Tag Archives: Basketball

Let’s race!

You want to race? I’m always racing, people, groups of people, I can’t help it. I’m just so competitive. Like one time I was playing basketball and these guys on the other side of the court challenged me and my friends to a game of basketball. Like I said, very competitive, which, when we’re talking about basketball anyway, all of the competitiveness in the world wasn’t going to help. We got crushed. It was humiliating. And not really entirely my fault, anyway, not totally, Frank missed the majority of his shots, when he wasn’t getting blocked.

But even though basketball in this case happened to be a race to twenty-one points, yes, I’m talking about a race, race. Right after the game, and maybe I should have cooled down a little bit, maybe I should have just taken that high-five from the other team’s big guy because, yeah, I guess it was gracious at the time, but I couldn’t. “Let’s race!” I started getting in their faces.

And not the big guy, although, he did surprise me, how quick and light on his feet he was for a big man. And it was like that Sandra Bullock football movie, the big guy was like, hey man, I actually don’t like being called big guy. And I was like, sure thing big man. But I was just trying to get in his head. Again, I probably shouldn’t have discounted him entirely, making fun of him for accepting the challenge in the first place. Because like I said, he was pretty quick.

Not quick enough, because he didn’t win. But let’s be honest, he was never really in the running, pun totally intended, like running, get it? No, it was the little guy with the crew cut who looked like he might be the fastest. “What are you talking about race? Who’s got the next game?”

I got right in this kid’s face, like you’re not going to accept? Fine, I’ve got to make you accept. I threw the ball over the tall fence on the other side of the park, and while he was busy being all, “What the hell man?” I was like, “Come on, what are you scared? You little baby? You little scardey cat? Buck-buck buckaw!”

It worked, he took the bait, although it was a little dramatic, the way he ripped his shirt off, easy there Turbo, it’s entirely possible to run a race without taking your shirt off. But, whatever, if his intended effect was to intimidate me by showing off how ripped he was, like totally in shape, very cut, then yeah, I’ll admit it, it was slightly unnerving, I was caught just a little off guard, like shit, I had better win this race, like how did he get those bumpy muscles under his ribs so well defined? He’s got to be doing something besides cardio. I hope he’s not a runner.

“So what are we doing, like laps around the park? Four? Five?” It was the big guy asking the questions, and I was like, “Take it easy big man. This is between me and Turbo over here.” I was actually calling him Turbo all game, like trying to get in his head, but I don’t know, my whole smack-talking game, one, it’s much more effective when my team is solidly in the lead, and two, it just wasn’t really on that day, I don’t think it’s ever really on. But we’re never getting pummeled that badly, and I guess that was my lesson to learn, on shutting my mouth with the amateur smack-talk when I’m getting destroyed by this team of semi-pro guys, just all really built, like not everybody as built as Turbo, but man, all really pretty cut.

“Go!” and that was it. Turbo wasn’t a runner, it turned out, so you know, I stayed with him for the first three laps, just to make sure he wasn’t saving anything for the end, and then on that last lap I took off. Like I got so far ahead at one point I even turned around, started running backwards, I was like, “Is that all you’ve got Turbo? Ha!”

And yeah, that was all Turbo had. But the big guy, I think I mentioned already, he gave me a little scare, he definitely saved a little something for the end, and so I had to abandon my smack-talk, which sucked, because this was exactly the type of blowout that would’ve made even my talk sound like it was smack, like smacking. Smacking talk? No. You see what I mean?

I won, barely, and I was way too out of breath by the time I crossed the finish line to do any sort of a convincing gloat. “Whatever man,” Turbo was being a sore loser, “Just go and get my ball.” And I was like, “What? Loser gets the ball.” And he was like, “Says who? You threw it!”

But I refused. And he didn’t really have a choice, he had to hop the fence, a big one, like two stories tall maybe. On the other side it was just trash, just like a weird space between the neighboring building. And he jumped down and tiptoed around all the garbage to his ball, he was like, “Fuck man! It landed on a piece of glass!”

Yeah, that kind of sucked, it was all deflated. But he was behind a fence, so what was he going to do? I had like a good minute, minute and a half head start, and by the time he made it back to this side, I was gone.

