Starkey: Goodbye, youth, but what a way to go

If somebody had asked, say, 15 years ago how I pictured myself leaving competitive basketball, I'm quite certain I would not have replied, “Strapped to an orangegurney.”

But sure enough, at 11:06 a.m. last Saturday at a jam-packed South Hills workout club, there I was: strapped to an orange gurney.

As paramedics lugged me downstairs from the court, I did not give a thumbs-up to the crowd. I did not point to the sky.

I argued with my wife, via cell phone, about which hospital to go to.

There was no dignity in this final act. This wasn't Richard Gere carrying Debra Winger out of the factory at the end of “An Officer and a Gentleman.” It was just a 46-year-old slug who'd hung on too long, headed for his first ambulance ride.

In the movie version, patrons would have slow-clapped me out the door. In reality, some did not even look up from their exercise machines.

How unbelievable was this?

Twenty-five minutes earlier, I'd been embroiled in a heated one-on-one with a work colleague 21 years my junior, possibly closing in on a best-of-3 sweep. I'd taken Game 1, 22-17, and was leading Game 2, 16-14, when a failed 3-point attempt took a terrible turn.

Upon landing from my two-inch jump, I felt my left heel pop like a champagne cork. Heard it, too. I crumpled to the floor and reached down to check my Achilles tendon.

It wasn't there.

In the days since — as of this writing Wednesday, I was headed into surgery — I've had ample time to consider some pertinent questions.

What was I trying to prove?

Did I deserve this?

Who would have won the series?

When will my wife stop yelling at me?

First know this: Basketball never was just a sport to me. It was a companion, a refuge.

Got a problem? Find a hoop and shoot around. Answers will emerge.

Something about the rhythm of the bounce and the arc of a shot and the sound of the ball cleanly falling through the net has always soothed my soul.

When I moved to Pittsburgh in 1989, I found camaraderie in the fierce pick-up games on Ellsworth Avenue.

I also found my wife on a basketball court. Sort of. It happened one night at Sacred Heart Church in Shadyside in 2004. I'd become the old guy by then. I knew my full-court days were ending. In the middle of a game, I told myself if I made the winning shot, I'd drive straight to Mt. Lebanon and ask my girlfriend to marry me.

I made it (nothing but net).

She said yes (and likely regrets it).

Sadly, I have instant recall of minute details from pickup games throughout my “career,” from pinning Steve Radler's jump shot on a 9-foot rim at Cortland State in 1983 to missing a layup that would have won a 3-on-3 tournament at Station Square to dozens of literally bloody battles against my younger brother John.

Pathetic, for sure, but the lure was endlessly intoxicating.

After vowing never to play again because of back surgery in 2010, I recently came out of retirement for a one-on-one against the 25-year-old producer of my radio show. He is thinner than Angelina Jolie on Slim-Fast, so I backed him in and won a 3-game series.

That led to a month of refining my game (and damaging my Achilles) and a step up in competition.

Maybe I shouldn't have played. As somebody tweeted to me after the injury, “Old men playing games pretending to be young.”

On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I needed to find out for myself that it was time to quit competitive basketball. I just didn't expect the evidence to be an orange gurney.

With me on it.

Joe Starkey co-hosts a show 2 to 6 p.m. weekdays on 93.7 “The Fan.” He can be reached at jraystarkey@gmail.com.