4
The big football
game was scheduled for the end of the month.
Many were pushing for a series of games, but my Dad insisted that we
just needed to see how the first game went first.
The hullabaloo
over the football game ate up most of our on-air programming at the TV studio,
enough so that new airings of The Sands of Loren were postponed at least until
it was over. I was relieved in that I
was not in a particular frame of mind to write anyway. Lisa's leaving me had left me dispirited and
confused.
I needed something
to occupy my time that didn't cause me to think so much. Phil Irman, my TV studio friend, had a
suggestion that I don't think I would have taken up under any other
circumstances. He suggested basketball.
We had two levels
of basketball. The "major
leagues" were a set of six teams that competed in kind of a league
play. They had one competition already,
in which Phil's team, the Tigers, finished second to the mighty
Wolverines. These teams had popular,
well attended games, and had each developed their own fandoms. I was Team Phil, all the way. I loved watching a fellow short person swoop
and up and down the court, and make shots from impossible distances, Phil was a
point guard and had excellent dribbling, passing and shooting skills.
The second level
was almost two dozen recreational teams that played for the fun of it. Many of the players for the major leagues
also got additional practice playing in the recreational leagues. I was privileged to be invited onto the
recreational team that Phil practiced with, the Gazelles (kind of a joke name
for a team featuring Phil and some of the other shorter players). I didn't think I could in any way help, but I
was honored that Phil thought of me, and it was a good way to get me refocused,
at least for the times we practiced and played.
I was truly
horrible at it, but Phil, bless him, didn't seem to mind. He made practices fun, and no one seemed bothered
by my incompetence. I flew up and down
the court, with little meaning or purpose.
Phil tried to pass me the ball sometimes, but I would only catch about a
third of the time. It was often
intercepted, or I just missed it altogether.
When I did catch it, I would as often as not pass it to the wrong person
or throw it out of bounds. The few times
I took a shot, I did not so much as even hit the rim or the backboard.
It's not that I
had never played basketball before. My
Dad had put a goal up on our garage, and I played with neighbor kids. I had reached my full, glorious height of 5'8"
back in Seventh grade, so I did have being taller than the kids going for
me. So occasionally I could rebound and
shoot close in. The neighborhood kids
that were athletic would come over and impose teams composed of the athletic
versus the uncoordinated, which I was always on. We would always get tromped, like the
Washington Generals playing the Harlem Globetrotters. One of those boys was Daryl Deen, a rough
spirited bully a year older than me. He
was several inches shorter than me at the time, and loved just forcibly pulling
the ball away from me. We were
constantly called for fouls no matter how light or incidental our contact. They, on the other hand, were practically knocking us to the ground,
but would never accept a foul call.
Now Daryl was
taller than me. And still as mean and
bullying as he ever was. And he was also
on the second team we played, the Lookout
Mountains
My hopes were
dashed early in the fourth quarter, when Phil sent me out so that he could take
a much needed breather. He knew what he
was doing. I had talked to him about
Daryl before. When he tagged me in, he
said he just had to take a rest for a few minutes, and when I protested, he
said it was time to face my fears. That
I had to show this guy that he couldn't push me around.
Reluctantly, I
agreed. Daryl had grown taller than me,
but not by much. He was also thicker
around the middle, but that just made him more intimidating. He was now a guard, and I was a guard, so I
guess we were matched up.
I had trouble just
keeping up with him. Unlike Artie, my
cross-country running best friend, I had developed very little stamina. I had lost a little of my pudge since the
Trap fell, but not enough to be that noticeable, or put me in better physical
condition. With all of Lisa's attention
until recently, I had forgotten just how physically unattractive I was, or at
least felt. My acne had substantially
cleared up, but that and a few pounds didn't make much difference. Daryl was darting around with increasingly
little effort. The other Gazelle guard
took point guard responsibilities, and I had little to do but try to guard
Daryl.
After three
minutes of play, I was trying to guard Daryl as he brought the ball down the
court. I could tell he was getting ready
to push past me, when on impulse I said, "Hey, look over there!" To my surprise, he actually looked! It gave me a second to steal the ball from
him mid-dribble.
Phil jumped off
the bleachers, cheering, as did the rest of the Gazelles, and a small handful
of people watching the game. I charged
towards the basket, heading for an easy layup, ready for one time in my life to
be a sports hero. I tossed the ball
up. It teased along the rim, and looked
like it was going to fall in. For an eternity
it spun, not a sound was heard in the place as everyone held their breath. The ball finally fell off the rim, but not
into the basket. It was falling off the
side. There was going to be
rebound! Only Daryl and I were near
it! I girded myself for the rebound, and
was ready to make the greatest leap of my life!
Which I, of course, mistimed, Daryl reaching past my outstretched arms
to grab the ball. As he came back down
with the ball, he elbowed me on the nose.
Hard.
I stood there in a
daze, barely able to move, as the ball was swept up to the other end of the
court, where the Lookout
Mountains
Phil came out and
gently led me to the bench.
"S-sorry, Phil. I hope...I hope
I...didn't bleed on the court," I babbled, feeling the blood swell up
around my nose.
"That was
great, Lance!" assured Phil Irman.
"I'll never forget how you stole that ball. That was the stuff of legends!"
Phil was a great
guy, even making me feel good in the face of such humiliation. Daryl and team continued to catcall, until
the ref, teacher Simon Franklin, got them to calm down.
"Forget
him!" said another teammate.
"Yeah, forget
him," Phil said. "And the
hobby horse he rode in on!"
The game resumed
once it was determined that I was just badly bruised, the blood pooling in my nose but not spurting
out.
Phil went back
into the game, and rallied our team with just enough points to edge them
out. Phil fouled Daryl once, almost
knocking him to the ground. There was
some urging by the Mountains to call a technical, but the ref decided not to
let the game get out of hand.
I continued to
play basketball off and on, as long as it was offered in the Trap, and
eventually I did get a little better at it.
But no moment beat that moment, when Lance 'Marty Martian' stole the
ball from Darryl Deen.
And that's my one
personal sports story that I have to tell.
Any other sports stories I have to tell will be about other people.
I hope you enjoyed
it, Doctor Duncan.
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