somehow finds his footing and new frequencies are discovered. He now sees where he looks. He experiences a rude awakening as he enters an aura of understanding that he has been suffering from emotional dyslexia. Right has been left and up has been down. It's time to learn again, and be willing--and wanting--to make things coordinate with reality.
The way back begins, slowly, lest you lose your step. Bumps along the road become solvable because they are no longer invisible. Your automatic speed control kicks in with steady as she goes, things begin to come together and a re-kindling occurs. But the learning lesson becomes indelible.
And when things are finally o.k. again, you begin to understand even more and realize that what you thought was happenstance was really destiny.
And the food becomes secondary to conversation and communication.
And when you do your research, you find that your discovery has already been discovered by another.
Oh, well, there's always enough of a good thing for those who find it.
And you wonder,"Where the hell have I been all this time?"
But, you know where you are now.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Sunday, August 4, 2013
GETTING OLDER, GETTING WISER
Do you get it? Really get it?
I am at an age which brings with it many things, the most important of which is the ability to, at last, look back and realize that your thinking, on a particular and ultra important subject, has been wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes, for the sake of survival, you rearrange things so as to justify a conclusion to which you cling, reality be damned. The consummate example of putting the cart before the horse, of revising the past so as to make the means justify the end. And your inner stubborness does not allow for a single second thought, lest your self-created safe house, with its false sense of security, ceases to exist. This cement of deceit hardens, the more you cling to it.
But, if you're lucky--if fate gives you enough time and provides you with an awakening intervention, and if you get it when you see it, there's still time. Time to straighten things out in your mistaken mind and take hold of an eraser. You must be receptive to self rearranging which necessitates realizing that you've been clinging to ghosts. And, at the senior stage of life, when perceptions tend to harden intractably, this is not that easy. It requires you to correctively update your optometry and admit that you've been wrong. You're never too old for this type of realization therapy--as long as you're willing to face the true facts.
There's a payoff to all of this which profoundly makes it well worth the effort. You've shifted into reverse, travelled back to the prior fork in the road, only this time, you bear to the right.
Now--assuming I am juxtaposing this sentiment with a personal relationship (I'm a Pisces, remember), I am saying to my soulmate:
"You and I are going on together
Till the time we have is gone together
Watch the evening drawing on together
Growing older, growing closer
Making memories that light the sky
That only time can make
That only love can make
That only we can make
You and I"
Better late than never.
Much, much better.
I am at an age which brings with it many things, the most important of which is the ability to, at last, look back and realize that your thinking, on a particular and ultra important subject, has been wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes, for the sake of survival, you rearrange things so as to justify a conclusion to which you cling, reality be damned. The consummate example of putting the cart before the horse, of revising the past so as to make the means justify the end. And your inner stubborness does not allow for a single second thought, lest your self-created safe house, with its false sense of security, ceases to exist. This cement of deceit hardens, the more you cling to it.
But, if you're lucky--if fate gives you enough time and provides you with an awakening intervention, and if you get it when you see it, there's still time. Time to straighten things out in your mistaken mind and take hold of an eraser. You must be receptive to self rearranging which necessitates realizing that you've been clinging to ghosts. And, at the senior stage of life, when perceptions tend to harden intractably, this is not that easy. It requires you to correctively update your optometry and admit that you've been wrong. You're never too old for this type of realization therapy--as long as you're willing to face the true facts.
There's a payoff to all of this which profoundly makes it well worth the effort. You've shifted into reverse, travelled back to the prior fork in the road, only this time, you bear to the right.
Now--assuming I am juxtaposing this sentiment with a personal relationship (I'm a Pisces, remember), I am saying to my soulmate:
"You and I are going on together
Till the time we have is gone together
Watch the evening drawing on together
Growing older, growing closer
Making memories that light the sky
That only time can make
That only love can make
That only we can make
You and I"
Better late than never.
Much, much better.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
ANTHONY WEINER AND THE FACE FACTOR
The late great George Frazier, stellar and oh-so-unique columnist at the Boston Globe, coined the adjective "duende", that special force or characteristic that makes someone or something irresistibly attractive. "So difficult to define," he wrote, "but when it is there it is unmistakable, inspiring our awe, quickening our memory. To observe someone who has it is to feel icy fingers running up and down our spine."
