[photo by miniluxalex]The prohibitive mist which slicked the Carroll Park courts when I got off the subway was countered by the buoyancy of a decidedly warming humid evening. Perfect weather to get loose.
An effective enough argument that I sized up the twenty minute gap of free time I had as ample opportunity to ask the lone figure shooting around if I could join him for a few shots. When the court's wet--particularly the painted part, which in this instance is everything inside the three-point arc--the body naturally wants to take baby steps, and consequently it's hard for one to get much of a workout, let alone build a rhythm, shooting hoops alone. So assuming Shooting Stranger here was interested in getting his money's worth in court time, I wasn't just asking to play, I was offering my rebounding services. At a tremendous value, I might add.
But the point, not just my point but the point, is to build that rhythm, isn't it? The spins, the tracings of footwork.
On this particular evening, the movements invoked included slower, hypergliding shifts in direction, balanced to let the ball go just gracefully enough to not cause the shooter or passer to keel over in a slick-sneakered squall. Finger-rolls off the glass, especially the Gervin-esque, english-laden variety I usually favored, were useless against this weather; no spin intended to guide a carom off the backboard would grip the wet surface. Flatter, more basic bank shots were found far more effective. After about fifteen minutes or so, the two of us had made other such adjustments, and were into a beautiful rhythm all its own.
So when I left the court after not much longer, my body and spirit had gotten a great deal of the benefits basketball provides. Forced to focus on correct form so as not to injure ourselves, while having to use our heads and physical intelligence to employ that form in accordance with our environment, just going through the motions of a shoot-around never felt better.
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