Losing a Step... and then some.

I am saved.

And, I owe it all to this guy. No, not Shane Battier. He doesn't care about me. But, the author of that article, Michael Lewis, apparently does.

He must have known that after a quarter of a century playing semi-competitive basketball, that I was seriously considering putting my last pair of high top shoes on a shelf in the furnace room. Forever. I could no longer do the things that came so naturally for so long.

I told myself that it was a good run. I learned a lot about the game... and about myself through the years. I don't feel old. I don't really look old. So, why was the world of basketball rushing by me like Rashad McCants on his way to the Sacramento Airport?

For a couple of years, I found an excuse for everything. But, deep down... I knew. I had seen what happened to guys like Gary Payton and Kenny Anderson. NBA players who seemed to go from young to old overnight. I refuse to become that guy.

I told myself that it only happens to guys with actual athletic ability. My game was always played below the net. I'd be fine.

I lied.

My friends and teammates lied to me, too. They'd pat their chest after one of my errant passes as if to say, "I should have known you were going to throw the ball 12 feet behind me at ankle level."

Their pep talks lacked any sense of the present. "Dude, you know you can get hot at any time. You're due. Remember when you hit those 7 threes in a row."

Yeah, I remember. It was before that guy had his first kid. He has four more kids now. Time flies when you're a sucky basketball player.

The final straw: When their overenthusiastic cheers after I hit a three were befitting the efforts of a special ed kid playing in garbage time.

I was no longer just lying to myself. I was embarrassing myself.

It was time. So, I asked the gal pal to bring the boys to their first ever basketball game. I talked myself into some dopey melodrama about the symbolic gesture. Their first game would be their father's last. (Yes, I DO need a life outside of basketball and movies on the Oxygen network.)

All it did was make me press even more. Subsequently, think even more. And, unfortunately, suck even more.

It made me realize how far I really have fallen. I couldn't remember the last nice assist I had while on the move. (Sorry, but being a top-notch inbounds passer isn't enough.)

I can remember the first time an opposing player said, "Let him shoot." I was indignant. "How dare you... don't you know who I am?" The second time it happened, I was confused. The third time... I think I cried.

But, then Michael Lewis saved me.

Basketball isn't only about scoring. Or, beating come chump off the dribble. Or, dazzling wraparound passes. It's also about the subtle push in the small of the back as your opponent drives by you and attempts a layup. The hidden wonders of friendly banter with the officials. Moving screens. And, the extra pass that nobody else seems to notice.

Alas, the crossover to the rack comes out as often as Tim Hardaway at a George Michael concert. The awe-inspiring pass is as rare as a Yinka Dare assist. But, that doesn't mean I am completely useless. I can still do little annoying things that help my team win sometimes... while annoying the hell out of the other team.

There will still be fleeting moments. (It's not like I'm the suckiest of the sucky basketball players for chrissakes.) But, instead of once a game, or week, or month... my moments will come once a year. I might as well take up golf.

But at least I now have hope, thanks to Mr. Lewis. All I have to do is make my teammates and opposing teams read the article so they stop treating me like a chump on the court.

Continuing to lie to myself will help, too.