FanNation

He was almost comically undersized. Back in the cozy gyms of Wyoming, with all his suburban comrades, at 6'2 he was almost always playing the 4, sometimes the 5. Those were the positions he knew. Barreling into the fray of the rebound, scrambling for possession and following up with the short-range bank shot. Not a ball-handler by any means, idolizing guys like Laimbeer and Rodman, not the sweet stroke of Bird or the efficient pass of Magic. No stranger to playing a little "dirty" either, a Thug, if you will. No, things were different here. The California community college was full of off-season athletes and guys, barely scrubs here, but would have been starters back where he came from. Add to that he was now 8 years removed from high school, and most of his competitors were around 5 years his junior. He at first felt a little intimidated. But as the weeks wore on, and his classmates saw that the lanky Kurt Cobain-looking dude actually did possess a bit of game, this faded. He was pleasantly surprised he could now push people around a little more. Back in the day, his last playing days of the Eighth grade, he had been 6'2 and barely 100 lbs. Now a more healthy 175 lb man he had grown into, the extra muscle he realized was necessary to truly shine in this sport. Still, always a bit out of position. He loved the games though. The playing helped him put out of his mind the recently failed relationship. An ill-advised diddling of his landlady (a knockout Mariah Carey lookalike, minus the b00bs) that had left him not only heartbroken but also in search of a new roof over his head. He played hard and forgot the troubles of everyday grown-up life.

The mathematician mind he had, he could not help but keep track of his stats. Down the line, this mind would enable him a comfortable living as an engineer, but that was years to his future, and not seen in his present eyes. Even though these were just pickup games, a college class everybody took for the easy "A", this was somehow serious to him. As a teen, he had been lucky to collect 5 points a game and a few rebounds. After a few weeks of class, he noticed the player he was now was more like a 12-15 pts a game guy, and a main rebounding force on whatever team chose him. The class met Mondays, Tuesday, and Thursdays, and while he didn't attend every one, when he did attend most of the regulars seemed to take notice of his presence, and he was never the last picked, despite the tattoos and long hair. A solid part of any team, a mini-enforcer down low. The games were rag-tag mostly. Just street games played in a safe environment with good equipment. And most importantly, an easy "A". Rarely was there too much trash-talking or excessive rough play, which gave it almost the feel of civilized.

So it went that most nights there were so many participants that games would get divided in the college's gym as basically half-size courts, with the regular game rims going unused as the games played side to side. But as he arrived this night, the members of the class were given a special treat. For it was the Monday night of the NCAA finals, which meant that only the diehard players, the guys who really loved to play the game, not just watch it, were here. The Head coach was here too. A Krzyzewski look-alike, he usually ran the class, but also usually ducked out to attend to whatever business Community college basketball coaches have to attend to.

This night, however, he would serve as referee and the 10 lucky diehard players would have the opportunity to go full court on this special night. As play began, the unspoken position each player assumed seemed apparent, and he realized that this night he was one of the smaller ones in the game. Unable to compete on the inside with heavier, football player getting an easy grade types, he floated to the outside a little more. Now, just because he was never called upon shoot one, did not mean the scrawny white boy had no outside shot. But it was more of something that only appeared sometimes by himself, where he could retrieve the ball of a possible missed shot without fear of losing the basketball, so that the fun of shooting would not be over.

So outside he floated, and the opponents, somewhat sensing the rockers lack of confidence, left him open to concentrate on the mini-Shaq who was playing the 5 that night. The point guard shuttled him an easy pass, and with a "You can't leave somebody open like that" remark, positioned himself for the sure to follow rebound. Pseudo-Krzyzewski followed up with "You might want to watch out for that one." As the ball settled into the guitar playing-calloused fingers of the shooter. With no opposition to his shot, he brought the ball up and released a beautiful arch toward the goal. Slightly grazing the rim, the ball dropped through the center almost gently, as the net caressed the sphere once left, then right, then released the ball to the forces of gravity below.

"That's a 3!" The point guard triumphantly exclaimed, and a small smile of satisfaction arose on the face of the one who had scored. Backpeddling, he returned first to defend.

Defense was always his strength. Even outmuscled as a teen, he was still one to always make his opponent stop his dribble, force a pass, or take the ill-advised jumper. Now, with the extra bulk and his confidence soaring, he maneuvered like a natural. If he imagined he was 10 years younger, he was competing for a scholarship, trying to impress the Pseudo-K with his energy.

Back down the court they went. Once again he found himself left open. For a second time the ball came to him. This time a little more of a hot pass, as the defense was not quite so willing to let the ball come to him. Yet still, no defender molested him, and once again he vaulted a shot from beyond the arc of 3 points. This time, the shot touched the rim more solidly and bounced up. However, as the giants positioned themselves below, the ball rose up and its momentum gave out. It fell helplessly down the center of the basket, the net almost motionlessly broken with a "fwoosh". Another three points was added to his team's tally.

After a few more times down the court, again he found himself in the now familiar shooting position. This time, however, the defender did make a belated run out to throw a hand up. In his haste, the shooter forgot to move his foot back one step, and so let go of the ball with toes on the line. "That's a 2!" Pseudo-K shouted, but only because he knew the shot, with its perfect semi-circle form, was destined for the net and only the net. "You gotta cover that guy" one teammate said to another as the players dropped back, much to the shooters satisfaction.

And so they went, back and forth. Trading buckets in a see-saw battle. All playing for fun, but all playing with the competitive spirit that only comes from when those who truly love the game get together. Finally, the hour was getting late and time was running out. "Last possession" shouted Pseudo-K, as the players took their places.

It was not surprising the ball came back to him. He had the Hot Hand, and the others were aware of it. What was surprising, somewhat, was that not much defense was going to be made again. So quietly had he drifted outside, the defense had been slow to react. As the ball found his grasp, he was acutely aware of the defender running toward him, hand upraised, putting his best shout of "Ha" towards him in an effort to break his concentration. To offset this threat, the players feet made a slight movement upward, leaving the ground ever so slightly, maybe by only a centimeter or two, but a Jump Shot nevertheless was the shot that was called for in this situation.

Up the ball went, in the split seconds after leaving his hands, a million things seem to flash through his brain. That cold Wyoming day in 1984, as he looked at the Final roster of 24, and did not see his name appear. This had led to a teen life of rebellion, heavy metal, guitar, and eventually drugs, partying and alcohol. A broken road to be sure, but no more broken than his earlier dreams of athletic stardom. Now, at the apex of the shot, he thought of the road back, the crushing dependency that had robbed him of all creative imagination, the relationships that had ended in chaos, the thoughts of renewal as he had enrolled in college, years past when the average person does. That the high point of his athletic career had come on this day, when hardly no one would notice or pay attention, did not matter to him. He was OK with that. He was OK with everything, now matter how hard or unfair the cards that had been dealt to him where. He had come through the other side. He watched as the ball spun round, falling directly center of the hoop. The "rock" cut through the net with a quickness, and as the net fell upon itself and snapped out the requisite "Swish" sound, the circle of his early life was come complete. He was better again, and he would survive.

Oh yeah....  he had just won the game.