Scratch That

Did I just pledge to follow in the footsteps of a broke-ass 40 year-old who lives in a flophouse for scientists too anti-social for academia?

To revise my re-cap:

• Month one - establish goal
• Month two - beware false prophets and pursue goal
  

Happy Monthiversary

As work responsibilities have picked up recently, the frequency of my reflections has waned. But now that I've cleared a big, spicy meat-a-ball from my work plate, I can take a moment to congratulate myself for a month of consistency and focus (relatively speaking).

A friend of mine has taught me to believe in the wisdom of starting as you mean to go on. So, this first month bodes well. Nothing fancy, no soaring heights, just a solid foundation.

Looking ahead to February, always one of my least favourite months, I've decided I need some extra motivation. For the next 28 days, I will focus my energies towards emulating this guy
in the hope that I can duplicate his surfer/physicist...thing. His lifestyle, as documented by the aforementioned quasi-journalistic mash note, represents the ultimate mixture of highfalutin intellectual ambition and high-level athletic drive.

To re-cap:

• Month one - establish goal
• Month two - establish role model
  

In other news, I've become the world's thirty-ninth best skipper.

Behind Every Good Man

My wife's not 6 hours into her business trip, I already feel like I've regressed 10 years - pizza, television and internet instead of work; words can't express how nervous I am about waking up on time tomorrow.

I don't know how I feel about this discovery, but it's for real: I try harder because of her.

Does that also mean I would try less if I was alone?

Somehow that sounds worse.

First, We Take Manhattan

Though I was only in Berlin for a short time - coaching one game of ball on Friday night, another three on Saturday - it feels like I was there all weekend. The end result: I'm fried, and with another full week of work just around the corner.

Did I lounge all day Sunday because I needed to recharge my batteries, or was it a more fearful act of hiding from Monday? A little bit of both, I'm sure.

Ready or not...

The Vanilla Ice Version

The official re-measurement is complete but results are still pending. Without the necessary tools for the job, I had to make do in a pinch. I used chewing gum to mark the wall and then measured my vertical using my sneaker in lieu of a ruler. Unfortunately, I haven't yet measured the shoe. (Sidebar: has MacGruber rendered legitimate MacGyver references unfashionable? It feels like making the Borat voice)

Doesn't matter. Of greater concern to me is Michael Jordan's adamant assertion that he can still dunk. "Are you stupid?" was his response to Jay Leno's inquiry. He's forty years old and perma-drunk, but apparently he can dunk as easily as fall out of bed (and by bed I mean the heap of gold dubloons upon which he rests).

Is he telling the truth? Probably, but that's not the significant aspect of his claim - and of the curiousity which elicited his rebuke. Michael Jordan's physical superiority is an important touchstone on the North American cultural landscape. The scandalous profanity of Michael Jackson, O.J. Simpson and, recently, Tiger Woods contradicts our desire to marginalize people according to simplified stereotypes. In this case, Michael Jordan's unparalleled atheletic ability upholds the conceit of, in the words of Larry Wilmore from The Daily Show, "The Magic Negro". Chris Rock hilariously described the response he elicited from white guys when they discovered that he couldn't play ball, a ridiculous blend of surprise and disappointment. As the godfather of dunk, Jordan's eventual decline represents an impending crisis - people are not prepared to see beyond that curtain. Our social network is too vast and interconnected; without our beloved stock characters and paradigmatic groups, we might not be able to operate at the speed and ease with which we've become accustomed. How will we identify ourselves in relation to other people?

To be capable of original, uninhibited thought on a regular basis, our imagination needs stimulation. With our limitless access to entertainment, we've become over-stimulated and now we are suffering from a kind of intellecutal dehydration. You know how some drinks, like beer or coke, can seem to quench your thirst though they actually have the opposite effect? Contemporary popular culture behaves the same. We drink it up but our body still craves the real thing. Unfortunately water can seem tasteless compared to "the real thing" - we pick up that book we got for Christmas, thumb a few pages, but eventually our interest wanes and we lunge for the remote instead. There's a satsifaction that comes with plugging in that all too closely resembles an addiction. That's why we wallow so langourously in their disgrace once we become invested in these cultural icons - to ignore them is to endure sobriety.

