This is it… The end of the road… still, I can’t let go.  It’s unnatural.

Regardless, I’m getting ready.  I’m training nearly everyday.  But I’m saving all my strength for one final attempt.  It’ll either make me, or break me, but we won’t know until that fateful day arrives.

Ohhhhh, Reno. I believed, for a brief moment, that you were the answer to my prayers, the cure for my every woe. But there is no mistaking the fact that I, clearly, was mistaken. It seems that your bright lights and flashing signs weren’t enough to wake me from this nightmare that is my nonathletic reality. All your talk of lucky breaks and big chances, of breaking the odds and creating miracles were not enough to put a little of your magic in my boots. I am, in Reno, the same dunkless fool who escaped the Emerald City of Seattle with his dreams of the famed Wild West, blessed home of the Tomahawk Jam, resting place of the beloved Windmill.

But this sad display will not deter me one iota.  I have six weeks left… 42 precious days in which to prove myself worthy of the seemingly endless idolatry that my legions of fans have bestowed upon me.  Your praise is well deserved.  I am as amazing as you have always thought me to be, I assure you… If not moreso.  Be patient, and I will lead you to the glory that only ThisGuy could provide.

Till next week….

I tend to require a far more tangible sense of control than a “live-by-the-seat-of-your-pants” lifestyle affords, which, I’ve begun to realize, might very well shelter me from avoidable mistakes, but this overt cautiousness might also have the potential to lead to rather disastrous results. One might wake up one morning to realize that he has been working the same job for nearly seven years, a job that he is neither passionate about, nor particularly good at, for that matter. He could come to the frightful realization that what he once valued as comfort and contentment, without warning or notice, had mutated into complacency and laziness. What started as an innocent, wholehearted pursuit of ability and stability became a devolution into stagnancy, depression, and an outright avoidance of reality.

And where could all of this possibly lead, if not to Reno?

What was initially supposed to be a one-month stint in The Biggest Little City in the World, in which I was to live with a friend as he helped me to expand and develop IfThisGuyCanDunk, turned into an outright departure from Seattle and relocation to the Nevada desert, cat and furniture in-tow.

So with that being said, I apologize for the delay of dunk attempt #13, but as you can see, I’ve been busy with a little soul-searching, not to mention packing and planning, tying up loose ends and saying goodbyes. As of yesterday, I am officially a resident of Reno, Nevada, and as I am mostly moved in and fairly settled at this point, I intend to pick up where I left off.

With my 30th birthday only 51 days away, it’s officially “crunch time”. So stay tuned, because ThisGuy is prepared to awe and astound. My resolve has never been stronger, and my calendar has never been so frighteningly empty. I personally guarantee success. You aren’t going to want to miss what’s to come. And by that, I mean ridiculous, filthy dunks the likes of which you haven’t seen since the CBA’s Adam Waddell. See you soon.

IfThisGuyCanDunk

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Some people have it so easy… I’ve been slowly putting things together in my head and the conclusion that I keep coming back to is that genetics just simply aren’t on my side in this Dunk Quest. I’m not making excuses for myself, and to be honest, it’s not as if there is absolutely no athletic DNA pulsing through these veins. My father was a hell of a springboard diver for years, and, from what he tells me, a certified legend on the college intramural flag football squad. My mother dabbled with field hockey for a couple years in high school and remains, to this day, a force to be reckoned with on the Scrabble board. Admittedly, Scrabble may not be widely considered a sport in all social circles, but, at the very least, it demonstrates a rather significant competitive spirit in the family.

But when it comes to undeniable, physiological domination, I was never even in contention. I remember watching a profile on Michael Phelps during the Olympics, and what I gathered from this piece was that Phelps was essentially a genetically modified super-human created by the US government with the mutant-like physical form of the quintessentially perfect swimmer, which only vaguely resembles that of a normal person. He has tiny, dwarf like tree stumps for legs, a 6 foot torso equipped with concealable gills, and flippers for feet. He was literally created to swim.

