Let the Professional Basketball Player Win

But Jay could still hoop it up. He competed in intense, full-court, five-on-five contests with much younger players every Sunday morning at a neighborhood park in the New York City borough of Queens. He could still nail 20-foot shots, pass the ball with precision, and dribble with a sure hand.

Jay’s new hips limited his mobility so much that he could barely trot. He was unable to plant himself in the crouch necessary for successful defense. He could no longer perform key motions like backpedaling or moving laterally.

Still, Jay had challenged us. Not only were Al and I amateurs; neither of us had played on high school or college teams. Even so, we were veterans of hard-core pickup playground basketball. Though hardly young ourselves—Al was 51, I was 63—we could more or less respectably hold our own.

A once-in-a-lifetime chance to pit myself against someone once paid to play the sport I had played since I was 8? Sure, I thought. Al felt the same.

The score stayed close. Al would one-up me, only for Jay to one-up him, and me to one-up Jay in turn. Al was slightly taller than both of us, and with octopus-like arms he flipped in baby hooks. I drove past Jay for layups and swished jumpers from the top of the key.

Halfway through, we were dripping sweat. Kids waiting to occupy the court watched our geriatric antics with amused curiosity.

Then Jay took a narrow lead, held on and won by the requisite 2-point margin. A few years earlier, Jay would have mopped the asphalt with us. Al and I congratulated him with handshakes. Jay looked the happiest I ever saw him.

Al and I never told him we let him win. Neither of us had planned to concede an inch. Nor had we conspired beforehand. Only while walking home afterward, well out of Jay’s earshot, did we admit to going easy on him and trying slightly less than usual to stop him from scoring.

Cutting Jay some slack defied our instincts as recreational athletes. We took as an article of faith that participating in a sport meant you implicitly signed a contract to compete your guts out. But we made an exception for Jay. Each of us realized midgame that prevailing over a proud former pro athlete with titanium joints would bring us no satisfaction, much less glory. So we dialed back our aggression just enough to escape his notice.

Jay got to keep his dignity. We also kept ours.

Mr. Brody, a consultant and essayist in Italy, is author of the memoir “Playing Catch with Strangers: A Family Guy (Reluctantly) Comes of Age.”