I decided to take a trip down memory lane and post one of my favorites, originally posted in February 2013 titled "At Our Age, Basketball is a Drug."
It starts for most of us at a young age. Easily written off as "recreational." That is, for those who took it no further. That wasn't us.
We begin to grow up and our self view takes form. It is among the first things we are able to crystalize about our being. It's not something we do, after all. It's who we are.
As we get older, a few things become clear. First, we're not among the precious small percentage that will use this as a means to gather tremendous amounts of wealth. Second, many of those who we initially identify with will lose the desire with time. For them the increasing complexities of adult life are a perfect distraction or excuse, or - and who can fault them for this? - justification to give it up. That's not us. We will keep going until our bodies physically can't take it anymore and we will probably demand that nature prove it more than once.
So we remain in the subculture. There's a rhythm created by the sounds, words and patterns that make it easier to identify with strangers who are in than with people we've known our entire lives who are out. If it's inauthentic, it doesn't feel like it.
And then there was college. This is where it was available around the clock and without consequence. Our bodies were peeking physically. We had no idea how good we had it.
Things quickly change. Some return home and find that the same places and same people are now very different. We will have to scrounge. If we settle somewhere new we will go in search of it before we ever think to fill our cabinets with groceries. It's not found online or spelled out in a travel guide. There are certain people to ask. For us, those people are easy to pick out.
If all else fails, the desperate and brave will head to the inner city. On the other hand, sometimes old, white guys are just as useful. Surprisingly, it's often available at churches and synagogues.
By now we seldom experience the joy it once gave us. It has become a mechanism. It gets us through the week. Lets us check out. Stress evaporates. Sometimes we even sneak off and do it alone early in the morning or very late at night. An act that is both deeply therapeutic and self loathing.
Each day after is worse than the last day after and one day after we know it will make it difficult to get out of bed. We hope it's not soon. After all, If we could live without it, we would already be doing it.
We begin to grow up and our self view takes form. It is among the first things we are able to crystalize about our being. It's not something we do, after all. It's who we are.
As we get older, a few things become clear. First, we're not among the precious small percentage that will use this as a means to gather tremendous amounts of wealth. Second, many of those who we initially identify with will lose the desire with time. For them the increasing complexities of adult life are a perfect distraction or excuse, or - and who can fault them for this? - justification to give it up. That's not us. We will keep going until our bodies physically can't take it anymore and we will probably demand that nature prove it more than once.
So we remain in the subculture. There's a rhythm created by the sounds, words and patterns that make it easier to identify with strangers who are in than with people we've known our entire lives who are out. If it's inauthentic, it doesn't feel like it.
And then there was college. This is where it was available around the clock and without consequence. Our bodies were peeking physically. We had no idea how good we had it.
Things quickly change. Some return home and find that the same places and same people are now very different. We will have to scrounge. If we settle somewhere new we will go in search of it before we ever think to fill our cabinets with groceries. It's not found online or spelled out in a travel guide. There are certain people to ask. For us, those people are easy to pick out.
If all else fails, the desperate and brave will head to the inner city. On the other hand, sometimes old, white guys are just as useful. Surprisingly, it's often available at churches and synagogues.
By now we seldom experience the joy it once gave us. It has become a mechanism. It gets us through the week. Lets us check out. Stress evaporates. Sometimes we even sneak off and do it alone early in the morning or very late at night. An act that is both deeply therapeutic and self loathing.
Each day after is worse than the last day after and one day after we know it will make it difficult to get out of bed. We hope it's not soon. After all, If we could live without it, we would already be doing it.
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