Fresh power chords, pointy toothpicks, brand new shirts with the tags still on

I love it when you buy a new phone or a new laptop or keyboard and they always come with a new cord or a new charger. It’s always perfectly wrapped, the chord looped around itself in a way that’s impossible to replicate with your bare hands. After it’s worn and used a couple of times you might try and see if you can get it back in that shape, but never, it’s not happening, and then you try to untangle it again and somehow there’s a knot now, like how did it get there? It just kind of tied itself out of nowhere.

And that feeling, man, fresh power chord. In a week it’s not going to be white anymore, it’s not going to feel like it does now, it’s going to be slick, slippery, there’ll be like scuff marks on it, even though you don’t remember scuffing it on anything. Why can’t it feel brand new for a little longer? What’s going on in the air or by the wall that makes this thing degrade in quality almost overnight?

It’s like when you’re at a restaurant and right in the middle of the table there’s a toothpick dispenser, and all of the toothpicks are individually wrapped. And, I don’t know about all of you, but toothpicks don’t work for me. The idea of stabbing the space in between my teeth with a sharpened pointy little stick, no thanks, I’ll stick to floss picks. But there they are, so of course I’m going to dispense a few, play around with them in my hands, take them out of the wrappers. And these things are perfect, pristine, it’s exactly how I imagine a toothpick to be when I’m thinking about toothpicks. I touch the end and it’s the definition of pointy. But that’s it. You touch it once, it does something to the point, you touch it again, it’s not so pointy anymore.

And then you start chewing on it and rolling it around in your fingers and now you’ve got like individual wood fibers or whatever, it’s on your clothes, there are pieces of it in your mouth, and you look down at the tables and you’ve already done it three or four times, and so you try to push it all to one side, so that way when the waitress drops off your food, she doesn’t make this huge effort to wipe down the table, all of those toothpicks, and look, you did it to the straw wrapper also, all of the straw wrappers everywhere.

This is all reminding me of clothing, like when you buy a brand new shirt at the mall, and I’m not talking about anything fancy, not necessarily. It’s just a regular t-shirt, a simple short-sleeved button down maybe, and everything’s comfortable, you get out of the shower, you throw on your new shirt, you leave the house. Maybe like ten minutes after you’re out the front door you notice it, that little itch right on your side, right above the belt line.

It’s a small itch at first, maybe you’re not even totally conscious of what’s going on, but eventually, you find yourself scratching this same spot over and over again, and it’s not working, maybe it’s getting worse from all of the excessive itching. And so your brain takes over, all right, now you’ve got my attention, what seems to be the problem?

And it’s a tag. Why would they put a tag there? Why would they put a tag anywhere on a shirt? It’s the most annoying sensation. I remember being a little kid and actually being afraid of certain pieces of clothing, knowing that, once my mom laid out an outfit for me, that was it, I’d be condemned to a whole day of not being able to sit still, totally uncomfortable, please get this tag to stop making my life miserable.

And some shirts, it’s even worse. They put this really long tag on top of that tag, and it’s a little fabric pouch, it’s got a long hard strip in there. What is this, anti-theft technology? How do they deactivate it after purchase? Why am I carrying this thing out of the store with no alarms going off? And it’s always out of the house when I figure out the problem. Because, in the house would be too convenient, I’d get a pair of scissors, problem would be solved.

No, this is going to drive me crazy all day, I’ll start playing with the tag, seeing if I can’t rip it out with my hands, knowing that I’m probably going to damage the shirt, trying to set it out of my mind, not doing a good job of setting it out of my mind. Now I’m playing with it unconsciously and, yep, now I’ve done it. Maybe I haven’t ruined the shirt like ruined it, ruined it, but it’s definitely stretched out a little, like if you’re wearing it and you’re looking at it you’ll think, what they hell? Why is this little spot so stretched out?

