There was one problem: I’m scared of THE BALL. You know, the ball

"I hurt my finger playing basketball last night,” I told my husband.

“Ouch, are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m amazing,” I answered, grinning stupidly. “It just hurts a little when I bend it.”

He was trying to figure out why I looked so happy about it. I was also trying to figure out why flexing that fourth little finger over the next day or two gave me a tiny stab of pain — and also a jolt of exhilaration.

About a year and a half ago, a friend mentioned that she played basketball with a group of other frum women in the neighborhood. The idea appealed to me. I like exercise, and I thought it would be a nice social opportunity, a chance to see people in a more relaxed environment where no one really cares what you’re wearing and everyone is focused on the ridiculously unimportant goal of getting the ball in the basket.

I’ve never been the most athletic sort and hadn’t played in years. But I had hazy memories of shooting baskets on the black asphalt driveway outside my house as a kid, so I convinced myself that I must have been a decent player at some point.

There was one problem: I’m scared of THE BALL. You know, the ball. The one the girls playing machanayim held over their heads, with that glint in their eyes. The one that comes hurtling at you like some kind of atomic missile. The one that makes you want to put your hands over your face and run because you know that if it hits you, not only are you out of the game, you might also lose a tooth or glasses’ lens.