Maybe it's just this recent rash of hard-to-swallow Raptors losses talking, but I'm feeling a bit like a junkie who wants to get clean. I'd rather be the guy on the court than the guy on the couch. Stop that train, I want to get off.

Take Two

Amidst the hub-bub of ab workouts, leg stretches and skipping sessions, I've barely been able to find time to jump. Last Wednesday I did my first official measurement, but apparently (hopefully!) I did it incorrectly. Tomorrow night I'll try it again and I expect to find the adjustment gives me an extra inch or two. I'll have an official benchmark for measuring my progress over the year, and in my mind, the project will have officially begun.

What's an appropriate drink to toast the inauguration of a fitness regimen - spiked Gatorade?

High Flyers and Outliers

I'd rather not blame my genetic ancestry for its lack of verticality, favouring to explore the range of outlying circumstances that might have steered me away from developing hops during adolescence. However, genetics do largely determine the ratio of fast-twitch to slow-twitch muscle fibres. And since explosive power is rooted in a larger concentration of the former group, it stands to reason that I would have already discovered a greater leaping ability by now if I had indeed been born with the "right stuff". It's long been said that certain athletes are born rather than trained - sprinters, for example, and perhaps leapers too.

If I had jumping hardwired into my DNA, I wouldn't be here hyper-whining about the air up there. But I am, capable of devoting time to pursuits both trifling and meaningful, in large part because my slice of life has been free of devastation and despair. So much is, in fact, dictated by birth, beyond our control: a loving family that can provide the basic elements of health and safety; a stable society that can provide education and economic prosperity; a tame and hospitable physical environment.

Not all 'pre-existing conditions' are born equal. Some people merely possess the physical characteristics that allow them to develop remarkable abilities. Others, though not genetically programmed to experience pain and sadness, experience life in this way by virtue of their families, their countries, or their geographical location on earth. One set of circumstances can provide individuals with the opportunity to experience the extraordinary, while the other can prevent people from enjoying the most basic forms of human hapinness.

So many are denied the chance to jump at all, let alone dunk.

Whiteness Confirmed

This won't be the last time I address jumpability as a racialized concept (that's right, jumpability). In fact, I might devote an entire week in April to Woody and Wesley and the basic premise that White Men Can't Jump, as well as the corollary that other people can by virtue of their pigmentation. A consideration of this racial stereotype is actually pivotal to my project because it addresses one if its underlying concerns: determining whether my character and abilities are steered by hard work and ingenuity or if they are mere functions of a hardwired set of circumstances.

All of this is to say that at present, according to a pretty unscientific self-administered test, I can't jump very high. Now, is it because my legs are weak or because my great-grandmother was from Poland?

I'm pulling hard for the former. It's easier to perform squat thrusts than it is to replant the family tree.

Some Simple Scary Math

After a mildly successful attempt to introduce "the screen" to a group of 13 year-olds, I stuck around the gym and took a few stabs at the rim.

I was pleased with myself when I managed to smack the side of the hoop. I jumped a few more times to prove that it wasn't a fluke and found that I was consistently there. Not bad, I thought. Pretty close.

Then I thought about it again and changed my mind. In order to hold the ball above the rim and send it downward, won't I need to have my whole hand above the rim? I know I sound like Jason Biggs in American Pie, wondering what third base feels like, but these are things I want to know. Seriously, how high do you actually need to be?

Let's say my earthbound logic is correct. That would mean my vertical needs to increase by the entire length of my hand, or approximately 8 inches! If my current vertical leap is approximately 20 inches (no guarantee, though I'll know for sure tomorrow night when I take my first measure) then I would need to improve my leaping ability by 40%?

Exclamation mark, number sign, asterisk.

I'm going to have nightmares tonight: little hands holding basketballs, chasing after me like the relentless brooms in The Sorcerer's Apprentice.

