Social Workout

Wake Up Call

Hoop Dreams

Hoop Dreams

Have a dream. Let it go. Find another.

Finally watched Hoop Dreams (1994) last night. It's wonderful, and brutal. When you're 14 and dreaming of the NBA, you "work out" to get somewhere. It comes from a deep place. You might have a shot at beauty, if not riches. What's the point, I wonder, for those of us who do "fitness," who are never going to the NBA? Are we just lame? A bunch of dead-end hackers on treadmills or in Pilates classes? Do we need, at least, "a practice," the illusion of progress, and, if so, where does it end?

It's early on Sunday to be taking on the existential riddle of exercise, and I don't have the answers.  I'll throw this out there, though, for your consideration: There is beauty everywhere, and meaning to be found. Right now, a middle-aged lawyer is sprinting the final 200 yards around the Central Park reservoir, and he's more or less winning the New York City marathon in front of a crowd of thousands. Also, in a few hours, a rather large woman, surprisingly light on her feet, will execute a fine ball-change-plié turn in Calvin Wiley's Sunday Mass dance class, with a perfect, radiant smile on her face.

Have a dream. Any dream will do. (Queue Andrew Lloyd Weber.) Even a mini dream. Even a dream that only lasts for an hour, or a few minutes. For just a moment, come what may, be a 14-year old black boy shooting Nerf hoops in his bedroom. I'm pretty sure the rest will take care of itself.