With the pudgy and rusty NBA players staggering back on to the floor, I figured it was time to make an important observation.

Contrary to common colloquialism, a slam dunk is not an easy shot.

As a short and lean youth, I couldn't reach the bottom of the net even when jumping directly beneath it. But now that I've made it to my graceful later years, I've grown a few inches and improved my leg muscles. In other words, I can come close to grabbing the rim of a regulation hoop. And since my workplace has an indoor hoop (estimated at 6 inches below the 10-foot regulation), I can finally slam. Gravity-defying, monitor-shaking, roof-raising slams.

Well, I can grab the rim and put the ball through, in any case.

With a little effort, that is. I have to concentrate, jump at the right place, stretch out just right and keep a hold on of the ball until the perfect time of release. Otherwise, the ball flies away at a crazy angle and a high rate of speed. Or, worse, the ball jams just below the top of the rim, and the law of conservation of energy is thrust in my face, sending me quickly to the floor. These misfires are always graded and derided (if observed) by co-workers. And until I got the hang of the slam dunk motion, I mostly missed. The best description I heard of my exploits was "ass burner", as in, the carpet burned my ass upon re-entry. I would like to state that I am not in favor of ass burners.

But like everyone else, I always hooted when some college or pro ballplayer missed a slam. Particularly when the player was trying to show off. Great times to laugh. Now, I feel a little bad. I mean, slam dunks are not the simple shots I always figured. Tall guys, easy slam. Not true. Not true at all.

For example, a proper jumping motion must be observed. I can't slam when taking off from just one foot. I need both thighs to contract and expand to their fullest extent. That will possibly give me enough spring to bring my fingertips near the rim. After that, I have to stretch my arms and back out, giving me an extra two or three inches of height, just enough to put the rock in the hole.

Or, more succinctly... YESSSS!

I was sore the day after my first successful slamfest (undertaken on Christmas day, when no one else was in the building). My arms, my back, my legs. Not exactly as rough as an overly strenuous workout, but enough to provide a nice burn. That evening I first accomplished the pass-off-the-wall slam and the off-the backboard slam. Perfected? No. But I did them. One try in ten was good enough.

I soon got bored with the same old slam. Why perfect when I can create? So I keep trying my reverse slam, my grab the ball off the floor slam and a few others. Even if I end up on the floor as often as not.

Now I have a bit more feeling for the guys who blow the big slam. When Dickie V hollers, "Oh no, baby!" When the recently rehabilitated Marv can be heard to mutter, "No." When the ballboys and ballgirls come out with the towels and wipe the seat off the floor from where the big guy landed. I feel a little bad for the guy, that's all.

Are my pedestrian slam attempts making me soft? Making me feel a little bad for those blessed with physical gifts I can never experience? Maybe I shouldn't pity the poor kid who wipes out on national TV while trying to impress the cheerleader behind the hoop.

Nah. Subverting my compassionate instincts with vindictive glee would make me a Republican or something.

Jon Worley can slam with either hand, or both at once. He doesn't hang on the rim, though, because that would bring the whole hoop apparatus down on him.