That's right, yours truly has returned from an "unofficial" retirement from pick-up basketball. It's been tough finding games in my neighborhood that aren't dominated by 18-year-old studs who can dunk in their sleep. So when my friend Murph told me that some hoops action that was more my speed was going down-I was in.

I hadn't played in over a year and a half, and it sure showed that first night. As I ran up the court for the first time I thought, "Is this what a heart attack feels like?" I'm convinced that the pounding in my chest almost broke a rib. But I kept going, and, three weeks later, I was slowly rounding back into form.

Just for some history here, I never was nor did I profess to be a good basketball player. My brother was the jock in my family-varsity basketball, baseball, and football. I was-so goes the joke now-the uncoordinated one. I played JV hoops through junior year, but knee problems prevented me from trying out for varsity my senior year (or, more likely, prevented me from getting cut from the team).

In college, though, I was part of one of the best darn intramural basketball teams that ever suited up on the East Coast. I still wasn't anywhere near the player I wanted to be. I was all defense back then, and let my teammates carry the offensive load. (After practically dislocating my thumb, I actually wore Dennis Rodman's number for a while, just to show that I was all defense and no offense.)

Post-college, I started developing my shooting touch. Which was good, considering that my defensive skills were starting to slip with age. I slowly turned into a dangerous little streak shooter. That is, until my local pick-up companions all moved away and there were no other viable hoop options. Until recently.

The pick-up hoop games work like this: shots are worth 1 point each, except for 3-pointers, which are worth 2. You play to 11, winning by 2. Tuesday night started out OK. Over the course of the first two games, I barely touch the ball. An 0-for-3 is all I have to show for the night. (I am notorious for never knowing the scores of games. It's probably because I'm too busy keeping track of my own stats. Hey, no one else is going to, you know?)

In the 3rd game, I draw the unenviable task of guarding the best player on the court. I take it as a personal challenge, and it is if I'm back in college wearing Rodman's number all over again. Not only do I hold him scoreless for the entire game, but he only takes two shots thanks to my smothering defense. Given how much energy I am expending on defense, though, I barely even look for the ball on offense. But the only shot I do take is the game winner, leaving me 1-for-4 for the night.

Next up is The Game. For whatever reason, the team we are playing decides to play zone. Zone. In a pick-up game! Practically unheard of. Well, it is music to my ears. My teammates and I attack this zone with the precision of Princeton and the shooting touch of Duke. I hit my first two jumpers and remember thinking: "I'm on fire now." A 3-pointer from the top of the key confirms it: this train is pulling into the station known only as, the Zone. When I sneak in behind the defense near the baseline and can an impossible, almost behind the backboard, jumper, even my teammates see something magical is happening.

My only miss of the game goes just in and out, but a steal down the other end sends us back on a 3-on-1 break. I finish the fast break with a nifty driving lay-up under the outstretched arm of the defender. Next time down the court, I hear something I have never heard before in reference to me: "Double the guy in the corner." I almost double over laughing, thinking: "He's talking about me?" One of my teammates barks out an order: "Get Gray the ball." (That would be me. I am wearing a gray T-shirt and no one knows anyone's names). Sure enough, a pick gets me free near the foul line, and I can another jumper over two defenders. I am now 6-for-7 for the game, and we hold a 10-8 advantage. So far, I have scored 7 of our 10 points, and am looking forward to hitting yet another game-winning shot.

Here's what my shot chart looks like for the game:

Alas, I don't get another shot off. And we actually lose the game, thanks to a 4-0 run by our opponents. My guy actually hits the game winner right in front of me. It is a pretty depressing way to end the game but, not unlike the games of Wilt Chamberlain or Dominique Wilkins, this one would be remembered for the points I put up, not for the game's outcome.

...Which gets me thinking. Is it any wonder that today's players turn into egomaniacs? I mean I just wrote God-knows-how-many words and had the Can's talented illustrator, Rob, draw a shot chart for me for a pick-up basketball game. Could you imagine if I were a pro athlete? My inflated ego could rival Randy Moss or Terrell Owens any day of the week. Give me the damn ball. Of course I deserve more money. You guys would be nothing without me. I'm bigger than the sport itself.

Is it just human nature? Is it the money and the fame? I'm not sure. But it sure isn't getting any better. Holdouts. Contract disputes. Arrests. Teammates fighting teammates. And all the while the next generation of superstars is looking up to these guys.

So next time I'm on the court, I'll try to set an example for the younger guys. I'll try not to strut and pose and demand the ball. I'll try not to embarrass my opponents while shooting the lights out. It's the least I can do, after all.