Musings for an Unrealized Dream
Well.
Every month turned into a bit of a Summer Break.
Who writes essays on Summer Break?
Then 26 hit, I said I'd be back, never committed myself, and here we are.
Winter Break just ended. Happy New Year.
Who writes essays on Winter Break.
Growing up, winters were often spent in the basketball gyms of local grade schools. I, an avid baller, found solace and pride on the court. I was not, by any measure or stretch of the imagination, a talented basketball player, but, man did I love it. Until I was 15, I held onto a dream of being an NBA powerhouse without even being able to hold onto the playground monkey bars. I hadn't even yet eclipsed that five-foot threshold, but I'd be damned if I had yet given up.
I'm still categorically not tall, for the record. It wasn't my fault I never made it—it was the genetics. Besides, I figure myself humble and gracious for letting LeBron be the Kid from Akron. How vile of me to even consider swiping the moniker out from under him.
In truth, BronBron was the crux and culmination of my enthusiasm for the game of basketball. What I lacked in talent, height, and athleticism, I made up for tenfold in fanboydom. His 2010 Cleveland departure brought about a Joey Randazzo Heartbreak Revenge Tour of sorts that really fueled that oh-so-unrealistic dream of being the biggest thing since the guy.
I'll spare the rest of the gut-wrenching details of the "boy's failed pursuit of renown and prestige" story, but will let you in on the secret that the boy never worked very hard to achieve either.
What I remember most fondly of my ballin' days were evenings sitting at the foot of my parents' bed watching Cavs games on their television. Sometimes I'd sneak into their room while they already had it on, slide under their bed, and peak out to catch a couple random Daniel Gibson or Drew Gooden highlights, which I would inevitably spend the next evening trying to recreate in the driveway, screaming and squeaking a dwindling shot clock that no one saw but me.
I've gotta imagine my sweet parents knew of my mischief and chose benevolence over bedtime.
For years, the annual Sprite Slam Dunk Contest was the highlight of my year. If for nothing else, it provided fodder and inspiration for the mini versions held in the basement where I—still unable to even jump up a few stairs—was crowned back to back to back to back champion.
I dote on memories of Dunk Contests past and rue the change of landscape in the modern NBA.
For no reason other than no one there is Dwight Howard in a Superman cutoff?
Strange, man, the passing of time.
The Dunk Contest is back tonight and I, of course, will be tuning in, reminiscing on days when I thought I was the next crop.
This time, I'll probably watch from the couch, though. My parents can't really tell me do go to bed.