Gerontophobia

Many Thursdays are spent playing basketball with these old geezers at the Marriott Hotel off of Michigan Avenue. Best place to ball in town. The gym’s outdoor court is on the roof, 30 stories from the ground. Imagine shooting a jumper and seeing the John Hancock Building in your peripheral.

I’ve never lifted weights or run treadmills at that gym, but the only reason I keep renewing my membership is for the guys that show up there. Who would have thought that for all the basketball I’ve played in my life, the most intensely competitive games I’d ever be a part of would be with those wrinkly old bastards? I love those wrinkly old bastards. They play like there’s no tomorrow because quite frankly there might not be a tomorrow.

72-year-old Brian, he’s my favorite. He wears goggles and kneepads, rocks the short shorts, pulls his socks up high, does jumping jacks as a warm-up. You get the picture. Good thing we’re always on the same team together, because no one has figured out how to stop his skyhook.

One Thursday I show up to the basketball court at the usual time and find out that everyone else has stayed home due to the drizzle. Everyone except for Brian, who is doing suicides out there by himself, that beast. We decide to play a quick game of H-O-R-S-E, which unfortunately ends up being too quick, because when he tries to screw me over early on by attempting a behind-the-backboard hook shot, he lands awkwardly and twists his ankle really bad.

They say that if you were to drop a mouse down an elevator shaft, it would get up and walk around like nothing happened. If you were to drop a puppy down an elevator shaft, it would break a couple bones, but it would still be okay. But if you were to drop a horse down the shaft, it would splash, exploding into a pool of blood. If I’m a mouse or a puppy, then Brian is the horse. All he does is twist an ankle and a mushroom cloud goes up in the Gold Coast. He's sobbing, going deathly pale, ready to pass out in excruciating agony.

After we ice the ankle up, I escort Brian in a cab back to his really nice condo. There I meet his sweet old wife, Lenore, who can’t hear a word I’m saying because she’s pretty much deaf. I decide to stay to chat with Brian for a little longer, and when I’m stacking pillows on top of an ottoman to elevate his ankle, the door buzzer rings (it’s someone bringing crutches), followed by a strobe light going off several times. At first I’m not sure what the deal is with that strobe light, but then it occurs to me that they’ve got something rigged so that that thing goes off when the door buzzer rings, because his wife can’t hear it. If I ever get that old just smother me with a pillow in my sleep please.