Or take high school basketball legend Scott Howard. I saw what I believe was a documentary about him when I was a kid, and from what I remember, he was just your average, everyday adolescent with little to offer his struggling basketball team… That is, until his genes had something to say about it. He went through puberty literally in one night, transforming from an adorable, smooth skinned cherub into a full-grown adult, complete with facial hair and a somewhat disturbing amount of body hair. And about a full foot taller than he was just one day prior! Anyway, he shows up at the gym for the big game and absolutely blows everyone away. A lucky man with great genes.

But nonetheless, I will not waste my time sulking and wishing that I had been dealt a different hand. This is not a deterrent. It’ll just make it that much more gratifying when I turn the world of science on its head and break all kinds of laws of physics and gravity. It’ll make my reverse dunk that much more filthy, my windmill jam that much more impressive, and my tomahawk slam that much more deliciously racist… Stupid genes.

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I vaguely recall, at some point in my life, experiencing pain similar to what I am feeling this morning.  Yesterday was my first official day of training with my “increase your vertical” workout, and seeing as how I have avoided cardio of all kinds for as long as can remember, I stepped out of bed this glorious morning, and I’m not certain that this is a completely accurate parallel to make, but if I had to describe my agony visually, it would look something like this.  Everyone says that “it just feels good” to work out, and “no pain, no gain” and all that nonsense… I can’t say that I’m too fond of it at this point… But nonethess, the show must go on, and so it is “back to the gym” for me.  And then a quick bath in a vat of Ben Gay followed by a 20-minute session with the meat tenderizer.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

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I I suppose this is the beginning of a journey of sorts… I’m not the kind of person who gives too much thought or credence to age. However, with that being said, I woke up about a month ago and realized, with not an ounce of excitement, that I had a mere 6 months of glorious life left of my 20’s.  And from there, my mind began to wander and meander through all the imminent conclusions that one might be led to believe about physical abilities, peaks and declines… and while I recognize that these thought patterns are distractions, at best, and inhibitors at worst, I made the decision right then and there to start taking significant steps toward reclaiming my quickly, and dramatically waning youth.

While I had no inclination as to where this instinct might lead me, I started exploring different prospects that might aid in this endeavor.  I thought about trying to date a 19-year old… but disregarded this option on account of my rather embarrassing lack of texting dexterity, as well as my utter disdain for The Jonas Brothers.  I considered trading in my ’95 Honda Odyssey for a Mitsubishi Eclipse, or something of the sort, but quickly discounted that notion on account the fact that my beloved minivan, while as practical and sexy as she is, her trade-in value turned out to be less than one might imagine.  And furthermore, I thought it better to leave vehicular therapy for the inevitable midlife crisis that I anticipate in my 50’s.

But yet, I shudder in fear to imagine that day… That dreaded day on November 22, 2009, on which I can only imagine that I will wake up nearly unrecognizable to myself… that I will suddenly begin to contemplate the severe lack of pleated pants in my closet… a day on which I will undoubtedly wake up and feel strangely compelled to go to a Dave Matthews Band concert… and to wear a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt to a Dave Matthews Band concert… and to make sure to bring lawn chairs to said concert … and to pair socks with Teva sandals, and wear a neck-strap on my sunglasses…

With what little time I have left, I must use my abilities to their utmost.  I must prove to myself and to the world that I am not yet ready to succumb to such age-related devolutions… that I am equally as agile, as fit, and as athletically capable as I have ever been.

And so, I will muster every ounce of courage and determination that I possess, and I will focus the entirety of my physical potential into one final pursuit… A feat that, even in the prime of my youth, I was incapable of accomplishing… I have less than 6 months to do so, but I assure all of you readers, whether ye have faith, or whether you’re just a hater… Before the clock strikes midnight on the eve of my birthday, November 22… I, Jason King, will dunk a basketball.  This blog shall be my proof.

“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. And they shall dunk, and dunk with authority.” Isaiah 40:31.

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