The Twisted Tale of the Adjustable Hoop

I've talked about how difficult the Dunk Dreams workouts are, but ... do they work? Do they actually help you jump higher? Well, there was a moment when I was convinced I'd wasted my time. I was ready to demand a refund.

Before my first workout with Gil, I tested my jumping ability on the basketball hoop in our driveway. It's one of those adjustable-height hoops, so I cranked it up to the top, took a few steps back and let her fly. I surprised myself by jumping up and actually touching the rim. My memory was that, back in my day, that's about how high I was able to jump. I was very pleased with myself. Here I was 50 years old and I was still jumping as high as my 20-year-old self. "Good for you, Mike," I thought, "you've kept this old body in pretty good shape." Yep, I was patting myself on the back something fierce. Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat.

Then I began working out with Gil Thomas. For the next three months I jumped--I jumped straight up in the air, I jumped bringing my knees to my chest, I jumped kicking my heels to my butt, I jumped over hurdles and with strange shoes on my feet.

The Jump Sole

I ran up hills, dragging other dunk dreamers behind me as ballast. I strapped huge rubber bands over my shoulders--rubber bands so thick and strong it felt as though they would shoot me down through the center of the Earth--and did squats, matching my strength against theirs. I drove to San Clemente, Culver City and Pasadena to work out on the Super Cat, this odd contraption designed for squats and jump squats. I watched as Gil piled more than 300 pounds on the thing and ordered me to do 15, 25, then as many as 40 squats without rest. I turned my head as men half my age doubled over and vomited because they'd pushed their bodies so hard. (I never vomited, but I sure as hell felt like it.)

The Super Cat

I spent days, especially in the first six weeks, when, after working out, walking was a painful chore. The muscles in my legs were screaming in revolt. "You're 50, goddammit. Why can't you just take up golf?" they seemed to be saying. My wife commented on the irony of my condition. Here I was, working out like a bastard to stay young, she'd say, but I walked like an old man. "I'm just glad I can walk at all," I'd say, still smarting from my latest round with the Super Cat.

But I was getting stronger. I was noticing muscles in my thighs and calves that weren't there before. And once the pain in my legs subsided, I felt a spring in my step I hadn't felt in years. I felt as though I had the legs of a 25-year-old man. I was ready to blast through the ceiling.

Then, after three months of working out--it was about April of last year by this time--Gil gave all of us two weeks off. He wanted us to rest for an entire week, give our legs a chance to recover, and then test our jump. An entire week's reprieve from working out--I was elated. It's one thing to skip a workout because you're too tired or not feeling well--you can't really enjoy it because of the nagging feeling that you COULD have worked out, you were just too big a baby. But to skip workouts because YOUR TRAINER ORDERED YOU TO, my God what a gift. I wasn't slacking off, I was giving my muscles the chance to heal and grow. It may look like I'm watching television, but this is actually a vital part of my fitness regime.

After my glorious week of rest, I took myself down to the nearest gym. I was going to test my jump. I went to an actual indoor gym because Gil always said that you get the truest test of your jump if you take off from a wood floor. The gym was empty. No need for me to feel embarrassed or self-conscious. I took a few steps back from the rim, launched myself up with my powerful new legs and ... touched the rim. Hmmm, I thought. I just touched the rim. I was able to do that before I even started these workouts. Perhaps, I reasoned, I'm not warmed up. I leapt again. And again. And again. Each time--rim, rim, rim. No higher. What the fuck? Now I'm starting to get pissed. I spent months lifting, jumping, sprinting, straining--for this? For weeks I shuffled around on sore legs, scooting across the floor like Grandpa Moses, and I'm not getting any more air than I was before I started? This is bullshit!

I drove home, parked in the driveway, and there it was--our basketball hoop. The one I had measured myself against all those months ago. It seemed to mock me. "Hah, old man. You think you can defy age, defy gravity? Kiss my ass." Angry, I got out of the car and ran toward the hoop. I took off and--grabbed the rim. Got damn near my entire hand above the damn thing. Now I was puzzled. Why was I able to jump so much higher here than I had been in the gym? My driveway is concrete, the gym floor is wood--it should be the other way around. Then I remembered something. My basketball hoop is adjustable. Could it be ....

I hadn't allowed anyone to adjust the rim since I measured my jump against it three months ago. It was the same height then as it is now. But, is it possible ...

I got out a tape measure. Measured my hoop. The tale of the tape--9-feet, 8-inches. I had measured my jump against a short hoop. Three months ago I was not able to touch the rim--at least not one that stood the regulation 10-feet high. Back then I was only able to jump 9-feet, 8-inches. But today, in the gym, I DID touch the rim. An honest-to-goodness, regulation-height 10-foot rim. I had improved. By a little more than four inches. In only three months! My God, I thought, at this rate I'll be dunking by Independence Day! I felt relief, exhilaration and like an idiot, all at the same time.

So the Dunk Dreams workouts DO work. Remarkably well. And yes, I am a boob.