I gave myself ten weeks to dunk again. It wasn’t going to be easy: I figured I’d need to add five or six inches to my vertical in order to dunk a regulation basketball. I was in half-decent shape, and at six-foot-three, I had height on my side. But I had a few things other than age working against me—namely feet that had flattened over the years to canoe paddles, and an ankle injury I’d never properly rehabbed.
The days and jumps and deadlifts and calf raises rolled on, rep by rep, protein shake by protein shake. Six months became seven, then eight. To protect my right hand, I began wearing a canvas gardening glove with the fingers cut off. It soon became stained with blood—the equivalent of Curt Schilling’s bloody sock, but with one-millionth the significance. The rims where I toiled belonged to me now, such that I barely noticed the toddlers wobbling nearby, the skateboarders swirling around me as day turned to dusk, the elderly couple ambling arm in arm, looking for all the world like my wife helping me to the shower on the morning after a double day.