We're on our own Legends

Legends of the NBA, you of the Sixties seasons, along with all the senior citizens of our country, our fans or not, or not at all of sports, when we were young, playing in a COVID19 safe world,

WE'RE ON OUR OWN.

It appears as if America's federal and state governments have made the decision to open up the country for business despite CDC's  dire warnings. It is a decision approved by a great majority of our small business owners and workers, many of whom could be our children, grown grandchildren, friends, neighbors, and and their friends and neighbors and co-workers and employees who have been steadily watching their lives deteriorate. As much as it pains me, I don't blame them for wanting to get back to work.

 Let's pray it will not backfire on them and on us, producing a second more lethal wave of virus in the fall that will make this frantic effort to open meaningless.

In the meantime, all you Legends out there between the ages of Sixty and whatever  - this writer admits to being 81 - the decision to open the economy means the deciders, whomever they are, have accepted the possibility or even the probability that we oldsters, the most vulnerable to the virus, are expendable.

So, Legends, what must we do to keep from being the fodder to their cannons?  Keep playing by the CDC rules is the only answer I can think of besides having Star Trek's Scotty beam us en masse to South Korea where they value old people.

Make no mistake: The Game of Life is being played with our lives. And for us, the game is in Overtime.

Which reminds me of the great /LA/Knicks guard, Dick Barnett. In a game against the Warriors, Warriors up by two (no 3 pt shot back then) two ticks left on the clock, Dickie speed-dribbling to mid-court, shoots the ball with that quirky looking jumper of his and announcing while the ball is still in mid-air,"Baby, we Ah, in Oh-Va- Time."

When the game is on the line, Legends, it is time to play our best.

I offer a great poem about a guy playing basketball by himself by my good friend, Peter Sears, dearly departed. Could be the same guy today, sheltering at home out on his driveway.

Air Ball   by Peter Sears

I'm shooting baskets on the driveway. I loft a soft
jumper: good arc, nice back-spin. It falls short,
touching nothing. Air ball. Hits the down spout, rolls

down the hill. Nuts. I go get it and, dribbling back,
imagine the seconds ticking down - 10-9-8 - I must 
pick my man off - 7-6-5 - finally daylight - 3-2-1
my shot clangs off the rim. O.K. I try again - 6-5-

4-3 - I break clear, lift a long running onehander. In
and out. Refs reset the time clock: 5 seconds. I look
my defender in the eyes, go up over him. The shot

doesn't reach the rim. Air ball. One bounce, and the ball
is arcing out-of-bounds. I leap for it, teeter on the line.
The pricker bush won't hold me up. I sink, I hurt.
Whistle! I must've been pushed out. Refs are putting

seconds back on the clock. I pull prickers from my
shooting hand. After this time-out, I'll be double-teamed.
That's O.K., they'll get me the ball,and there'll be time.