Route of wolves

I play basketball once a week and have for the better part of my adult life.  It is by far my favourite sport and a ritual I look forward to the moment it ends.  The men I play with have mostly remained the same during the past 15-20 years.  Some have left, some added, but at least eight of them remain committed to the weekly pick up game held at a community centre near the ugliest corner in Toronto.

We play on Wednesdays between 8-10, usually followed by a pint and some wings at a landmark Toronto bar.  While I do have an obviously love for the sport – and more recently the exercise –  it is this post game rehash and general catch up with my best male friends that turns a good night into a great one.

Beyond being blessed with two healthy, lovely boys and a wife that supports, likes, loves and gets me, I am lucky to be included in a group of diverse men that have truly helped shape the man I am today.  Whether that is good or bad is still up for debate, but objectively looking at this collection of thoroughbreds, it is easy to recognize their healthy grasp of success.

First, they are simply beautiful men.  I am secure enough in my masculinity (if I truly was, would I need to write it down?) to recognize that these eight regular players and friends are physically striking.  Most are tall, chiseled or if not chiseled, so comfortable in their skin that their default gait is a strut. They are charming, polite to servers, love their mothers and wives and take pride in being fathers.  They are flawed, occasionally arrogant and absent minded, less tolerant as they age and, myself included, randomly obnoxious.

And each one of them, in their own way, is really fucking funny.

I usually sit and listen to the banter, arms crossed, bulbous noggin still glowing from the run (and the memory of a perfect pass) and laugh. Really, really laugh.  Sure, I pipe in when needed, usually to opine on some foul call or to frown (or smirk) at some under the breath salaciousness.  But mostly I just sip my beer and soak it in.

Lately it’s been a juvenile struggle to remind myself of the good things that happen every day in my life.

Today is Wednesday.

Tonight I play ball with friends I have known for 30 years, since dominating the grade 8 house basketball house league at Glenview.

And for this I am grateful.