> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.howardgray.net/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Sounds of the Sports Hall - URL: https://www.howardgray.net/sounds-of-the-sports-hall/ - Published: 2026-09-02T20:08:09.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-02T20:08:09.000Z - Description: Back to basketball, after two decades away - Author: Howard Gray - Tags: Howard's Riffs One morning in late Spring, My son and I did a tour of our local municipal leisure centre. There's rooftop football; swim and sauna; the gym with all its weird and wonderful contraptions. The studios with pilates, yoga, taekwondo. Then there are the squash courts and the sports hall - each with their own viewing deck. As we wandered the deck, him marveling at the 'thwob' of the squash ball and the players' squeaky toed pivots, something caught my eye. A black sign in the far corner of the sports hall below us. Through the full height dividing net, splitting off the badminton from whatever was behind it, was the unmistakeable logo of the NBA. We went down to take a look, past the teenage badminton players, and into the basketball court. There was not a player to be seen. Just two coaches, looking a little forlorn. We wandered up to them, struck up a chat, and before we knew it two coaches were working with one five year old on dribbling, passing and shooting. Since then, we've kept showing up to the NBA Game Time sessions (run across the city by the NBA and the Mayor of London's office). He's now shooting baskets, hunting down rebounds. My parents even installed a hoop in their garden for when he wants some rural Game Time. And so, as end of summer rolled around, I couldn't help thinking it was my turn. I found a pick-up game in that exact same sports hall, a Wednesday evening at 7pm. I paid it little mind ahead of time, despite not playing a proper game in... 23 years. Suffice to say the message of 'All levels welcome' was - while correct - scant comfort. Most of those levels had left the building. What remained at 6:57pm was 11 guys hitting 3 pointers, doing passing drills and casually flipping the ball around like it was my son's favorite squishy toy. Just one looked near my age, the rest were barely 30. I instantly felt that familiar tug. The emotional pull. That one from school, from university, from when I last played a year after graduation. Stick like glue to the wall, gaze into the middle distance, and pray to keep out of danger. The organizer explained this was a straight-up game - 5-a-side, one sub, 5 minutes then switch. No warmup, no drills, no practice. Not even any names. Just a couple of 'alright?'s and that was it. It was... up and down. I didn't know where to stand, where to run, what was a foul and what wasn't. I kept fouling when I didn't mean to, and winning the ball when I thought I'd foul someone. And I really, truly, did not want the ball. Defense was fine. Stretch, reach, jump, pull it out of the air. Intercept the odd pass. Then, give it to a teammate. Immediately, wherever possible. On the attack, I did whatever I could muster to avoid coming into contact with the thing. Feigning a screen, dummy runs, marking an attacker in the back court while the others went to score, leaping for a rebound I was never going to make. It was as I play football - last at the back, sweeping up, looking up and out. Intercept, adjust, release, observe. Over the course of an hour, I think I made 4 rebounds, 1 steal, a couple of assists. And 1 shot. Only because it was so obvious to everyone on court it was the only option. It missed. And despite a couple of moments where I nearly subbed myself off permanently at the futility of my labouring, I made it through. For the last 5 minutes, I was due to be subbed out. I can only describe the feeling as one of gratitude. Sitting at the side, on the shiny yellow wood of a classic school bench - itself a reminder of my previous ugly encounters with basketball as a youth - I thought of my son. I'd made it through. I nearly hadn't. I wanted to walk away, leave, for the ground to swallow me up. Despite my avoidances, I'd stuck with it. I was - in a tiny, pathetic way, being some kind of a role model. And then, clattering into my ears, the noise came back. It came from the other side of the net in the hall. 30 minutes earlier, the badminton players had been doing a peculiar ritual that involved bashing their rackets and yelling. It sounded like a strange visceral celebratory howl - an end of badminton university; the shuttlecock gala; a wailing sacrifice to the feathered gods. Now, they were at it again. I had to find out what was going on. As our game wound down, I wandered around the court to get closer to the noise. The other half of the hall had been split in two. On the side closest, were indeed badminton players - but just playing as usual. I kept walking, peeked over the net to the other partition, and saw where all the commotion was coming from. Not for the first time, my feel for the game was rusty. It had been that kind of evening. ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/d8/1a/d81abdb4-b001-4d5e-9a22-7d2a3d72df17/content/images/2026/09/IMG_2845.JPG)