Now when I shoot hoops, I wear headphones. There’s no second-guessing, no hesitation. When the ball bounces into the corner, I scurry after it. I can almost forget the years of pain and disappointment and struggle it’s taken to get to this point. An old soul mix helps—“Boogie on Reggae Woman” into “Sex Machine” into “Sexy Motherfucker.” That’s all I need to get into a rhythm. Shoot from the corner, swish, retrieve the ball, shoot from the other corner, off the rim, grab the rebound, layup, back out to the line, swish. It’s a dance, a meditation. I spin on the dribble and drive to the basket: pull up and rise for a jump shot, slight double clutch in the air. Back up, dribbling, and try again, this time spinning a little tighter, raising up a little higher. I am a sexy motherfucker. I am a sex machine. On my way out, I pass some of the players taping up in the training room. Laugh when a student makes a friendly joke about the old man limping around the court. Take the stairs two at a time, knowing I’ll need to ice my ankle and pop some Advil. And head out to the car.