https://catapult.co/stories/when-we-knew-our-boy-was-slipping-away

During the ensuing nap I borrowed a ball from the front desk and tooled around on the patchily frozen Grizzlies-themed half court near the building. The game had always been a sanctuary—a worship of spheres in a church built by angles, bounces and swishes and clangs the staccato bursts above a rhythmic inner hymn. And to the unbelieving passersby it must seem a fanatic ritual, indeed, these jumpers and twisting turnarounds over phantom defenders as spasmodic as speaking in tongues. A thirty-minute mass, however cold the nave, is plenty to jar the blood; that basketball could once again become a daily routine, spirit-stirring in full.