I go to the park today to shoot baskets and there, standing before me, is the 12-year-old version of myself. He’s a portly Asian lad, round-faced, adorned in attire that fits long to atone for a paunchy torso, and cursed by the unfortunate hairstyle that plagues all Asian lads, the poof-fro.
He hoists a basketball up to the rim with all the comedic effort you’d expect from a portly Asian lad, and in between shots he takes pulls from a plastic water bottle like he’s just returned home from the desert.
He sprints after misses, flings airballs from beyond the three-point arc, and practices the shot before the shot by flicking his wrist in pantomime, all without ever harrumphing over the persistence of failure upon his stabs at success.
I’m telling you, if some forlorn producer desperate for a script were to make a movie of my life today, he’d cast this kid to play me during my formative years. The kid is the spitting image of yours truly. A chubby, happy-go-lucky, try-hard, completely oblivious to the fact that wearing shorts every single day isn’t considered fashionable. This was me. We may as well have been twins.