Like when you’re playing basketball at your parents’ house, and yeah they have a ball, and yeah, they’ve got a pump, so everything should be OK, but that ball, nobody really plays basketball here that much, not anymore, not since everybody moved out. There’s a little bubble, something, it’s a lump. It’s like the shape of the basketball is just slightly, almost imperceptibly lumped on just this one side. But what are you going to do, complain? You’re just shooting around with your brothers. But every once in a while you’ve got possession, you go to make a move but the ball dribbles right on that lump, just enough so that it bounces maybe an inch or two to the left. Your younger brother takes advantage, steals the ball and scores. What are you going to do, you’re going to say something? I guess it’s his disadvantage also. But come on, there’s no way that would have happened if we just had a regular ball, no lumps, no tiny little bumps sending everything just a little off, just totally ruining an otherwise nice game of basketball.

Next!

Sometimes I just can’t get it right. Like the other day. I went to a basketball game at the Garden with some of my family. I go pretty often, and it’s always the same deal. Get to the Garden, get through the human wall of scalpers seeing if you want tickets, meet up with whoever it is you’re meeting up with (by the stairs!) and head inside to grab some beers before the game starts.

Right before the main entrance, you have to pass through security. Again, this always follows a pattern. You have a bag? Open it up so the security guys can pretend to look through your stuff. I didn’t have a bag. There’s always one line, everybody filing up to get checked out by one security guy, even though there are like ten security guys just standing there.

You do this enough times, you know it’s coming, you stand there and hold your arms out, the security guy gives you a little pat down, and that’s that. My first mistake was probably bypassing the one line and approaching one of the several available security guys. And nobody had to ask me anything, I just stood there with my arms out, ready to go.

And this security guy must have thought to himself, “What the hell’s this guy doing, I didn’t tell him to get out that one line,” because, that’s another thing these guys like to do. They let the line get ridiculously long, and then they start berating everybody, like, “Hello? Step on down. You’re wasting time people. There’s more than one line.” But here I was, taking initiative, not waiting to be called over. On top of that, I’m automatically spreading my arms. This guy must have been thinking, “Spreading his arms? I didn’t tell him to spread his arms. Nobody spreads their arms until I tell them to. I’ll show him!”

Because instead of patting me down he just kind of stares at me for a second, me, standing there with my arms out, waiting for him to feel the outside of my pockets, my cell phone, my keys. That night I had my Kindle in my pocket. I just found out that if fits perfectly inside the front of my winter coat. I’m thinking about what I’m going to say to him when he feels it, and asks what it is, because I don’t want to automatically just say, “it’s a Kindle,” because maybe not everybody is that familiar with Kindles, but is an e-reader really a better choice of words? I don’t have time to finish the thought, because the guy shouts, “Next!” really loudly, right in my face, “Next! You’re wasting everybody’s time, buddy. Next!”

He didn’t even pat me down. And I don’t even know what to say, I’m like kind of pissed off. But as soon as he shouted, “Next!” I immediately started walking. It’s funny what your body automatically does when you’re in a certain situation. Like whenever I’m on any sort of a line I’m always operating on autopilot. So even though my mind knew something was off here, I was still blindly following orders, “Next!”

And so I’m like ten feet ahead of him, and I’m getting angry that he called me out on preemptive rule following, and so I shout out in response, “No, you’re wasting everybody’s time!” but I knew it was a stupid thing to say. I was too far ahead, I was talking over maybe five people, five other people just shuffling along, trying to get inside, nobody really wanting to deal with any of this bullshit. But it was too late, I already said it. There was no reaction from the security guard, so I just walked forward, didn’t look back, hoped the whole situation would maybe just erase itself from my consciousness.

But then my mom says to me, “What’s going on? Was he talking to you? Were you talking to him?” and I’m just like, “I don’t know, I have no idea. These security guys, always patting me down, every time, except right now, they’re terrible, just really terrible at their job.” But probably not, they probably have it all figured out. They definitely know exactly what they’re up to. And if you want to get inside, you’ve got to go through them, on their terms, their rules, their turf. Next.

Sports, strength, hand-eye coordination

I want to be better at basketball. I’m pretty tall. I can run. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be a pretty dominant player on the court. I play once a week, and I always imagine the other team’s perception of me, of my game. Everybody’s shooting around, everybody’s sizing each other up. Then I line up for the tip off. I jump for the ball, hopefully it’s not even close. But after that, I worry that I’ve already peaked.

