Every Sunday, I fall in love all over again. Just like a mayfly; being born; growing; mating and dying; living out its short existence in those few hours; I am reborn every Sunday morning. My steps are lighter, my heart beats faster, my face wears a silly grin in anticipation of what is to come.

It is so strange that after so many years, I am still so in love with basketball. Every week I dance with a new partner, dancing a different dance, to a different tune.

It may seem bizarre to some; it may seem ridiculous to some that a person can be so dedicated to a single sport. But as with most love affairs, it is probably detrimental to health; as evidenced by many of my friends with damaged knees and finger joints, and often it happens without warning nor reason.

It has always eluded me how anyone can be as in love with a person. Basketball and philosophy remain my greatest loves; they remain the only things that I think I can be remain faithful to.

Whatever allow you to look forward to a new day; whatever allow you to want to look for beauty beyond what is apparently ugly and painful to bear; whatever allow you to want to want to wake up; whatever allow you to feel the surge of youthful energy within your aging limbs; whatever restore that fire in your eyes, are worth falling in love with... and falling absolutely in love with.