That Day I Shattered My Arm

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Apparently the NBA held its all-star game this weekend complete with the famous Slam Dunk competition. I don’t care as I’ve grown to despise that league, but once upon a time I loved basketball. A really lot. You could even say that the sport sort of changed my life. Here’s one of my stories.

~*~*~*~

My doctor strolled in and clipped the x-rays to the viewbox. “It’s broken in four places,” he said to me and my mom.

I was a junior in high school, and mom happened to also be the technician who took scans of that busted arm after my aunt drove me to the medical center. Well, that’s just perfect, I thought.

My skinny bones had all been in tact three hours earlier when me and the boys shot hoops at the beginning of gym class. Someone decided they wanted to jump off of a chair and do some slam dunks. We followed. I threw down with ease while a couple others still couldn’t get there. I might have been gloating a little.

Someone said, “let’s see you do it with two hands.”

Remember that show The Wonder Years with Kevin and Winnie? As I look back on what happened next in that gymnasium, the adult narrator that I’ve become describes the scene in that same pithy voice.

If those other guys thought I couldn’t dunk with two hands I would show them. I would soar through the air like Jordan and bring down the thunder like Dominique.

I grabbed a ball and stared down the lane. The chair was positioned sideways with its back to the right. I would have to be mindful of such an alignment because I was left-footed. I considered the slippery legs of the steel mount as well. You had to hit the seat and push off just right, center flush, or the chair would shoot away and you’d kiss the court at 50 miles per hour.

No problem, I thought.  I’ve got this.