Last night, I dreamed I could dunk. Actually, in my dream, I could stuff the ball up to my elbow. When I was growing up in Spokane, my Dad installed a hoop on top of the garage. The rim was exactly ten feet above the driveway, and I spent many happy hours shooting ball with my friends. But I never grew tall enough (or the ability to jump) to dunk the ball.
Last night, it was no problem.
In my dream, I could stand flat-footed on the driveway in the sun, crouch, and then spring upward so fast I could hear the wind in my ears. When my eyes got level with the rim, I would grab it with my right hand, pull myself up an extra foot with the momentum, and then jam the ball into the basket left-handed, landing on the driveway like a cat. It never got old, even after dream-dunking one hundred times or so. The feeling was a mixture of disbelief and elation at mastery of this ability that had eluded me for so long.
‘I can actually dunk now? Really?’
‘Yes I can.’