At 73, I tried to redeem my basketball failures. Here's what I learned.

Boston Globe

04-08-2025

My basketball trauma came roaring back recently during my experimental 'micro-retirement.' If you're perplexed by this term, bear with me; I was too.
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I first encountered the phrase in a news story about twenty- and thirtysomethings opting to take
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For over 40 years, I've mostly loved my work as a nonfiction film director, but for at least 30 of those years I've been wanting to take a summer off. I finally found a way to make it happen last May, and, oddly enough, shamed by the Gen Z retirees, began my own trial retirement.
In an effort to shake off the effects of a mostly sedentary career behind an editing console, I developed a mantra for each new day: Get up and move. I was totally open about how to move and wanted to mix it up. One day, I noticed a posting for an adult basketball class at my local YMCA that sparked something deep inside me:
Could I go back and recover the life I might have had if I had made the fifth-grade team?
The coach had a tough exterior but seemed almost tender when I explained why I had signed up. The hour of drills was intense, and he pushed us hard.
My two teammates were in their late 60s, and, like me, wary about retirement. Steve, a lumbering ex-tech worker who spent his days reading in a chair, and Bill, a slightly younger guy who found long, leisurely days left him feeling empty inside, treated me with respect and offered encouragement, despite me showing few signs of improvement even after six sessions. It was heartening to realize men can get better with age, once we move past the expectations of success and dominance drilled into us when we're young.
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But it may be that every good coach must have the desire to win burning inside them, a streak that pushes them to do whatever it takes to create the best team ever. My elementary school coach probably never thought twice about crushing my 10-year-old soul.
After seven weeks of testing everyone's patience, I arrived at the eighth session to see three new players (the coach at the Y called them 'recruits') — already deeply involved in drills. Four apparently was the limit for that day's activities, and the coach sent me to the other end of the gym to practice jump shots alone.
I've had my share of tough times over the years, and being relegated to shooting alone at age 73 did not devastate me. But it did feel familiar and not in a good way. At the end of class, I left and didn't go back.
Upon further consideration, failing miserably at basketball a second time was, in an odd way, comforting. Realizing there was never any real hope for something one desires — on a basketball court, or in a career or relationship — can be clarifying, even invigorating. My coach in Iowa was right: I had no future as a basketball player back then and do not now, even in a laid-back pickup game.
Trial retirement has been revealing, too. I love spending more time with my family and not rushing out in the morning. But I know that I still need creative assignments, so, even as I wince with plantar fasciitis, I've lined up projects for the fall.
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And Ron Wheeler and I have gotten closer. A few years ago he hosted a screening of
As for my resolution to keep moving? My YMCA has rowing machines and a lovely swimming pool.
is a nonfiction filmmaker in Newton. His new short film,
Tornado Tastes Like Aluminum Sting,
screened as a sneak preview at the Contemporary American Theater Festival in July. Send comments to [e-mail].