He Played

by John Sheirer

He gazes at a photo of himself sinking a jump shot thirty-eight years ago, age twenty-five, suspended above his own multiple shadows, perfectly aligned with the basket, gravity melted away. The shot can only have swished. The moment embeds so deeply in his memory that when he closes his eyes, he’s rising again, snapping his wrist, the basket big as Saturn’s rings. Time stops, the world disappears, and the ball feathers through the net. Of course, if he tried that shot today, you’d hear ligaments splinter from outer space. But those memories. At last, he understands. That’s why he played.