Sure I can sprint down the court really fast. Yeah I can stand right under the basket and block any inside shots. But rebounding? More often than not I’m just swatting the ball away. It’s like I can never get a grip. It doesn’t matter if it’s well within reach or just slightly out of my arm’s way. Even though I know that I should be grabbing the ball and bringing it close to my body, I always wind up just slapping it, like it’s a volleyball game, a bad volleyball game.

It’s got to be a coordination thing. Sometimes the ball will bounce right at me, and I’ll still miss the rebound. Passes that should wind up directly in my hands sometimes hit me in the face, followed by my own hands, also hitting me in the face, trying unsuccessfully to follow the ball, to get some sort of a hold on the object of the game.

After ten minutes of game play, the other team is on to me. As long as they can move the ball around and keep it outside, the majority of my advantage is successfully neutralized. On offense, I’ll score a couple of baskets every game, really just due to a combination of my height and dumb luck. But I don’t know. I should be better. If my brain just knew what to do on a second to second basis, I think I have a basketball player’s body. Something’s got to click eventually.

I wish I were a better skier. I’m fearless. So it’s not any sort of built-in inhibitions holding me back. It’s the technical aspects. I’m really good at holding my legs together and going straight down the trails, but where’s the skill in that? Where’s the technique? I’ll be effortlessly flying down the mountain, not really doing anything other than standing there on my giant skis. And then I look to my sides and I see these seasoned pros artfully dodging moguls and cutting symmetrical zigzags in the snow.

I try to do that. If I cut the snow on my right side I can kind of do it. I have to be going really slow. But I can’t get my body to swivel at all the other way. My right leg always gets stuck trying to bend. I’ll fall over trying these techniques out at slow speeds. Again, it’s not a matter of a lack of practice. I go skiing every season. It’s got to be an internal block, some kind of resistance holding me back.

When I was playing hockey growing up it was the same problems, a miscommunication somewhere between my brain and my legs. I could never really get the hang of the hockey stop. And when I did, when I finally learned how to stop after my parents sent me to a weeklong intensive training camp, it was still only on that one side. No matter how hard I tried on the other, I’d always wind up cutting the blade into the ice at too dramatic of an angle, instead of slowing my momentum I’d stop way too abruptly, falling and tripping over my own legs.

Whatever, sports are supposed to be fun, just a way to blow off some steam. But still, even though I know I’m doing this stuff purely recreationally, I still get into it, I still want to get better, sink more baskets, master those moguls, stuff like that. I have the energy to do it. I even have the knowledge of what I’m supposed to do, in theory. But in the moment, my body is always moving much faster than my brain. I’d love to be able to stop and think it through, but it’s usually the case that I get my moment and blow it before I even have a chance to realize where I am or what I’m doing.

I really don’t take myself this seriously. I just wish I were better, faster, stronger. And I wish I knew how to play lacrosse, and golf, and motocross, and hang gliding also. Hot air ballooning, skateboarding – I’ve never even been able to ride a block on a skateboard – cross-country skiing. I’ve never played tennis. Maybe I’m really good at tennis! I’m terrible at ping-pong. There was this kid at college that destroyed me in Super Smash Brothers every game, regardless of what character he picked, it didn’t matter that I was Captain Falcon every time. Sure I’ve changed a flat tire now and then, but oil changes? Coolant leaks? If I ever break down in the middle of nowhere without a cell phone, I’m fucked, I’m at the mercy of passing strangers. And maybe one of them will come up to me and, while they’re helping me call a tow truck, they’ll be like, “Wow, you’re pretty tall. Any good at basketball?” And what am I going to say, am I going to start going through this whole boring speech about my reflexes and how I’m pretty good at defense but otherwise I’m a huge spaz? No, I’ll just be like, “Yeah, basketball. Any word on when that tow truck’s coming?”

