My Shot

I'm beaten and confused, my feet glued to the floor.I can't move no more. I can't shoot no more. There was a moment people would respect what I used to do on the floor. Always been out-sized. Playing out of my mind. Glide. I was blocking the shots of the 6-4s. Now I stand confused. I just can't shoot no more.

My mind rewinds through time. I climb to the peak of the mountain and I view a playground where moments seemed more simple. Dribble. Shoot. Score. That was it. It's easy to remember when you never forget. I just can't shoot no more. My elders taught me the art. Dad said there's something about it, something about the aura which makes you feel like a man. There's something soothing about moving through the game's obstacles, holding your fate in your hands. The mechanics are simple, leading to a flawless finish. Determination married to communication can replenish the void in your stroke, which unexpectedly diminished. The secret to it all lies within it, draws the period to finish the sentence. The basics rules have always been my tools. Learned it from two individuals who walk far away from the avenue of fools. Your right hand is your release. The other is your guide. The end result was always left to fate. And for a moment, everything I shot seemed to drop. Now it's not. The game's become closer. Another element which thickens the plot.

My mind is inhabited by pertubation. Commotion. Disgusted looks on my face when I see them going through the motions. And the best players never have to think. Maybe that's where I've gone wrong. I've lost my way. And I have no more shoulders to lean on. Forced to find other options, since my shot's gone cold. I've learned to move in the post. Develop the moves few know. Rebound and block shots. A key for the lock. Effort rewinds the clock. I want my mind. Find peace within the game. It made a better man out of me. And I'm afraid of losing the one thing which differiates me from you. So I continue to train. I can rebound. I can pass. I can defend.I can play both ends of the court. But those aren't things I was put here to do. I was put here to shoot. No Pitino. No McHale. But I wait for it to walk through that door.

I continue to train until it returns. What am I to do? I can't shoot. I just can't shoot no more.

---EOB.