Jump Rope to Start

Every Ontario student from the 80's and 90's remembers the Jump Rope for Heart fundraiser event. One day each spring, students would spend the day outside, skipping rope and raising funds that had been pledged to them by their begrudging relatives. It was a day to remember for one of two reasons: either you liked skipping and looked forward to the occasion, or you couldn't manage to keep the rope from whacking you in the back of the head and you passed the time wishing you could play floor hockey instead.

All I'm going to say is, I loved floor hockey.

Anyway, flash forward twenty years and take a good look at a guy who learned who to skip. And yesterday, I skipped the rubber out of that rope. Nobody had pledged money for charity on my behalf, but I still feel like I accomplished something. So I'm going to go ahead and give myself a commemorative t-shirt all the same.

I Choo-Choo-Choose You

Dr. Donald A. Chu, Ph.D - you're my guy.

With so many different experts and pseudo-experts in the field of mainstream physical fitness claiming to have the cure for whatever ails, it's hard to feel like something other than a consumer. As a result, I've always been unable to pursue any particular method, approach, work-out etc. for very long; consumer cravings are so fleeting, after all, and I typically lose interest and/or determination in favour of another product: movies, books, music, food...

My fitness level has always been in an acceptable range so I've never been motivated by fear or necessity to hire a personal trainer or seek the help of a medical professional. But after 3.7 seconds of Google searching, I've realized that the time has come to kneel at the altar of modern medicine.

Dr. Chu and his helpful website is going to make sure that I get off on the right foot. Seems there's a simple set of exercises which will indicate what course of training I should follow. Plyometric training may help me on my quest, or I may need to pursue more traditional leg strength training in order to increase my leap.

On the other hand, I may just need a good strong dose of Simspon and Son's Revitalizing Tonic.

Accentuate the Positive

I had been lo0king for another opportunity to stair-climb my way to glory, and boy did I get it: European airports are like an M.C. Escher painting. Got such a good a calf workout I decided to sleep all afternoon. (Well, maybe the cross-Atlantic flight was a factor too.)

Now that I'm home again it's time to start training for real. It's not like there's much else to do here anyway. The only advantage to my Teutonic abode is the weather: Germany is so frigid cold and covered in snow right now, it's perfect for some Rocky IV-style outdoor training action.
I wonder how to say "giant saw" auf Deutsch.

Well, whatever works right?

Every Step You Take

Now that I have a goal, opportunities for progress are beginning to appear in ordinary situations. It’s a mixed blessing because it means that my goal is more attainable than I realized, but only if I can recognize the relevant moments and take advantage of them as they occur. I’m actually surprised to realize that I can make headway on a regular basis without having to isolate this singular interest from all the other facets of my life. At least, not as much I thought I had to.

So, today I went to a large downtown movie theatre. The ticket counter is on the ground floor and the screening rooms are on the second floor, with the two levels connected by one very large escalator. Customers also have the option of climbing up the 70 steps, but who would do that right? Nobody, unless, you know, you were someone who wanted to develop calf strength.

I recognized the blunder pretty quickly but it was too late, I was already committed.

Sometimes irony is so obvious.

It's Gotta Be...

Shoe manufacturers must realize how dedicated we are to our dreams.

Each trip to the store is like the first day of school, filled with the promise of new opportunity. Relentless in our willingness to purchase hope one pair of sneakers at a time, we pay ridiculous prices in the pursuit of athletic greatness. If only today's kicks were as inexpensive as the neon coloured candy from which designers clearly draw their inspiration.

Alas I could not afford the new Kobe's, which as the salesman instructed me, weigh approximately 1.2 butterfly eyelashes. Instead I purchased the pedal equivalent of beige slacks. I would have floated to the ceiling like Willy freaking Wonka in those Kobe's though.

I guess I'll have to earn the dunk the hard way.

"Hey You Guys!"

Let’s be clear about what I’m proposing to do here: when I say, “dunk the ball”, I mean the “take fourteen steps from half court with nobody in my way” kind of dunk, the one guys try in practice and before games.

