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Pick your poison: the running hook or the from-the-hip three.
The following is the first installment of a series of articles based on the real life sports exploits of our gallant protagonist, the Weekend Warrior.
A man stood undaunted. He held a set of car keys in one hand, a cell phone in the other. A gym bag dangled from his shoulder. It was early, pre-dawn, on a Saturday morning, but while the masses slept, the Weekend Warrior clung fondly to dreams of the waking variety...
The glare from the court pierced his eyes as he laced his shoes, pulled up his knee braces, tightened his ankle brace, adjusted his Rec Specs, and fidgeted with his wristbands and headband. Sunlight gleamed on the eastern horizon. It was a new day; His day.
"I got next," he confidently piped while jumping up and down, clicking the heels of his shoes together on the sidelines.
He was more visionary than athlete, more plodder than man, and his outward appearance only confirmed these labels. But it wasn't his exterior that made him a legend. It was his insides, his guts, that proved to be the backbone of his game. No one could measure his heart, his "court savvy," or his desire to win. There was no yardstick to account for what those in-the-know refer to as the intangibles. "Winners stay", it was said, and God, he knew it. It was one of his many mantras. A quiet confidence brewed inside him. He knew he would be on that court all morning. He would not lose, because he refused to lose. He would lead his team to victory by the sheer force of his will.
It was this mindset, this chase of perfection, that garnished him such accolades as Best Bench Player, Honorable Mention, in the seventh grade and Most Improved Junior Varsity Player as a senior in high school. Although his varsity career was somewhat checkered, cut regrettably short by a series of knee and ankle injuries, as well as a coach who "hated him", it only made his hunger that much more insatiable. He had something to prove to the other ball players who would take the court with him on this day. In his basketball soul, he knew failure... was not an option.
Sides were picked. The ball was passed in. The Weekend Warrior was at work.
It only took a few trips up and down court before our Legend was drenched. Sweat poured down his face like a bartender on Nickel Whiskey Night underneath Niagara Falls in the middle of a monsoon. The siren of Fatigue sighed to him her fetching song. He clutched his shorts as the rest of his team ran back down court to play defense.
"C'mon man... D' up!" yelled one of his teammates.
C'mon Man... D' Up!
The Legend glared through his Rec Specs. How dare he say such a thing. After all, it wasn't his defense that had earned him the Ten and Under "Knockout" Champion trophy at basketball camp as an eighth grader. He knew which end of the court was his. He would assert himself accordingly. He would fire when he was goddamned good and ready.
After several possessions, neither team had scored in a game that was quickly becoming a war of attrition. The Legend grew impatient. He felt as if his team should recognize their "Go-To Guy" and run the offense through him. He had all the shots: the two handed "Jimmy Chitwood", the running hook, and the three-pointer with below-the-hip release; now he just needed the rock in his hands.
"Corner... CORNER!" he yelled, thrusting his arms skyward as he set himself behind the arc. The Weekend Warrior owned the deep left corner. He considered it his 'office'.
While watching his teammate drive to the basket, our hero took one step to his right, trying to find an open area in a stifling zone defense. The defenders were sucked into the lane. Caught in the air, having no place else to go, his teammate passed him the ball, and suddenly The Legend found himself in possession of the one thing he so passionately coveted. The 'orange'.
After a series of molasses-like jab steps at nothing, and a few Brad Daugherty-esque ball fakes, also at nothing, The Legend was overwhelmed by the impulse to shoot. He also attempted an in-shot adjustment: a herky-jerky, ugly, unpracticed quick release of what appeared to be a two-handed jumper, but looked more like a drunken giraffe deep within the throes of a "full-body dry heave" because it had lost miserably in a game of quarters. To the defender's utter shock and dismay, and partially due to the fact that he had never seen anything like that before in life, let alone on a basketball court, the shot was away, uncontested, twisting uncomfortably through the air.
