I was 10 years old in 1983. The year Sally Ride made it into space. The year R.E.M. produced Murmur. The year Tom Brokaw became the anchor of The Nightly News.
The year I decided to try basketball.
Peter K was the best guy on the team by far. Many of us would watch in awe as he performed flawless lay-up after flawless lay-up. It was as though the ball belonged in the basket every time he got his hands on it. He was just the messenger. The ten-year-old messenger. He was also the Coach's son.
And he really was that good, as were many of the kids on Maroon. I say, "Maroon," because the YMCA youth basketball league did not have teams with actual names. Instead, each team got a different colored t-shirt. A thin, gauzy, cottonless t-shirt with poorly executed white lettering that would wear off in a single wash. I think that's why several kids on the team decided it best to never wash their shirts. Many of these youngsters could really play basketball, though. Some better than others. And some, not at all.
It's difficult to describe the kind of fear that shot through me every time the coach decided to put me in the game (a move that was without exception preceded with a sort of pitying sigh). First, I'd make sure he was actually talking to me. This consisted of silently staring back into his wide, blue eyes until he repeated himself. Then, I'd usually look around at the other players, each of whom was at least five inches taller than my wee self. They rarely looked back. Lastly, I'd get a little shaky, start to feel cold, and have a stronger-than-normal desire to urinate. I was ready for action.
Don't get the wrong idea. When I hit that court, I snapped into game mode. I turned it on. I broke a sweat. I played. It's just that my game was, well, a little different. Whereas most ten-year-olds in the free world would probably try to play basketball in such a situation, my personal sport involved doing everything in my power to avoid coming into contact with the ball.
I'm sure it looked great.
Now, as with any sport, one gets better with practice, and by the end of that season, I was a ball-avoiding pro. I was on fire. In those painful months of “practice” and “games,” I'd taught myself a handful of techniques that enabled me to never, ever, ever have to look foolish by having to hold an actual basketball. While it's true that a magician should never reveal his secrets, I feel it appropriate to share these techniques with you now. I warn you: they are brilliant.
1. The Run. This is an obvious one, but it can be hard to pull off in the context of an actual game without being yelled at by your teammates. The idea here is to simply run away from the ball. Someone on your team dribbles in your general direction? Get the hell out of there! An opponent prepares to take a shot?? Fucking DUCK, man!! Someone, god forbid, passes you the ball? Just run back like you think it's going farther than it actually is and let someone else get it! Who cares what color their shirt is! All that running always gave me a great workout.
2. The No-Look. This can work wonders, but it can be risky. The basic idea is to never, ever make eye contact with the person holding the ball. If they don't see you see them, then they're much less likely to try to pass it to you. Unless "they" happens to be Earl S, who never cared if you saw him or not. Hence the danger. (Of course if Earl S ever passed it to me, I could always resort to playbook play #1 above and flee.) You know, it's remarkably hard in a basketball game to keep your eyes entirely off the ball. The result was that I had to overcompensate and look in the complete opposite direction much of the time. The players on the opposing teams would always fight over who got to defend me.
3. The Floppy Arms. This one's not suitable for constant use, but it packs a punch. I realized mid-season that if I kept my arms down by my sides, people would rarely pass the ball to me. It works much like the No-Look, and comes with the added danger of possibly having to catch a ball with your face. Although using the Floppy Arms can slow down The Run, I often resorted to combining all three of the aforementioned plays. Perhaps I looked a little strange running frantically around the court, away from the ball, arms hanging straight down, not looking at anyone - but I was hugely successful at my sport. Unmatched, really.
Sometimes, despite my best efforts, that fucking basketball would still find its way to me. Maybe I’d let my guard down and follow the action for a few seconds. Maybe I’d stop running for a moment. Maybe I’d look prepared or interested. Whatever my error, I'd occasionally find myself looking down at my own two hands holding that bumpy, orange ball. In those rare occasions, I had a special fourth play in my book:
4. The Peter Pass. A scary situation, but a simple solution. If I happened to end up with the ball, I would pass it to Peter K as soon as humanly possible. If I was lucky, I wouldn't even have to grip the ball - I would just sort of slap it in Peter's general direction as it flew towards me. I think the Peter Pass made for some awkward moments on those rare occasions that he was sitting out. Passing the ball to a player on the bench is, let's face it, just plain weird. But it worked!
So, there we were: the final game of the season. No doubt the final game of my career. I was elated. Maybe I wouldn't even have to play! But, I couldn't help overhearing the Coach saying to Peter K, "every kid has to, at least once..." This couldn't be good. Not at all. Especially considering that the guys from the other team looked old enough to have driven themselves to the game.
Sure enough, midway through the second half, the Coach turned to me and sighed. He didn't have to say anything else. In I went.
I thought I was doing really well. The Run was taking me all over the court, baffling opposing players left and right. The No-Look and Floppy-Arms were working their magic. Life was good. I was getting exercise! I was in the zone!
"Here."
It was Peter K, standing right next to me. Where the hell did he come from?? He was handing me the ball.
"Here. Just shoot it." He stuck the ball in my hands and stepped back.
I was screwed. The Run? Ineffective, as I had the ball. The No-Look? Forget it - I'd already made more eye contact than I should have. So, I went straight to play #4.
I handed the ball back to Peter.
He looked off-court at his father as our opponents started to close in. His father sighed (I couldn't hear it, but I could see it). Peter turned back to me. He smiled.
"Shoot this ball into that basket," he said as he shoved the ball to me again and ran off towards the bottom of the key. I wanted to shout, "HEY, don’t RUN AWAY! That's MY play!"
I looked around at the nine other kids on the court. I breathed. And then, I broke every single rule in my personal playbook. I didn't run. I kept my arms, still holding the ball, up by my chest. And, most significantly, I looked people in the eye. I looked them ALL in the eye. And they looked back. What were they thinking? Who the fuck cares, they were getting closer! So, I did the one thing I swore I would never, ever, under any circumstances, do.
I shot.
That did it for my basketball career. That is, until college, when I decided sophomore year to join the Theatre Department’s intramural team, called, “Spot Us Twenty.” I made it through about four minutes of our very first practice before breaking my thumb trying to catch a rather swift pass from a costume designer.
And, as I sat in the ER listening to the doctors discuss whether or not I needed to have a pin put into my hand, I thought fondly of my brief stint in the YMCA league a decade before. I thought about those maroon shirts, about the Coach’s sighs, and about the fact that in that league, my shooting average from the field is 100%. Unbeatable.
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