It is hard to believe, but the defense was trying to keep me away from the top of the key. "Pass the ball!" suggested one of the strangers. I sidestepped my own outstretched leg. "Get rid of it!" yelled another stranger. I switched the dribble to my left hand. I can bat the ball once left-handed, and then I have to recover it with my right. "Don't shoot!" said the third stranger. Well, of course, I did.
I sighted down the court to the other end of the playing floor, brought my arm up straight through the line that intersected the distant basket and lofted the ball just as I had been doing for 30 years.
And that was it. Seven out of eight overheads, without looking, from the top of the key, in actual competition.
Later I was in the locker room, laughing to myself. I overheard the three Strangers talking about the game as they were getting dressed a couple of locker rows from me. "You know that old fat guy on our team," said one. "He sure didn't have any idea where that ball was going."
"Yeah," said another. "Luckiest bunch of shots I ever saw."
"He made at least 10 in a row," said the third.
"Twelve," said the first.
Then they went into the shower, and I headed back up to the gym. It was empty, and I shot two-handed sets for half an hour. It felt funny to be facing the basket for such a long time, but I got used to it. I called my secretary and told her I'd been delayed, but I would be back in the office as soon as I could get away.