Therapy

Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.

Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.

I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.