I ran into one of my old basketball buddies last week at the co-op, and he reminded me that the gang would be getting together again for another season of hoops in early December. He looked to be in great shape. Of course, he’s at least 10 years younger than me, and he regularly creates embarrassing moments on the court for yours truly. This was all the impetus I needed to get out to the gym last night.

Here’s a little secret for folks who have trouble motivating themselves, gym-wise: Write it down on your calendar just like you would any meeting or social obligation. Then, early in the week, tell your spouse/partner/roommate/drowsy stranger sitting next to you on the bus that you’ve got this gym thing you’re doing later in the week. Last night after dinner, I was wavering a bit on the idea of climbing into the car and driving 20 minutes to bounce a basketball around for a half hour, until My Lovely Wife said, “You’re going to the gym tonight, right?”

I try to set a good example of fitness discipline, so I was pretty much stuck at that point. So I pulled on my sneakers, climbed into the car, drove across town, and spent 40 grueling minutes hoisting jumpers from various angles, mixing in a few layups for good measure. At my age, you don’t have to get into a pickup game in order to work up a good lather, because you’re using a whole lot of muscle groups that tend to get ignored during even the best bodyweight and strength-training routine. Plus, you get to run around — in short bursts, at least — which most of us geezers don’t do very often at all.

In my 20s I could happily spend four or five hours at the gym — between pickup games and just fooling around with the round ball — but I’ve got a bunch of miles on these knees now and they let me know when it’s time to stop. Besides, the shots were falling, for the most part, and you never want to leave your “A” game on the practice court.

I woke up this morning feeling pretty OK, all things considered. So, I figure I’ll schedule another couple of sessions before the season kicks off. Back in my youth, this sort of preparation was accompanied by the idea that I might be able to raise my game a couple of notches. These days, it’s all about avoiding embarrassment.

It’s often said of rookies who have graduated from the college hardwood to NBA arenas that they have to wait for the game to “slow down” before they can feel comfortable with a basketball in their hands. The pros are simply bigger, stronger and quicker than anything these youngsters have experienced during their college years. The game is way more intense.

Rejoining my old b-ball buddies at the Anderson school gym the other night, I felt a little like one of those rookies — although I don’t think the game could slow down any more than it has over the past decade and still resemble basketball. Intense is not exactly the word I would use to describe what goes on here.

And I don’t think I have to tell you that is a good thing.

Some things haven’t changed: J.D. still runs the court like a madman, consistently scoring on fast-break layups; his brother, D.D. still has that little hook shot and a reliable mid-range jumper; and J.Y. (AKA Sleight-of-Hand) still can drive the lane for his patented scoop shot. It’s just all done now in slow-motion now; they’re all in their 50s, after all.

So I can’t say that my re-entry into “competitive” basketball was all that daunting. We did play full court, however, so there was plenty of running involved. And the opposing team featured a mix of twentysomethings along with a few greybeards, so there were flashes of athleticism to contend with. Plus, we didn’t have much in the way of reserves, so I ended up sitting down for only about 10 minutes during the two hours we had the court.

I think I did OK, though. Four of 12 from the field, a handful of assists, a handful of turnovers, an occasional rebound. But there was one moment early on that really made me wonder whether I belonged out there. I was posting up my defender down near the baseline, and when the pass came my way, I could hear my brain telling my arms to reach out to corral it, but my arms weren’t listening. The ball bounced harmlessly out of bounds and D.D. gave me a look that seemed to suggest that I save future indications of dementia for other venues.

At home later that night, I waited for my body to react to the punishment it had received. It didn’t take long. My knees, ankles and hips had begun a vigorous protest by the time I collapsed into bed, and for the next few days they continued to complain. Less than a week later, though, I felt pretty good (yoga and arnica work wonders) and a second round of hoops last week delivered less of a body blow than the first. My endurance has been fine, and the knees are holding up pretty well so far.

So I’m looking forward to getting after it again tomorrow night. I’m feeling less like a rookie already.

I had an interesting revelation last week. After a long absence, I headed downstairs to the gym after work on Tuesday and dragged myself through about a 45-minute workout, including a stint on my old nemesis, the Elliptical Death Machine, and a trip to The Pit, where I got reacquainted with some heavy (for me) iron.

A week has passed and I’ve only just recovered, hence the revelation: My morning body-weight and kettlebell routine is way too wimpy to be doing me much good, if soreness is any measure of workout goodness. My morning regimen gets my heart pumping and I’ll break a sweat if I push through three series (which takes about 15 minutes), but I have to admit that it’s not that much of a challenge anymore. And fitness, I’m told, is all about pushing yourself beyond what you think you’re capable of doing.

This is not a groundbreaking discovery, I know, but it says something, I think, about how easy it is to imagine that you’re making progress when you’re not really doing anything but coasting. I like to imagine that I’m more active than a lot of sixtysomethings, but that’s not saying much, is it?

So just when I’m thinking that this past week’s worth of soreness was some kind of a sign — a kick in the pants, if you will — I run into an old basketball buddy at the co-op on Sunday. And what does he do but issue an invitation to rejoin the old crew on the hardcourt after the holidays.

This is suddenly an immensely attractive idea — another sign that it’s time to ratchet up the intensity of my workouts. Later that day, I’m talking on the phone with my tennis buddy (and former b-ball teammate), M.E., and I’m making a case for the two of us to make a comeback, and he actually seems mildly interested, which I take to be another sign that I must be on the right track.

So, I’m thinking I’ll rev up my workouts through the holidays, get over to the big gym and work on my jumper, ramp up my endurance, and push myself a little more. See what happens when I have a goal, when I’m participating in a competitive sport I really enjoy.

Then it occurs to me that my left knee has been kind of achy ever since I left the co-op on Sunday. I wonder . . . could that be a sign?

Nah.

I was just clearing dishes from the table after dinner last night when my son said two little words that are changing my life.
“So . . . basketball?”
Mr. Parkour wasn’t talking about heading downstairs with a six-pack to catch some March Madness on the tube. He was challenging me to get off my duff and head over to the gym and shoot some hoops.
This is a relatively new preoccupation for M.P. When he’s not working these days you can usually find him perfecting his free-running moves or joining his pals for a spirited game of basketball at one gym or another around town. And, given that he’s 20 years old and on the verge of heading out on his own, any invitation is something of an honor.
And a challenge. There’s something about your son taking up a sport that you once played that fires up the old competitive juices — or at least what’s left of them. You want to take advantage of these dwindling opportunities to hang out together, but you secretly (or not so secretly) want to show him you still got it.
That’s not easy when you’re pushing 60 and haven’t really played competitively for the past decade. On our last foray to the hardcourt a month ago, for instance, I spent a half-hour or so hoisting airballs and clanking bricks before I began to find my stroke. Tonight felt better. The knee seemed strong and some of the old moves began to resurface (in super slow-mo, no doubt). And for the first time in a long, long time, I began to entertain the notion that maybe I could get back on the court again.
In fact, M.P. and I have been talking about putting up a hoop on the garage and buying a basketball. And I’ve been trash-talking with his pal, Justin, who is itching to play some two-on-two as soon as the snow is cleared from the court at the local elementary school. (All I need to do is recruit my tennis buddy — and hoops legend — M.E. and it would be “game on”!)
This could be a mid-life crisis, I suppose, if I wasn’t already so close to retirement age. But, practically speaking, everyone says it’s important to have a variety of activities in your fitness regimen. And I figure that as long as I don’t pretend I’m 28 (or even 48) again, there’s at least a 50-50 chance that I’ll survive this infatuation relatively unscathed.