I'm still riding the high of scoring the winning point in a last night's pick-up game.
Sure, it was a sloppy in-traffic lay-up that barely rattled in.
Sure, it was the end to a game that featured two tiny 15-year-old kids. Kids who had far superior dribbling and shooting skills than myself. Too-cool-for-school kids that shrugged me off post-game, after I tried to give them some praise and compliment their game.
But dammit, I hit the winning shot while wearing a pair of Gil Zeros. And in that same rubbish game to 11, I swished a 12 foot fade-away along the baseline. The shot where in my head I can see myself floating majestically away from the hoop, as my picture-perfect form is just as stunningly beautiful as Kobe's. The shot that in reality is me awkwardly spinning while clearing the ground by all of three inches.