Life is full of dreams – and one of mine is to be a baller (yes, I purposely wrote that again). I want to be able to dunk the ball. I want to hear the screams of a crowd while I drive down the lane, spin, and complete a reverse to put my team up by a deuce. But unfortunately my shot is not good enough, nor is my jump, nor is my height, nor is my true balla ability.
But, just like some of the world’s worst professional ballas, I have had my moments. And since I am the publisher of a magazine, I have the ability to write about it…
November 7, 2006, was the date. Belmont and Austin was the court. I was on a mission and the guy covering me, Jeff, was about to feel like retiring from the sport forever. The first of our three pickup games was what I like to call a warm-up game – a game full of missed opportunities, layups, three pointers and lazy defense. But in game two, the game of my life, the stars would align and I, for a whole 30-point game, would be a superstar, and so much of a superstar that had M.J. been there to witness my performance, he too would have been jealous.
With a squad consisting of a 66-year-old man, a former college benchwarmer, and a washed up current bagpipe player, I had the team of a lifetime and my foe, Jeff and his squad of overweight and underpaid professionals was about to get a beating. The former college benchwarmer is usually the one who scores all the points for my team, but not tonight, not tonight.
I am a giver (love to pass), but for this game I wanted to do something special – partly to prove to my buddy Chad that I was actually a decent player and partly because I wanted to prove to Jeff that he can truly kiss my ass on the court.
Our first time down the court, I called for the ball about 10 feet behind the three-point arch. Rather than offering a pass to the cutting former benchwarmer, I fire away. Swoosh, nothing but net.
I quickly hustle down for a moment of defense. I was fierce down there too as I rip the ball from Jeff’s hands and safely complete a layup (a rarity in my game) to give my team a comfortable early lead.
Rather than slowing down, my shot becomes magnetic, connected to the rim. I cannot miss. The further behind the three-point line, the better my shot gets. I was unstoppable.
When all was said and done, our team won by 15. What was even more magical was the fact that I scored all but four points (the benchwarmer took care of those). Yes, y’all, I scored 26 points. The chances of that ever happening again are slim to none . But for one moment, one game, even the likes of M.J. would have been proud of me because for the first time in my 26-year-old career (I believe I was missing layups on a mini rim at the age of one) I was a balla, not a baller.
Hopefully this will turn into a trend and the Chicago Bulls will court me as their secret weapon. Doubtful, but hey, a guy can dream.
- NP
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Nice New Picture
Written by Guest on 2006-11-21 15:55:16
Good picture, home boy. |
