Show me your shot
“Short hand!” a voice came from behind when the ball hit the rim. A granny passing by the court smiled with sarcastic triumph. Lots of folks cross this court in our yard, many tempted to comment on us (me and my son Archie) playing. Some praise (“It’s so amazing seeing you two working out every day!”), most banter. Jokes simple as rocks – one or another cliché regarding us missing shoots, typically.
And I have always been buying it with a thought jumping in my head “Show me your shot”. I seen that granny a hundred times - a ball with a walking stick who had nothing common with whatever type of fitness or healthy living for the last fifty years or so.
Yet, something’s changed today. It occurred to me that I really missed the shot. She was right, I was a short hand indeed. Ten minutes before, I was a sniper, shooting five straight baskets. I was both. In fact, every short hand has his/her noble reason to be it. And it had nothing to do with the question if she could shoot.
That moment, I became totally indifferent to being called a short hand. My mind had been knowing it for long. Today, my subconscious had figured it out either.
Still, there’s one thing I can’t get. Why it took the subconscious bloody thirty years to get it?
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