新編大學(xué)英語(yǔ)第四冊(cè)u(píng)nit12 Text B: Hacker or Mike?

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UNIT 12 AFTER-CLASS READING 1; New College English (IV)

Hacker or Mike?

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who play sports and those who excel at sports. The men I know who belong to the former group keep trying to join the latter group. We're unable to relinquish the fond hope that one day our aging limbs will miraculously become well coordinated.

Take me, for example. I play basketball. I know I'm not good but I can't stop. I've been bad for years. In grammar school, I actually went the wrong way on the court and took a shot at the wrong basket. (It didn't go in.) In high school, I was the sixth man on a five-man team. If any of the starters had been injured, they would probably have forfeited the game rather than put me in. In college, I played regular unofficial games with an odd assortment of varsity football and lacrosse players and once broke my right index finger; I think I stepped on it. I'm now nearly 35 years old and play with a group of over-40 lawyers on Thursday nights.

Basketball is the ultimate hacker sport. I can rebound and I can score occasionally, but I am basically a body in the free throw lane, the preferred hacker position. It is possible to have a career in the hacking game. The injuries you get are minor: broken noses, turned ankles, jammed fingers. Real athletes and some of them do condescend to join us from time to time always seem to have serious injuries. The two real athletes who play with us have injuries that are whispered about. Something is wrong with their Achilles tendon, or their eye sockets or their calf muscles something serious, we're not quite sure what.

A hacker can get away with the most outrageous stupid plays merely because he is doing what everyone expects of him. I seem to have a tendency for behind-the-back buffoonery. I once tried a behind-the-back pass that (surprise!) ended up in the hands of a person on the sidelines. Another time I received the ball down the court, jumped up uselessly and executed a nifty behind-the-back pass to no one.

Until recently, I was reconciled, more or less, to being mediocre for life. Then my wife, Christine, put the two of us on a fast-walking routine, and I started playing tennis every day. Suddenly, my hand-eye coordination got better and my legs got stronger. "I bet this will help your basketball game," said Christine.

She was right. I began to show signs of real talent. I acquired a feel for the game I never had before. I made the right moves without thinking about them. I developed a shooter's touch. In one game, I took three consecutive shots from beyond the three-point line and made all three perfectly. Even before the last one went in, I turned and started running nonchalantly back up court. Hey. Be like Mike.

I'll never forget my best game. That feeling that nothing could go wrong for me started almost immediately. I had the ball to the right of the free throw lane with my back to the basket. Long Arms was guarding me. I tried a hook shot. I threw the ball against the backboard rather than arching it, but it went in. Everyone laughed, including me.

I went back on defense and Long Arms tried to go around me to shoot. I blocked his shot. He tried another one and I blocked it too. "I didn't think you'd get it," he said.

On offense again, I found myself ahead of the rest, dribbling the ball. I hesitated. When you're over six feet tall in the hack game, you're not expected to score very much and no one expects you to shoot much. I dutifully passed the ball off, maneuvered into the free throw lane and scored off a pass back to me. But the next time down, I felt confident. I shot without hesitation and the ball swished in. Someone shouted, "Trash!" It was the ultimate compliment or at least I thought so until the end of the game when Corner Shooter asked me if I'd been to basketball school recently.

The next game started out the same way. I caught a rebound and made a basket. Then a pass came to the man I was guarding to the right of the free throw lane. I dove for it but I didn't get it. Something gave in my left calf. I went down, and when I got up, I couldn't walk. Someone took my place. Corner Shooter brought me some ice. I had never had anyone bring me ice before. "You probably tore it," said Athlete One. I was thrilled. At last, a serious injury.

I was out for two weeks, and during that time all I could do was worry about whether I still was good. For my return, I sported an elastic bandage wrapped conspicuously around my calf. Corner Shooter was impressed. "Nice," he said.

Back in my customary place near the basket, I felt good. Nothing had changed. The basket was mine. Less mobile New Guy edged into my territory. I was going to score but I dropped the ball. A moment later, at the other side of the court, I brushed by my teammate, freeing myself from my opponents. I decided it was time to make my move. I loped down the court like a gazelle and took a shot. Air ball! I didn't even come near to the basket. "That was a pass," I joked.

Humbled, I fought for a rebound under the basket and went up for an easy shot. No problem. Clank! It banged off the rim, missing again.

So I look bad again. Actually, I am kind of relieved. I'm a hacker. Who can argue with destiny? Besides, I discovered early on in my temporary transformation that excellence isn't all that I had thought it would be. There's too much pressure.

Be like Mike? No thanks. I'd rather be like me.