This aura is alive and well, especially in the world of politics. John F. Kennedy had it, as did Franklin D. Roosevelt (the ultimate father figure), Robert Kennedy and Dwight Eisenhower ("he led us to victory"). So did Bill Clinton, which leads me to an inevitable comparison between him and Anthony Weiner, who most decidedly does not. The scandals surrounding both men are strikingly similar, yet one survived while the other is imploding.
Clinton's sexual escapades were not confined to one woman. They culminated with the Monica Lewinsky affair. When confronted with unequivocally damning evidence, he denied the obvious, choosing to parse his words and embarrass a nation. He was impeached by the House of Representatives and his anguished appearance betrayed his attempt at confidence. His wife did not embrace him. She distanced herself but did not divorce him.
Clinton did more than just survive. His popularity is as high today as it ever was. He is on top again, and the reason he was able to so remarkably recover was his face. It's magnetic. I once saw him up close at London's Heathrow airport and must admit that I was quite taken by his star quality. He had the face easy to like. He had duende.
Weiner's situation, at least allegation wise, is not dissimilar. He sexted to more than one. He steadfastly denied wrongdoing until incontrovertible evidence was uncovered. His wife stands publicly by his side, to her own political detriment. And yet, his political career has plummeted to pieces. He did not mind the gap and has fallen upon the third rail. It's because of his face. It's unlikeable and off-putting. He doesn't have duende.
My readers will undoubtedly scoff at this notion as a ridiculous over-simplification. And well it might be, for I doubt that this post shall challenge the writings of Plato. But take a step back and think on it a bit. It ain't as crazy as it sounds.
Which is probably why I would never have made it in politics.
Hark! I doth mock myself.
This aura is alive and well, especially in the world of politics. John F. Kennedy had it, as did Franklin D. Roosevelt (the ultimate father figure), Robert Kennedy and Dwight Eisenhower ("he led us to victory"). So did Bill Clinton, which leads me to an inevitable comparison between him and Anthony Weiner, who most decidedly does not. The scandals surrounding both men are strikingly similar, yet one survived while the other is imploding.
Clinton's sexual escapades were not confined to one woman. They culminated with the Monica Lewinsky affair. When confronted with unequivocally damning evidence, he denied the obvious, choosing to parse his words and embarrass a nation. He was impeached by the House of Representatives and his anguished appearance betrayed his attempt at confidence. His wife did not embrace him. She distanced herself but did not divorce him.
Clinton did more than just survive. His popularity is as high today as it ever was. He is on top again, and the reason he was able to so remarkably recover was his face. It's magnetic. I once saw him up close at London's Heathrow airport and must admit that I was quite taken by his star quality. He had the face easy to like. He had duende.
Weiner's situation, at least allegation wise, is not dissimilar. He sexted to more than one. He steadfastly denied wrongdoing until incontrovertible evidence was uncovered. His wife stands publicly by his side, to her own political detriment. And yet, his political career has plummeted to pieces. He did not mind the gap and has fallen upon the third rail. It's because of his face. It's unlikeable and off-putting. He doesn't have duende.
My readers will undoubtedly scoff at this notion as a ridiculous over-simplification. And well it might be, for I doubt that this post shall challenge the writings of Plato. But take a step back and think on it a bit. It ain't as crazy as it sounds.
Which is probably why I would never have made it in politics.
Hark! I doth mock myself.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
UNDER THE RADAR IN THE GEORGE ZIMMERMAN TRIAL
Most reasonable people now agree as to how the Zimmerman aquittal verdict should be interpreted. It was predicated on the paucity of prosecutorial evidence in the context of Florida's "no retreat" law on the use of dedly force in self defense. This is as it should be, the rabble-rousung of Rev. Al Sharpton and others, notwithstanding. The prevalence of common sense and reason on this point serves the cause of racial harmony. Consensus of reasonable analysis is an emotionally salving lotion. One factor has, however, received insufficient attention.
The trial was held in Sanford, Florida. That city has an African American population of 40%. The trial jury was composed of six people, all women, five caucasians and one hispanic. Why was there not one African American on that jury?
It is not difficult to understand the defense's motive for desiring such a composition, but intentional exclusion is prohibited by law. Why was the prosecution apparently passive on this point? If the jury pool, from which the jurors were chosen, was similarly devoid of a proportionate share of African Americans, appropriate motions could and should have been made.
