Off The Cuff: Basketball for the young and old

Sweat, sprained ankles and burgers... and oh so much more. Basketball memories.

There's an indescribable buzz at the sinking of a 'swoosh' basket or watching the art of slam-dunking by the awesome gods of the NBA. An undying love for the pace and grace of basketball developed early in life, back when it was cool to be a tomboy.

Being a tomboy wasn't easy. Less easier still was hanging out with an older brother and friends, who occasionally deigned to let the pesky kid sister take part in a game with them. I always had to prove my worth. Heady stuff. Except, of course, when I sprained my ankle coming off a lay-up and had to be hoisted to the nearby pool's deck chairs.

It wasn't too bad considering that they continued with their game while I languished pool-side, wolfing down a perfectly grilled burger, dripping cheese. Pain, making only a fleeting visit, with each unconscious movement of the smallest muscle.

Later, there were high school team try-outs, gruelling team practice sessions and the dawning awareness of the existence of boys, who watch girls, who play basketball. The cheering roar of the entire school, including students and faculty, at inter-school matches and the sheer adrenaline rush of winning made us momentary celebrities.

We did lose sometimes, but ardent supporters denounced the bias of the umpire or berated the opposing team's foul tactics to such an extent that it all started to seem true. We didn't just lose, we were innocent victims of a cruel conspiracy.

Those were the days. Young and always right.

Fast-forward to the present and the advent of creaking bones, pot bellies and out-of-active-duty muscles. Courts are few and far between and players even fewer. Many moons have passed since playing an actual game.

Warm ups take longer, almost extending till the end of play. My opponents are younger, about eight and five. They're the only boys who watch me, and that's because they have to. I bribe them into spending time on the court so that they can go swimming later on. Mothers are entitled to some manipulation, occasionally.

But now, the arms ache. Triceps and other long-dormant muscles scream their presence. Lungs work overtime and the entire body feels like pulp. Pores overflow with sweat and even palms leave large wet patches on the ball. This wasn't exactly how it used to be.

Whatever happened to the days when we could play for ages and not feel exhausted and not have our hearts hammer explosively? Whatever happened to confidence and the momentum it created to carry things through? Whatever happened to youth?

I can still do a lay-up, but the ball tends to roll around the rim and off the basket rather than swoosh, and I land gingerly, so as not to sprain my ankles. It's tough-going to dribble and maintain control, dodge and fake, even with the little guys.

Ah, but when I eventually make a basket, the adrenaline squirts just enough for a tiny buzz, just like the old days.