Some of us have it, and some ... well, not so much

Nobody in life is less athletic than I am. My sainted mother could well have told you that I’m one of the most ungainly creatures in life, apt to chew gum and walk on it at the same time.

Still, there was once a potentially shining moment flirting with the edge of glory and which, from time to time, still whispers the need for revelation; specially at this time of year when one turns over new leaves and declares increased transparency.

Now it’s important that you know about this; and this is the way it was.

Several moons ago the major domo of my village’s basketball empire, on an idle and daydreamy afternoon, divined some harmless college half-time entertainment engaging a couple of quinquagenarian locals in a foulshooting contest of the sort inexplicitly popular in the day. Why I, with a dubious career as a high school bench jockey, was one of his draftees has never been clear (though occasionally I recall that domo owed me money and was probably seeking to curry favour). My rival was to be a hometown icon with Hall of Fame credentials. It was to cringe. Also, it was to practise, to work, to train, and so ’twas to the nearest, and with any luck vacant, gymnasium and the brushing up on some shots foul.

The exercise began slowly, tentatively, carefully sending the ball curving its way in the general direction of the goal, coming closer with each try. It was probably the 20th throw that stuck an unsuspecting janitor who happened to be painting a wall. He fell from his ladder, muttering his congratulations. Shot No. 30 caught a bit of the glass backboard. No. 65 nicked the rim. The 85th found the mark. I guessed I was ready.

The fans that night were restive, anticipatory, anxious to see the advertised struggle between a six-foot-six David and a five-foot-ten Goliath. Understandably, when the two of us showed up at the appointed time, the crowd broke into an ear-splitting hush and headed for the washrooms.

I won the toss and stepped first to the line to take the prescribed 25 shots. As a person of faith I had the kind of confidence that matched my sparkling new Adidas and a new maroon jogging suit. Ignoring my earlier unspectacular rehearsal, I took assurance from the spectators who were loudly whispering their encouragement. Crowds always go for the underdog.

Well, as it happened, my third shot went in; so did the eighth; then the 16th; then the 24th. Hey, all right, 16 per cent. Not bad for an old guy. Beat that, hotshot, I said as I headed to the bench and a press conference wherein I entertained witnessing scouts with my interest in a professional offer. I told them I rather liked the idea of the Lakers. My wife had always wanted to see Disneyland.

Meanwhile, Goliath was quickly whittling away at my lead; he’d obviously been practising on other afternoons; and after all this was his home court, and wasn’t he familiar with the wind currents? It was, probably, even his ball.

In any event, he was sinking No. 25 while I went wandering through the stands and happening across my old Grade 8 music teacher wondering if she might have an in with the Metropolitan Opera Company. Do you suppose I might crack La Traviata?

My wife has always wanted to see the Empire State Building.