By Allan Ripp
I dribble across midcourt with the game clock flashing 10 seconds left and our team down by one. I fake left, but go right as a defender gets in my face, then step back and launch an arching shot to the hoop. It hits the rim but I deftly grab my own rebound and finger roll the ball in for a buzzer-beating win. The crowd erupts.
OK, reality-check rewind. I am walking in Central Park and pull a used hand warmer from my jacket pocket, which I proceed to lob at a nearby garbage receptacle. It misses the opening and slides feebly to the ground, where I scoop it up and deposit it in the cannister like a good citizen. “Nice try,” someone snickers passing by.
I haven’t been on an actual basketball court in years — or baseball diamond, football gridiron or other field of play. Nor have I ever filled out a fantasy football lineup. But that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my competitive drive or highlight-reel reveries. Slogging through my daily routines around the Upper West Side, greatness is always close at hand.
A rolled-up pair of socks is a Kareem-worthy skyhook to the hamper. A found acorn near the Reservoir becomes a strikeout pitch against a tree. And a stutter-step move past some lumbering tourists near Zabar’s gains first-down yardage towards the end zone on the next block. Sometimes, back in the park, I have to finesse my way around a shrewd defender guarding the basket – or is that just a raccoon rummaging through the trash at 90th Street?
Anyone who’s ever played sports dreams of clutch moments. As a kid, I could conjure nine innings of play-by-play excitement just by throwing a rubber ball against a wall, channeling performances from my gods Roberto Clemente, Bob Gibson and Bill Mazeroski. It took but a Nerf sponge ball and a wastebasket to turn my shag-carpeted bedroom into Madison Square Garden for NCAA finals, match-up brackets included (all my friends did their own version of a cheering crowd).
You want sports betting? My son Asher and I wager big – how about $1 million if I land our dog’s stuffed beaver in the basket at the far side of the living room? So, I missed. Let’s go double or nothing on this crumbled ball of foil wrap into the kitchen trash, with a $500K sweetener if I bank it off a cabinet.
Recent research shows evidence of mood swings, anxiety and other mental-health risks among those who engage in fantasy sports leagues, no surprise given the obsessive, job-like stresses of running even a make-believe team with stats and trade deadlines. Fantasy sports is not the same as sports fantasy, which can strike anytime, anywhere.
I’ll never get to a Super Bowl or an Olympics, and long ago missed my chance at a Little League championship. But a shot at glory awaits me wherever I go – you just have to know where to find it. And your team never loses.
Mr. Ripp runs a press relations firm in New York.
I love this charming article! I used to implore my husband to take pride in such things, asking sincerely — Why is it magical to swoosh the basketball in the net, and lackluster to dunk your socks in the hamper?
pickleball is always an option
carpe diem
Wonderful piece! Thanks.
This delightful bit of whimsy is proof positive of the ability of the imagination to change moods and lift spirits. And it’s available to everyone at no cost. What a wonderful way to transform dull or disappointing circumstance into gilded happenstance.