A criminal defendant is entitled to be tried by a jury of his peers. Should not a victim in a murder case be afforded similar playing-field-levelling protection? There is no case law by which this is mandated, but the reputation of Trayvon Martin was equally on trial with that of George Zimmerman. The trial judge should have made this the subject of judicial scrutiny.
It is impossible to predict what the outcome would have been had the jury been composed of some African Americans, but the result would have been more digestible.
Trayvon Martin was entitled to a jury of his peers.
He didn't get it.
George Zimmerman did.
The trial was held in Sanford, Florida. That city has an African American population of 40%. The trial jury was composed of six people, all women, five caucasians and one hispanic. Why was there not one African American on that jury?
It is not difficult to understand the defense's motive for desiring such a composition, but intentional exclusion is prohibited by law. Why was the prosecution apparently passive on this point? If the jury pool, from which the jurors were chosen, was similarly devoid of a proportionate share of African Americans, appropriate motions could and should have been made.
A criminal defendant is entitled to be tried by a jury of his peers. Should not a victim in a murder case be afforded similar playing-field-levelling protection? There is no case law by which this is mandated, but the reputation of Trayvon Martin was equally on trial with that of George Zimmerman. The trial judge should have made this the subject of judicial scrutiny.
It is impossible to predict what the outcome would have been had the jury been composed of some African Americans, but the result would have been more digestible.
Trayvon Martin was entitled to a jury of his peers.
He didn't get it.
George Zimmerman did.
Friday, July 19, 2013
WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?
The next time I hear "It's God's will", I shall puke on the spot.
When I was a kid, maybe 11 years old, my Dad was stricken with an illness that his doctors couldn't diagnose. He had to stop working and we were literally penniless. He reached out to his brother for help. They sat down in the living room (the parlor) and the scene that played out will forever remain indelibly etched in my brain. My uncle pulled a folded $50 bill from his pocket and handed it to my Dad. He stared at the money in his palm and suddenly began sobbing hysterically. I had never before seen him cry and, as young as I was, it tore me up inside, for his pain was mine. He was such a good guy, why, I asked myself, was this thing happening to him? Where was God?
One year later, he was in the hospital. He kept complaining that he couldn't breathe all the way in. The look on his doctor's face did not bode well. I was an only child and every time the phone would ring in our tiny apartment, my heart would jump to my throat. The vigil was frustrating and endless. My cousin was getting married and I was to be an usher at the wedding. The plan was for me to surprise my Dad at the hospital, resplendent in my debonair white tie and tails. As I was getting dressed, I remember hearing on the radio that General George S. Patton had been in an accident and had died from a blood clot in the brain. I shuddered without knowing why. The phone rang. Panic! It was the hospital advising that my Dad had suffered a blood clot and telling us to come immediately. The next two nights were spent in the waiting room on his floor. I asked the nurse if there was a place for praying. She told me that the hospital chapel was on the street level. My mother was in a wailing mood and I was purely and simply frightened. The first thing I noticed, as I entered the chapel, was a huge cross. Uh, oh! I was Jewish so how could I pray to a cross? I sat on a bench, folded my hands, first asked God to forgive me and then began to beg Him to not let my father die. But he did, that night, and I couldn't understand why God had let me down. I was twelve tears old.
As a young man, I read a book by a theologian which attempted to address why bad things happen to good people. The author explained how frustrated he would be when asked to intervene with God on behalf of a perilously ill loved one. God doesn't have time to a give every situation on earth his personal attention, he claimed, but faith can sustain you in hard times. The book was a cop-out. He had dodged the question.
The Holocaust. Millions of innocent men, women and children ruthlessly slaughtered by a country whose national policy was to eliminate a religion from the face of the earth. Why didn't God strike Hitler dead?
***************************
Maybe the role of luck is vastly underestimated.
I find it difficult not to recognize fate as the ultimate decider of things. That way, the "why" questions are no longer formidable.. They are resolved.
Why, then, when good fortune comes my way, do I instinctively, spontaneously and immediately whisper to myself, "Thank God?"
When I was a kid, maybe 11 years old, my Dad was stricken with an illness that his doctors couldn't diagnose. He had to stop working and we were literally penniless. He reached out to his brother for help. They sat down in the living room (the parlor) and the scene that played out will forever remain indelibly etched in my brain. My uncle pulled a folded $50 bill from his pocket and handed it to my Dad. He stared at the money in his palm and suddenly began sobbing hysterically. I had never before seen him cry and, as young as I was, it tore me up inside, for his pain was mine. He was such a good guy, why, I asked myself, was this thing happening to him? Where was God?
