Diminished mental capacity is the only possible explanation for a 5-year-old and an 11-year-old kicking my butt around a basketball court this weekend.

Well, that and the fact that I’m a wretched player. Far worse than I am at baseball, in fact. Speed you could time with a calendar hurts my transition game, and an inability to hit the broad side of a barn is a drawback on offense.

Nevertheless, buoyed by a successful outing Saturday – I hit four free throws in a row, drawing google-eye admiration from Big Guy – I agreed to go again Sunday.

I guess I forgot I’m 44 – they say memory is the first thing to go.

I suppose I didn’t recall all the missed shots before prior to the tiny string of success – let me just say that my rate would have made Shaquille O’Neal’s free-throw percentage look lofty.

And I definitely didn’t remember that I’d re-screwed up a knee trashed in a long-ago car accident the day before in a momikaze feat that involved getting stuck at the top of a climbing wall and jumping off when no other dismount appeared possible.

Amazing how all of the at slipped my mind when a little boy looked up at me with big blue eyes and said “please” as sweetly as he could. And I had promised him that we could go as long as it wasn’t raining. Clear skies overhead. Rats.

It was supposed to be a game of two-on-two, except when your teammate is 3 and hasn’t advanced past the bounce pass, you shouldn’t count on a lot of support.

I could almost keep up with Big Guy, but catching his deer-like cousin was  hopeless. I could easily block Big Guy’s shots – though I usually didn’t – but with an 11-year-old closer to my height, the best I could do was hope a hand at eye level would distract her.

It didn’t. Soon, the not-so-little imp was hitting 3s. And talking smack about it to boot. “Nuttin’ but net, baby!”

I am a middle-aged woman with a failing memory. I do not deserve this abuse.

Then my knee decided to pile on. The one advantage there: The pain in my leg made me forget my back had been hurting.

Big Guy and his cousin sprinted; I hobbled. They fired it in the hoop, Boots wailed because the ball had sailed over his head. Again. My opponents talked smack because the score was 21-4. I talked about needing an ambulance. Boots plopped on his butt at midcourt and screamed to go home. They looked for a water fountain. I looked for a taxi to cart me back across the street to the house.

Run with the big dogs? I can’t even keep up with the pups.

Mercifully, the alarm on my cell phone alerted them that the game was over. For some reason, the guys never argue with the phone as a “time to leave” signal, so they went happily home.

“Can we go again tomorrow?” Big  Guy asked, batting his eyes.

Turn off those baby blues, baby boy. We’re playing checkers for a few days.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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