Because anybody who’s played the game knows how hard it can be some nights just to keep your shoelaces tied up for longer than five minutes at a time. When someone can play in the third dimension (the vertical one), they incorporate an ability that is entirely beyond even the imagination of most guys. And that’s what tends to frustrate people when they come to define some aspect of their identity by their participation in a particular community, whether it be athletic, artistic, academic, whatever: there is always going to be someone who is better than you at the thing you love to do; worse, some people even make their excellence look easy to come by.

It’s an aspect of life that is difficult for most people to embrace. But don’t you think it should be frustrating to know that the object of your desire is unattainable? Like poor Sloth from The Goonies, chained to his chair in the basement of the Fratelli’s hideout, don’t we owe it to ourselves to shout and rail and pull at our shackles when that delicious looking chocolate bar is beyond our reach?

It’s a difficult question to answer because it strikes at the heart of humanity’s Achilles’ Heel: our relentless infatuation with the things we want. Histories, literatures, religions all contain countless examples of people, even entire civilizations, derailed by their desire. Often those goals were defined by hubris, greed, madness or even just a simple lack of self-awareness. And yet, those same oracles often speak of another tale, the kind of great achievement, fulfillment and success.

I know that there are people whose cultural perspectives encourage them to be wary of desire. And, truly, there is great wisdom in that approach. But if you live in a capitalistic/consumer society like I do, and you have a vision of happiness that includes a home, a family, a satisfying career, and something fun to do on a Saturday night – like I do – then you better learn how to bust through a few chains. (It’s also good to have a chubby friend named Chunk.)

So with that perspective in mind, along with a bothersome groin pull from hoops tonight, the driving force behind the year of the dunk becomes clearer. Within this context, it represents a big fat bear hug to my self-esteem: proof that with true and consistent effort, I can pursue and achieve my goals. Once I’ve established this precedent, who knows what I’ll be able to achieve? Proper oral hygiene; sound fiscal planning; sustaining the life of house plants; really, the sky is the limit.

Transformers...

Still sitting on the sidelines with a nagging cold, but it’s for the best; I’m home for the holidays and my social calendar is stuffed with restaurant get-togethers. It’s been like training-camp two-a-days, only with pork and buffalo chicken.

With my body otherwise engaged, there’s been time to consider the non-physical aspects of this enterprise. I’ve defined success in terms of the dunk alone, but there’s more to this challenge than fast-twitch muscle fibres and reactive leg strength.

What is it about dunking that has captured the imagination of so many? And more importantly, what does it mean for me to be counted among them?

Katapult is a Registered Trademark

Day 1 has ended with zero progress to report. Ate way too much food. Significant portion of the day spent in the sitting position.

However, I did buy the Slam Magazine “How-To” issue. Disappointed to discover that dunking instruction was not included, but I was thrilled to find an ad for plyometric training shoes - a.k.a. those funny kicks with the pad attached to the bottom of the toe.

Increase vertical jump 5-10 inches? So tempted.

I've Been Here for Years

Call it a hoop dream. Call it a new year’s resolution if you must, but don’t call it a comeback. This is all about moving forward – and upward. Having declared 2010 to be my “Year of the Dunk,” I’ve challenged myself to develop a new skill: I will dunk an official sized basketball on a regulation height net before the end of 2010.

Like so many ball-addicted dudes, my love for the game comes part and parcel with an unwavering desire to rise above the crowd and bring down the thunder. But I’ve always been a landlubber, which is why the dunk represents a physical benchmark for me unlike any other: you either can dunk or you can’t. It’s this simple distinction that elevates the dunk’s allure amongst all ball players, regardless of their skill level. The fundamental skills required of other sports distinguish players by degree, while dunking is absolute. One can throw the ball faster or farther than another, shoot or kick harder and with more precision, but the ability to leap in the air and hammer home a basketball represents the ultimate individual achievement within the context of team sports. No other meaningful “play” is so pure because there are no other variables to consider – factors which range from the collaborative aspects of team sports (e.g. passing in soccer, football, or hockey) to the idiosyncratic features of pro sports leagues (e.g. the various dimensions of major league ballparks).

Thus, my journey to dunk begins from the perspective of a unique physical challenge, a noble and worthy goal. After all, the only thing that stands between me and a legitimate slam is ten feet of vertical space.