1. I knew I had one more in me

The second Saturday of March marked two notable events in my life.

The first was the commencement of another season of playground basketball. About two dozen people converged on a suburban schoolyard outside of Washington, D.C., many of whom had not seen each other since the previous September. The players ranged in age from the early teens to the mid-30s. They ranged in profession from student to lawyer to repairman. They ranged widely in talent, too, but there was certainly a ceiling. While there were some former high school and Division III college players, there were numerous playgrounds on which none of their number would dare venture. A visitor from a higher level of the basketball pyramid occasionally would visit their humble court and find no challenge that would merit his return. Perhaps no point illustrates the middle class basketball status of the regulars better than the fact that I, who could not make my high school's junior varsity squad, was considered among the best players at that particular court the previous summer.

The second event was my 31^st birthday.

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A flick of the remote control starts the tape forward. T.J. Sorrentine is standing to the right of the screen near the center circle, rhythmically pounding the basketball into the hardwood floor.

There are 24 seconds remaining on the shot clock, 1:28 left in the game. Sorrentine’s thirteenth-seeded Vermont Catamounts have a one-point lead over the heavily favored, fourth-seeded Syracuse Orangemen in the first round of the 2005 NCAA Tournament. As much as the legends of many of the game’s greatest players have been born in this event, it is the ubiquitous underdog that makes it the spectacle that it is. There is no sporting event truer to the mythical American dream – anybody in the dance has a chance. A victory by Vermont would be remembered for generations and, as a result, every Catamount player was participating in the biggest game of his life.

Sorrentine had been a solid college player, even winning his conference player of the year award, but as a senior with limited professional prospects, this was likely his last turn on the basketball stage. If it was to be his last game, it was not how he would have wanted to be remembered. He had delivered a miserable shooting performance, missing fourteen of his eighteen shots in the game – a shooting percentage of 22 percent. Nevertheless, he looks calm on the screen, working the ball effortlessly off the floor and between his legs as the clocks ticks down.

With 14 seconds on the shot clock and 1:18 in the game, he glances towards his coaches, who begin pleading with him to run a designed play. Sorrentine continues to dribble more than thirty feet from the basket, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, but no play is being executed. The Syracuse defenders look at him blankly, baffled by the still stationary Vermont point guard. Thousands of fans stand spellbound in the arena. Millions watching at home edge closer to their televisions sets. With eight seconds left on the shot clock, 1:12 in the game, Sorrentine picks up his dribble.

This is what happened next:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBFFJb9KSdc

In the press conference later, with the grin of a boy who knew he'd remember this moment longer than his own name, Sorrentine described the play. "Coach was yelling at me, 'Run Red! Run Red!" he started, then paused as he looked down and shook his head. The grin stubbornly held on his cheeks as he searched the floor and relived the exchange, continuing, "Nah, nah. I got this. I got this." He then picked up his eyes, wide with joy, and the guy who was 4 for 18 when he tossed up the 30-foot jumper said,

"I knew I had one more in me."

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My father has long held the theory that our enjoyment of jokes is often enhanced by knowing the punchline in advance. He spoke of the magic of Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners. The best moments on the show were when something would happen to Ralph Kramden that would draw the most predictable of responses – “To the moon, Alice!” The entire audience was able to say it with him, allowing them to participate in the joy of delivering a good line. It is probably the reason why my friends and I have watched comedies like Anchorman and Wedding Crashers as many times as we have. It’s probably why people roar at concerts at the beginning of a band’s classic songs, then sing along until the end. Maybe it’s being able to participate in greatness. Maybe it’s simply that Pavlov was right. Maybe it’s that the world is such an unpredictable place that we rejoice in the few times when we can see something coming.

I’ve watched the tape of the Vermont-Syracuse ending more times than I can count. I cannot shake the impression that Sorrentine knew exactly what was going to happen when he began his dribble. I can almost see him smiling. While those 20 seconds were slipping away, he might’ve been reliving all of the practices in the backyard, the playground battles, the high school practices – every moment of his basketball life, everything leading up to this single play. There might have been another game, but for a Cinderella team like Vermont, a single victory was history. He knew this was the end. He knew he was going to get to have that moment. He got to savor it – and that made it so much sweeter.

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On that March Saturday morning, I found myself in a similar situation. Well, as long as you can ignore the lack of history, fans, coaching, and talent. I knew my playing days were winding down. I had been playing at this court for the past four summers, trying to figure out what I could do on a basketball court long after everyone else had moved on to other challenges. I had also made it a point of pride to help ensure that there were games at that court six days per week, which meant that I had to be at that court six days per week. I was the last one to leave more often than not, playing kids half my age in games of one-on-one that ended by the light of the moon. It’s an unforgiving pounding on a 5’9”, 160-pound frame.

It could easily be argued that I should have already moved on to other things. I should have made a greater investment in my career. I should have focused on developing a social life beyond the confines of a playground. I should have spent more time thinking about philosophy, religion, or politics. I should have adopted a cause and made it my own. Good arguments all. I had a simple answer.

Nah, nah. I got this. I got this.

I knew that if I had the good fortune to have many years ahead of me, those years would be filled with basketball. There would be men’s leagues. There would be backyard games with my nieces, maybe even, if I’m really lucky, with kids of my own. There would be many more years of coaching. There would be thousands of hours devoted to following the game on television. There would be countless phone calls with my dad to discuss the prospects of our favorite team. But I knew that my body and my future would allow me only one more year of the daily pick-up battles on this playground. I was going to go as much, as long, and as hard as I could. I was going to savor every minute. I was going to play knowing two things.

I knew this was the end.

I knew I had one more in me.

This is the story of the last summer of a playground junkie.

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