One year later, he was in the hospital. He kept complaining that he couldn't breathe all the way in. The look on his doctor's face did not bode well. I was an only child and every time the phone would ring in our tiny apartment, my heart would jump to my throat. The vigil was frustrating and endless. My cousin was getting married and I was to be an usher at the wedding. The plan was for me to surprise my Dad at the hospital, resplendent in my debonair white tie and tails. As I was getting dressed, I remember hearing on the radio that General George S. Patton had been in an accident and had died from a blood clot in the brain. I shuddered without knowing why. The phone rang. Panic! It was the hospital advising that my Dad had suffered a blood clot and telling us to come immediately. The next two nights were spent in the waiting room on his floor. I asked the nurse if there was a place for praying. She told me that the hospital chapel was on the street level. My mother was in a wailing mood and I was purely and simply frightened. The first thing I noticed, as I entered the chapel, was a huge cross. Uh, oh! I was Jewish so how could I pray to a cross? I sat on a bench, folded my hands, first asked God to forgive me and then began to beg Him to not let my father die. But he did, that night, and I couldn't understand why God had let me down. I was twelve tears old.
As a young man, I read a book by a theologian which attempted to address why bad things happen to good people. The author explained how frustrated he would be when asked to intervene with God on behalf of a perilously ill loved one. God doesn't have time to a give every situation on earth his personal attention, he claimed, but faith can sustain you in hard times. The book was a cop-out. He had dodged the question.
The Holocaust. Millions of innocent men, women and children ruthlessly slaughtered by a country whose national policy was to eliminate a religion from the face of the earth. Why didn't God strike Hitler dead?
***************************
Maybe the role of luck is vastly underestimated.
I find it difficult not to recognize fate as the ultimate decider of things. That way, the "why" questions are no longer formidable.. They are resolved.
Why, then, when good fortune comes my way, do I instinctively, spontaneously and immediately whisper to myself, "Thank God?"
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
WITH HIGHS GO LOWS
Anyone who rejects the theory that life is filled with moutains and valleys is full of crap.
Call it God made tests, forks in the road or challenges of choice, the art of survival comes into play when, for one reason or another, you find yourself in the shithouse, face down.
Obviously, it's easy to deal with the good times--you just enjoy to the max and try to ignore the nagging thorn that it's temporary and won't last forever. Make the best of it--you've obviously earned it because good times don't happen by natural causes. Your confidence soars, your swag becomes more pronounced and you vibe out a certain magnatism which draws others to you. They'll hover over you, eager to see and touch the man who is riding the fast track in fine fashion. These times have a way of erasing doubts and previous misfires because you're a winner and everybody wants to get close in the hope of gaining a rub-off effect. You're a potential benefactor, on top of the world, a Tony Montana, if ever there was one.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and, before you know it, you find yourself in a valley, all the forces in your life having done a one-eighty. The day to day incentives dissipate, the road becomes bumpy to the point of impassibility and everything you reach out for to break your fall splinters on contact. The fawners thin out and disappear, for they only signed on for the good times and never subscribed to the "for better or worse, in good times and bad" commitment. "Fuck 'em" becomes your mantra for survival. The only one you've got to lean on is yourself.
Being alone has certain advantages. You are obliged to answer to no one. Your former admirers become insignificant, rapidly fading to harmless whisperers. In a strange way, it's a relief, being able to differentiate the good from the shallow. And you develop your own tool for survival.
You re-prioritize the things in life that give you pleasure, free of tension,like oases in the desert. You arrange each day's schedule around these previously underestimated roads-to-escape and indulge in them. Watching movies, listening to your favorite music, eating on the cheap at neighborhood haunts where you get to know the regulars. A personalized anti-stress therapeutist. The fancy joints take a step back for awhile, until the next mountain comes around. Your task is to hold on and stay afloat until that day comes. And it surely will, because as an additional part of your weathering the storm, you are pursuing every angle, every opportunity to climb back, out of the rut and back to the level of success where your innate basic talents belong. You have exorcised the pressure of daily stress in favor of relaxing in the comforting knowledge that you have emerged from the rough onto the manicured grass all by yourself, once again reaffirming your personal mettle.
