I need to learn that, because the winter I lost my footing on an icy sidewalk, my hand took the brunt of it, which broke my wrist. I was out of the game for months. It was an artless tumble. Strictly amateur.
Last week, my husband and I walked into the Y for our usual cardio and found the gym swarming with guys and girls in wheelchairs, in town for their regional basketball tournament. As in all endeavors, a star emerged, a kid with genius moves. He was fast, graceful, smart, and accurate. A set belt strapped him into the chair; both legs were missing from the hip down, his right arm amputated at the elbow. While he was executing a series of intricate fakes, dribbling into position for a three-pointer, his chair rolled over. It pinned him underneath, wheels in the air, spinning. I couldn't tell how it got worked out––I'm often six moves behind while watching a game, but he was upright and sinking a free throw before I could gasp. Before my respect finished its artless decent into pity.
I tell you what; I admire how basketball players fall.
Love Letter to a Basketball Coach