The following is a true story.
After an hour-long stint at my father’s gym today, I showered, dressed, and made my way down the hallway, past the echoing pock of squash courts, toward the exit. On my right I noticed a room I had never entered before. The indoor basketball court. I peered through the glass window to see if it was empty. It was. I went in.
Growing up I played lots of organized sports, and basketball was one of them. I was, to put it kindly, not a strong player. I recall making a glorious jumpshot, once, from near the right boundary line. Other than that, my memories are mercifully hazy. Still, despite my lousiness, I know my way around a court, and this afternoon I decided to check out my free throw skills.
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy. You know those reflex tests where the doctor taps your knee and you can’t help but kick? Or if you’re asleep and someone pinches your nose shut, you can’t help but open your mouth? Thinking about Henry Mills is kinda like that for me: no matter what, a smile just comes.
Kloncke 