You're stronger now, for instead of giving up, you went into the ocean, you relaxed and simply let the wave take you.
It only works with good people.
Call it God made tests, forks in the road or challenges of choice, the art of survival comes into play when, for one reason or another, you find yourself in the shithouse, face down.
Obviously, it's easy to deal with the good times--you just enjoy to the max and try to ignore the nagging thorn that it's temporary and won't last forever. Make the best of it--you've obviously earned it because good times don't happen by natural causes. Your confidence soars, your swag becomes more pronounced and you vibe out a certain magnatism which draws others to you. They'll hover over you, eager to see and touch the man who is riding the fast track in fine fashion. These times have a way of erasing doubts and previous misfires because you're a winner and everybody wants to get close in the hope of gaining a rub-off effect. You're a potential benefactor, on top of the world, a Tony Montana, if ever there was one.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, and, before you know it, you find yourself in a valley, all the forces in your life having done a one-eighty. The day to day incentives dissipate, the road becomes bumpy to the point of impassibility and everything you reach out for to break your fall splinters on contact. The fawners thin out and disappear, for they only signed on for the good times and never subscribed to the "for better or worse, in good times and bad" commitment. "Fuck 'em" becomes your mantra for survival. The only one you've got to lean on is yourself.
Being alone has certain advantages. You are obliged to answer to no one. Your former admirers become insignificant, rapidly fading to harmless whisperers. In a strange way, it's a relief, being able to differentiate the good from the shallow. And you develop your own tool for survival.
You re-prioritize the things in life that give you pleasure, free of tension,like oases in the desert. You arrange each day's schedule around these previously underestimated roads-to-escape and indulge in them. Watching movies, listening to your favorite music, eating on the cheap at neighborhood haunts where you get to know the regulars. A personalized anti-stress therapeutist. The fancy joints take a step back for awhile, until the next mountain comes around. Your task is to hold on and stay afloat until that day comes. And it surely will, because as an additional part of your weathering the storm, you are pursuing every angle, every opportunity to climb back, out of the rut and back to the level of success where your innate basic talents belong. You have exorcised the pressure of daily stress in favor of relaxing in the comforting knowledge that you have emerged from the rough onto the manicured grass all by yourself, once again reaffirming your personal mettle.
You're stronger now, for instead of giving up, you went into the ocean, you relaxed and simply let the wave take you.
It only works with good people.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
THE PASS
Sometimes, 'though very infrequently, readers will lightly scoff at a post on the ground that it's too
'Hollywood-ish", intentionally manufactured to attract readers. Things like that just don't happen, they claim.
I do not publish fiction.
Never have.
Never will.
It's just that I have been a part of emotionally satisfying moments which, because of their very nature, are impossible to forget and are delicious to tell.
This is one such romantic moment.
I was a Junior at Boston Latin School, which enjoyed the reputation of "best public high school in the country" and "a prep school for Harvard". Still does. I, never destined for academic excellence in the purist sense, really dug it.
The most favored sport was basketball. On my greatest day, I was an average player with physical limitations far exceeding my reservoir of talent. But, like so many others of similar ilk, I loved the game and could never play it too much.
In my Freshman and Sophomore years, I was on the Junior Varsity, an accomplishment recognized but not rewarded with a "letter", a prized "L" which was sown onto the school's purple and white coat sweater. That only came with "making the varsity", which was everyone's goal and for which I tried out in my Junior year.
Every day, after practice, we would run to the bulletin board and await the posting of those who had made "the cut" and were, therefore, still alive. The pressure was enormously palpable.
The number of viable candidates would dwindle after each day's scrimmages which were tests to constantly separate the wheat from the chaff. And finally, there was just one practice left, the survivors of which would make the Varsity.
On this particular day, Coach had arranged a scrimmage with Roxbury Memorial High School for a game that would determine who made the team. I was still on that list, right at the bottom, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The make-or-break game began.
As usual, I was not on the starting team and would be put into the game in its final minutes. And inevitably, that moment arrived.
I, frankly, didn't know what I was doing (per usual) and was playing in my patented limited ability zone, when I found myself at our foul line with my back to our basket. If you analyze that, for a moment, you will quickly conclude that being in that position made no basketball sense whatsoever and just about rendered me more useless than usual. And then, a teammate passed me the ball.