My basketball diaries

I wish I were better at basketball. I wish that I were like a whole foot taller, so nobody could even come close to trying anything remotely fancy around me. I’d block every single shot. I’d dunk the ball without breaking a sweat. It would be so totally cheap, but I’d be the best. I’d make it to the NBA, where I’d play a perfect season, not a single loss, not a single missed shot, and then I’d quit, telling everyone that basketball is too easy, too boring. People would beg me to stay, but I’d just shake my head no. But people wouldn’t take the hint, and they’d keep begging me to make a comeback. I’d tell everyone that maybe I’d be open to thinking about possibly playing at the Olympics, for Team USA. But I’d never really commit. And as the date got closer, I’d just kind of sleep in late every day, ignoring all of the missed calls piling up on my cell phone. If people stopped me to ask about it on the street, I’d just keep saying, “What?” over and over again until they went away. But I wouldn’t be a dick or anything. I’d still be really cool to everyone. Cool and down to earth. Cool, laid back, down to earth, but also very, very coy about my future as a professional basketball player. I’d constantly be in talks with a different team. Maybe I’d even warm up now and then. Maybe I’d even go so far as to sign with a team. Maybe I’d even walk out onto the court on an opening night, all dressed up in my basketball uniform. I’d shoot hoops before the game started. Everyone would think, this is it, this is the moment of the biggest comeback in sports history. And the refs would signal that the game is about to get underway here. And I’d step right up to the line for the tip off. And the ref would toss up the ball. And I’d be so much taller than my opponent that I could just stand there and watch as he jumps as high as he can. And right when he’s at the apex of his jump, I’d just reach up my hands and grab the ball, but I wouldn’t toss it back to any of my teammates. I’d just grab it and hold on to it. Then I’d call a timeout, and I’d walk back to the bench, and I’d tell the coach, “Coach, I’ve changed my mind. I’m just not interested in playing pro basketball anymore. It’s just way too easy. Thanks for the opportunity though.” And then I’d get dressed and leave. And all of the reporters would chase after me and ask, “Rob, why would you do something like this?” And I’d say, “Do something like what?” And they would say, “Do something like making a huge deal about making an NBA comeback, going so far as to come seconds to actually playing in a game, and then backing out?” And I’d try to explain, “Isn’t this a free country? Just because I’m tall and happen to be the greatest living basketball player of all time, does that mean that I don’t have a choice, that I have to play pro basketball? I’m not making a big deal out of this; everyone else is.” And they’d all get quiet for a second and I’d just run off into the night, outrunning the press, outrunning the spectators, the fans, the scouts, the other players, everyone. And then maybe I’d disappear for a while. The news about my sudden departure from the season opener would make headlines for a week or two, but after a little bit the noise would quiet down. The team that I would have played for wouldn’t even make the playoffs. In fact, they probably would have bet everything they had just on having me playing with them, and when I left, they’d realized that they didn’t even have one other NBA caliber player left on the team. They all got traded away to save enough money for my contract. So the team would lose every game, every single one, setting up the stage for the complete evaporation of whatever would be left of their fan base. There wouldn’t be a next season for that team. That would be it. They’d go bankrupt and collapse. You would think the whole city would curse my name, try and hunt me down, but they wouldn’t, because like I said, I’d disappear for a while. But then I’d start showing up, years later, sitting in the front row at random pro basketball games in lesser known basketball countries like Lithuania or Italy. And even though I wouldn’t say a word to anybody about what I’m doing there or what my plans are, the speculation would mount. Finally, I’d announce my plans. I’d set up my own sport, called super-basketball. It would be just like regular basketball, but the hoops would be twice as high and the courts five times as big. I’d say that I need a real challenge if I were to play, that I’m looking to sweat. And all the cities across the world would build new stadiums and put together new teams, but right before the NSBA’s season opener, I’d back out. I’d hold a press conference and tell everyone, “You’ve all been so foolish here. Why would you rush to put together such an obviously stupid sport? Just because I told you to? I’ve only played one season of NBA. Forget about me!” And they all would, just like that. And all of the new stadiums would get demolished and the regular NBA would pick up where it left off. And then I’d hold a press conference to tell everyone how disappointed I was that everyone just gave up so easily, just because I told them to. But I’d forget that I had already told everyone to forget about me, and being way too ready to just do everything that I say, they’d all take it literally and would actually have forgotten about me. Nobody would show up to the press conference. Nobody would even let me hold the press conference. They’d all be like, “Who the hell are you?” So now I’d finally have a real shot for an actual comeback. A fresh start. There’d be no pressure, no memories of past greatness and greater disappointments to get in my way.