Pick-up Basketball: A Confession

First and foremost, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my lovely bride-to-be, Brianna Lynn.  I’ll begin catering to her every will today by not blogging about hockey (sorry dear, still sports.  Jersey Shore blog is in the works though.).  Love you lots!

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I love playing basketball.  For a brief, responsibility free period of my life, about 15 friends from high school did too.

For those years on the Lakeview Courts, it wasn’t too hard to scrounge up enough guys to get a competitive game going.  And we took it pretty seriously – probably too much, sometimes.  Y’know, the times where you can’t invite a certain two guys to the court on the same day for fear of a fight?  Yes, Neil, I agree – Patterson did have the tendency to charge and play just a tad physical.  And yes Matt, Neil was a huuuge smartass.For those of you who’ve played your own versions of what we called “ghettoball”, (which in hindsight was probably not the most PC name for it), you know there’s supposed to be golf-level etiquette.  You call your own fouls, keep the teams fair and try not to be the guy who shoots every time the ball gets worked over to him.

The problem with street basketball was that, if you were tall, you usually won.  Nobody was running a play to draw the big guy out from under the hoop in our fun-and-run style of play, I can assure you that.  Especially in a game solely comprised of white Canadian kids.  So for that, I say damn you, Paul Atkin.  Rebound, miss.  Rebound, miss.  Rebound, elbow you in the face, miss.  Rebound, basket.  Count it!  Our tall friend happened to be the nicest guy on the planet and an international Karate champion, so we tended to just wait out the misses ’til he coaxed the ball through.

Now the tough part.  The reason I’m writing about ghettoball is to make a confession.  It’s been weighing on me for years.

One of my best friends is occasional blog commentor, Neil.  Neil and I were both points guards in high school (to whatever extent you can claim to “be” something while being inadequate at your job.  Oh, I’m an accountant, the only thing I’m bad at is math.  I thought we were good until I saw US high school games), so when it came to ghettoball, we rarely played on the same team.  We guarded each other, and I claimed it was a pretty even duel.

But truth be told…. it probably wasn’t. 

Neil, you were just better than me.  I tried to argue my side for years, but you were just too good.  That finger roll (with the white guy heel kick at the end) was unstoppable.  Your consistently intense defensive prowess was unrivaled (and often intimidating).   And your vision?  Man…. eagle style, with the peripheral vision of an owl (they probably don’t have any, since they can go exorcism-style-head, but whatever).

So there you have it.  A public forum for a heavy confession.

As much as that was a weight off my shoulders, I think we’d both agree we were no match for the sheer will of Hampson.  I mean, that one’s a given.

Pick-up games, in any sport, are when sports are at their purest.  You’re not playing for a damn thing but fun and some pride.  I miss those days.  As you get older and try to assemble a dozen buddy’s for a pick-up game of anything, tiddlywinks, it takes cancelling plans, finding babysitters, booking time off, getting spousal permission, just entirely too many things to make it work.

Those were the good ‘ol days, and I miss them.  Even if I was only fit to be Neil’s backup.

{Writers note: not nearly enough people referred to me as “Air Bourne” in those days.}

Like this, but with less diversity