That was me....

I was just driving home from the Y through the drizzly gray and I caught out of the corner of my eye a gangly pre-teen jogging down the street- dribbling a basketball. Instantly I flashed back to my own gangly era- back in the heydey of Title 9 when I was a proud member of one of the first all-girl basketball teams in the revered IBA (Irondale Basketball Association). I would come home after school, grab my basketball and head out around the block. Dribbling. I had developed this training regimen all on my own- and I was devoted. I can still remember the gritty feel of the ball when I would first head out in the spring, before the street sweepers had come through to get rid of the leftover sand from the winter. And now, some 30ish years later, it comes to me in a flash of insight as to why I was never a superstar player. The game of basketball does not depend on the well honed skill of rather slow, long distance, straight-line, unchallenged dribbling. This is why I was never so hot at the quick short drive to the basket. But if the game ever evolved to utilize 1/2 mile long courts I would totally dominate. Still today. My only challenger would be the young one I saw out just now on a lonely dribble around the block. She would clearly have a foot up on me if the game was played outdoors on drizzly days- she's clearly an all weather long distance basketball dribbler. Me- I am pretty sure my outings were limited to the sunny days. I hated the feel of a wet basketball. My devotion was only so deep.
Another thing I remember- if I accidentally dribbled off my foot when making the turn on to 17th avenue (turns are hard! I was all about the straight lines)- that ball would roll down the hill for blocks before I caught up to it. I am sure some of the neighbors spent a number of afternoons getting some chuckles at my expense. I did not chuckle at the dribbler just now. I tilted my hat to her and her (seemingly misguided) devotion.