Hoops

I bought a basketball on impulse. This is a top of the line $25 ball. I put it in my trunk two months ago when kids were still out of school. Kids who were bigger than me and hogged the courts, even though I am a tax payer and have just as much right to use them, maybe more.
Truthfully, as we enter November, I still haven't used it. Every time I drive past the courts I contemplate parking and getting out and shooting a few hoops. I imagine myself at fifteen with moves Kobe would envy, able to hang in the air, bending my legs at the knees and stroking jump shot after jump shot, hour after hour. I couldn't dribble; I was a rebounder, crashing the boards, fearless.
Now I'm afraid I'll get out there and embarrass myself. Bounce the ball off my foot, attempt a few moves and fall down, throw a head feint at no one and get dizzy. Try to jump and barely get off the ground. I'll wind up shooting layups, standing two feet from the basket.
More than anything, I'm fearful someone will ask to shoot with me, ask to use my ball. Worse, more than one, a bunch of young men, angry and out of work, show up, take the ball, choose up sides, leave me out or don't toss me the ball. Since their day is free, they'll stay there for hours, long past when I want to leave. I will politely ask for my ball. Anything can happen. Knives could appear, I could get roughed up, maybe tossed in the bushes, perhaps they'll take my watch and wallet and sneakers and keys and car and my box of Ike and Mike candy.
So the ball stays in my trunk. I should have bought a tennis racket. Three old women looking for a doubles partner is more my speed. Unless they expect me to provide the balls.