The high trajectory of the shot caused the ball to hang in the air for what seemed like hours. The players froze themselves in a tableau as they watched its wobbly flight. One onlooker described the unflattering, floating, knuckleball as "fighting like a one-legged man in a shit-kicking contest just to get through the air." As the ball approached the rim, our Shooter suddenly realized that he overcompensated for what he estimated were "gale-force winds" inside the gymnasium. He waved his arms, Fisk-like, desperately applying 'English'. It was in vain. The ball caromed off the top of the backboard, hit the wire, and fell mercifully to the floor, out of bounds. The Legend's teammates raced down court to set up on defense. One of them called back, "Quit shooting, Fuck-O."
He would not quit shooting. He would take, and miss, many more shots on this hapless morning. He would be a pariah on the court, drifting from one team to another, despised by all. A group of younger kids taunted him as they passed by, telling him he 'sucked' as he picked up his dribble in the backcourt and got 'ripped'. A girl got picked ahead of him, and she personally shut him down and picked on him for several key scores of her own. It was a dawn full of sorrows- sorrows that would have submerged lesser men. But the Weekend Warrior's fighting spirit never flagged.
Weekend Warrior Final Stat Line: Games Played: 6 Field Goals/ Field Goal Attempts: 2/28 3-Pt Field Goals/ 3-Pt Field Goal Attempts: 0/13 Field Goal Percentage: 7% 3-Pt Field Goal Percentage: 0% Rebounds: 4 Assists: 1 Blocked shots: 0 Steals: 1 Turnovers: 38 Total Points: 4
Sports editorJesse Lamovsky assisted in writing this piece.
That's classic. Well done and so on the ball with the 0/13 from behind the arc. Here in SoCal the "Legend" plays on blacktop with no three-point line, but that doesn't stop them from airing out desperate heaves from way downtown. I also love that he had one assist, presumably a lost dribble that his teammate recovered and scored on.
Dave
Very funny!
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Posted: 5/19/2005 3:49:48 AM
Nice Job, that was one of the better reads I've seen.
Sean
Just like NFL classics...
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Posted: 5/19/2005 2:22:51 PM
Gotta have the John Facenda voice in this. Priceless.
Bobby
Oh My god...
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Posted: 5/19/2005 2:33:14 PM
Everyone in my office is staring at me now because I couldn't contain my laughter. This is the funniest thing I have read in a LONG time. The line about him sweating is fucking priceless...
(S)TD
Best line ever:
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Posted: 5/19/2005 2:43:28 PM
"Sweat poured down his face like a bartender on Nickel Whiskey Night underneath Niagara Falls in the middle of a monsoon."
L, that is absolutely brililant. Even as I type this, I'm still laughing.
brett
Well Done
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Posted: 5/19/2005 2:51:13 PM
I'm still laughing. Brilliant piece of writing. The Carlton Fisk reference is priceless, and we have all played with the guy who considers the corner "his office," camping out there to no end calling for the ball on every possession.
dvd
indeed
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Posted: 5/19/2005 3:07:54 PM
good "peice," man. seriously. best thing I've read on this site since I re-read one of my old articles. you absolutely nailed the weekend warrior stereotype. something that could have just as easily derailed. but you kept it under control, which is impressive.
you should put your efforts into writing a like-piece involving gym class heroes from high school. those kids pissed me off.
Steve
Wow
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Posted: 5/19/2005 4:07:45 PM
Written extremely well. Very funny too! I laughed, I cried better than cats!
s
hickory!
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Posted: 5/19/2005 4:42:03 PM
the jimmy chitwood. i almost died.
K
So funny
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Posted: 5/23/2005 10:00:26 AM
This was right on. I see these guys at my gym all the time. It's even better when you get a game going where half of them are Weekend Warriors -- they can play for five minutes without anyone scoring. Some of them just run up and down the court, actively avoiding contact with the ball. The others park it at one end of the court and don't make any attempt at moving, but call for the ball. I guess it's better than sitting on your ass eating Krispy Kremes, though. Very funny article.
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