I spend most of my time tracking down missed shots. If I shuffle too fast after an errant ball, my femur blares out a warning. The few times I execute a move to my right, bringing the basketball up high on the dribble, sharp knee pain blares. At every little jump and reach my ribcage flares. You can’t do that no more, the body whispers. You can’t do this. I keep my mouth shut. Start shooting foul shots. Shoot ten, make six. Shoot ten, make five. The ball keeps rimming out, hitting back iron, nicking the front of the rim, bouncing up and away. I focus on my feet, on the calf muscles, carpenter bevel breath. Shut my eyes and let the body slip into a dribble groove. Slight bend in the knees, one last backward-spinning dribble, eyes open as I come up, smooth release. Nine out of ten fall through the net. Now it’s time for Around the World: shuffling around the key in an awkward dance of shoot and rebound, shoot and rebound. It takes a few minutes to get up to the top of the key; I heave the ball twice at the rim then give up in disgust.