My mind was blank. I entertained neither plan nor purpose. I just stood there, ball in hand, with my back facing our basket and my teammates running wildly around me, screaming for the ball. I was in some never-before-diagnosed state of shock which could very easily have been mistaken for a never-before-recognized confident look of a plan.
And then I did something which had no reason then and could never be rationally explained, to this day and beyond. I will never know what made me do it. It will forever lack all rhyme or reason.
I, with feigned great poise and assurance, threw the ball over my head. I had no target in mind or even the slightest degree of intent. I just did it--without any premeditation whatsoever. The ultimate blind pass.
There was a silencing gasp heard 'round the gymnasium as the onlookers dealt with the impact of having witnessed an act of insanity.
I turned around to see a teammate receive my pass, in perfect stride, and put in the sweetest lay-up of all time. I then saw the opposition coach glance over at our's with a look of amazement, raised eyebrows and all. Our coach, A cool dude if ever there was one, shrugged and shot back a look that said, "does it all the time".
I made the final cut and played Varsity ball for my last two years of High School.
Only the Gods can probably explain why I did what I did.
As for me, I just filed it under "Fate--Don't--Question."
The biggest reward is reliving it from time to time, as one is prone to do in one's look-back senior years.
Truth be told, I got a million of 'em.
'Hollywood-ish", intentionally manufactured to attract readers. Things like that just don't happen, they claim.
I do not publish fiction.
Never have.
Never will.
It's just that I have been a part of emotionally satisfying moments which, because of their very nature, are impossible to forget and are delicious to tell.
This is one such romantic moment.
I was a Junior at Boston Latin School, which enjoyed the reputation of "best public high school in the country" and "a prep school for Harvard". Still does. I, never destined for academic excellence in the purist sense, really dug it.
The most favored sport was basketball. On my greatest day, I was an average player with physical limitations far exceeding my reservoir of talent. But, like so many others of similar ilk, I loved the game and could never play it too much.
In my Freshman and Sophomore years, I was on the Junior Varsity, an accomplishment recognized but not rewarded with a "letter", a prized "L" which was sown onto the school's purple and white coat sweater. That only came with "making the varsity", which was everyone's goal and for which I tried out in my Junior year.
Every day, after practice, we would run to the bulletin board and await the posting of those who had made "the cut" and were, therefore, still alive. The pressure was enormously palpable.
The number of viable candidates would dwindle after each day's scrimmages which were tests to constantly separate the wheat from the chaff. And finally, there was just one practice left, the survivors of which would make the Varsity.
On this particular day, Coach had arranged a scrimmage with Roxbury Memorial High School for a game that would determine who made the team. I was still on that list, right at the bottom, hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The make-or-break game began.
As usual, I was not on the starting team and would be put into the game in its final minutes. And inevitably, that moment arrived.
I, frankly, didn't know what I was doing (per usual) and was playing in my patented limited ability zone, when I found myself at our foul line with my back to our basket. If you analyze that, for a moment, you will quickly conclude that being in that position made no basketball sense whatsoever and just about rendered me more useless than usual. And then, a teammate passed me the ball.
My mind was blank. I entertained neither plan nor purpose. I just stood there, ball in hand, with my back facing our basket and my teammates running wildly around me, screaming for the ball. I was in some never-before-diagnosed state of shock which could very easily have been mistaken for a never-before-recognized confident look of a plan.
And then I did something which had no reason then and could never be rationally explained, to this day and beyond. I will never know what made me do it. It will forever lack all rhyme or reason.
I, with feigned great poise and assurance, threw the ball over my head. I had no target in mind or even the slightest degree of intent. I just did it--without any premeditation whatsoever. The ultimate blind pass.
There was a silencing gasp heard 'round the gymnasium as the onlookers dealt with the impact of having witnessed an act of insanity.
I turned around to see a teammate receive my pass, in perfect stride, and put in the sweetest lay-up of all time. I then saw the opposition coach glance over at our's with a look of amazement, raised eyebrows and all. Our coach, A cool dude if ever there was one, shrugged and shot back a look that said, "does it all the time".
I made the final cut and played Varsity ball for my last two years of High School.
Only the Gods can probably explain why I did what I did.
As for me, I just filed it under "Fate--Don't--Question."
The biggest reward is reliving it from time to time, as one is prone to do in one's look-back senior years.
Truth be told, I got a million of 'em.
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