Chapter 2
Hoop Dreams for Husbands: Half-Court at Midlife

Every Sunday morning at 7:30, I bring my wife a cup of coffee in bed. And every time, I get the same yawning response.

"Play nice with the other boys," Diane says before rolling back over to sleep. "And don't get hurt."

It's not exactly an inspiring pep talk as I depart for the gym. But, in many ways, I share her concern about the half-court basketball game I've been playing in, with the same group of guys, since 1991. In our game, where the average player age is now fifty, winning isn't everything. Being able to walk to the whirlpool unassisted afterward is everything. Being able to play the next game is everything.

I'm at the age when most men experience basketball only in memory and on television—which they watch until it's warm enough outside to play golf. So I'm pleased to be part of a group that plays and sweats together, year-round, supported by ankle and knee braces, prescription goggles, taped fingers, and the power of competitive camaraderie.

I must admit that I'm awed by the amount of intense time this group of guys spends in the alternative universe of our half-court-at-midlife game. Not only do we play three times a week, but we also e-mail promiscuously—making sure we have enough players and cyber-trash-talking about previous contests. But only one player has ever said his wife was bothered by the amount of time his family was losing to the game. And that could be because they have four kids whom she left her law career to raise, and because he also has a lot of travel and dinner commitments for work. (He also has the worst injury record in the game: two torn knee ligaments, both of which required surgery and extensive rehab.)

Another player actually came to the gym one Sunday morning directly from the delivery room after his first child was born. He claimed he got permission from his wife, who had just finished twelve hours of labor.

We are still waiting to hear her version of this conversation.

As for Diane, her reaction is always the same. "Just don't get hurt." And when I do get hurt—so far no surgeries, but a lot of very colorful sprains, cycles of excruciating back pain, and an endless variety of contusions and gouges—she never calls me an idiot (although she may be thinking it). She knows the game sustains me in ways that matter to our marriage. If anything, Diane would like me to play more often. She wants the extra time alone in the house to write. But she also realizes how much I need to interact with a regular group of guys for reasons other than work or family—to re-create a certain bunk-mentality that I associate with summer camp, a dynamic that's increasingly hard to find as the hair under your bandanna grays (or disappears). There's also the purely physical satisfaction of your body doing something perfectly without you even thinking about it. Each of us has become addicted to the autonomic ballet of his best shot.

As the game has evolved, we've gotten to know one another's playing styles, moods, and physical changes intimately. We play only with the guys we bring (based on the principle that if you're going to have a career-ending injury, it should at least be inflicted by someone you know and like). So we are able to experiment with different match-ups—except for the two attorneys we call "the Bruise Brothers," who play with such disregard for their own bodies that we allow them to guard (and hurt) only each other.

While this is far from a sweaty support group, we have developed a kind of brotherhood over fifteen years of playing three-on-three. We're quick to comment on physical changes (in weight or mental acuity) and we minister to one another's injuries (out of a combination of compassion and selfish need to retain our regular players). We also bear witness to the plot twists of our off-court lives and offer whatever encouragement we can. Several years ago, one of our players lost his executive job. That sent a chill through a group that had come together in their thirties when we were young marrieds, but now were staring down the bazooka barrel of middle age. So after years of playing only on Sunday, we decided to add a second game, and started playing on Wednesday afternoons, too.

We told ourselves we were doing this to help our friend through a rough time but, in truth, we created this afternoon "hooky game" to stave off our own midlife crises. It was a much cheaper and less risky indulgence than a sports car or an affair, and if you work through lunch, disappearing from 2 to 3:30 doesn't seem so bad.

We liked the hooky game so much, we added another one on Friday. And so far, the game has worked as preventive therapy: Only one of our regular players has had a true midlife crisis. We discuss this and other personal stuff only after the game. While we try to keep the on-court banter focused on hoop controversies, our postgame discussions have a tendency to suddenly go deep, on politics or business or the most private of matters. And then we get dressed and go back to our lives.

Not long ago, my basketball buddies and I attempted to do something together besides play. It was the first time that we had all seen each other in street clothes. One of the Bruise Brothers was fighting in a celebrity boxing match on a Saturday night, and we decided to meet for dinner and then go watch somebody whack him for a change.

The dinner conversation was pretty subdued. Apparently, we have an easier time being loose with our feelings when physically spent. (So if you have trouble getting your husband to open up, try athletic sex, or maybe just have him run around the block a few times.) When the fight ended after two rounds, I wondered if the group would go out drinking together, or visit the "gentleman's club" nearby. While most of our players are married and pretty settled, we do have some single guys in the group, including our oldest player (in his sixties) and our youngest (in his twenties)—we refer to them as "Sanford and Son"—who I thought might push the others into a night on the town. Instead, at 8:45 on a Saturday night, most of us were ready to call it quits.

After all, we had basketball in the morning.

Excerpted from "Husbandry" by Stephen Fried Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Fried. Excerpted by permission of Bantam, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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