BASKETBALL TROPHIES: 1 ON 1

In the world of basketball trophies, this is the tip top of the pile, the NBA World Championship trophy.

It was an honor to hold, a feeling with deep roots.

I’ve held a few things that stir the feelings and this was one of them.

But my own basketball trophies mean more, which makes the picture even more special.

This was the only podium I stood on; it wasn’t for basketball.

That’s me on the left after the state Greco-Roman tournament in 1973.

The guy on the right wasn’t happy about second place after he’d placed second in the state folk style tournament two weeks earlier.

He’d lost a close decision to a great wrestler who went on to big things in college and after.

This was his chance for the gold when the guy he lost to bumped up to heavyweight, leaving the field to him.

It was all going his way.

But he lost again, pinned in the first round.

He was wild and dangerous and I was just protecting myself with a head and arm. Twice.

 

 

Second place is still pretty good.

He deserved better. He got bitter instead.

He was similar to my opponents in 1 on 1 basketball later in life.

They also expected to win.

And deserved better.

That’s how it is with sportsmen of a certain stripe.

 

Playing For Keeps

Like my formidable wrestling opponents, (I took the big guy who did big things in college to a tie in the nationals later the same year,) I played college boys in 1 on 1 basketball games.

One lovely afternoon on SE 11th and Lincoln a player showed up with a new sweatshirt.

 

Me: Nice sweats. Be a shame to lose it.

Them: How would I lose it?

Me: By betting it in a game of 1 on 1.

Them: Against who?

Me: Against me.

Them: What do I get when I win?

Me: You get to keep it. What are you worried about?

 

We walked over to Abernethy School and settled it on the cement court.

We battled like two warriors, challenging each other to call a foul so the other could say, “It’s only a foul in a boy’s game, not man’s game.”

We pushed and shoved, clubbed and clipped, and in the end I wore the Green and Gold.

But we weren’t finished.

A few sassy high schoolers shot hoops on another court and snickered at the old guys.

 

Us: (After an hour of punishing each other) We’re warmed up now. How about some 2 0n 2?

Them: Against you? Come on. Really?

Us: Let’s go.

 

The kids were good enough. They could shoot, but they couldn’t rebound or play defense.

Why? Fundamentals. They lacked the fundamentals.

We played high / low defense, ran through screens, and bodied them up like they’ve never been bumped.

 

Them: That’s a foul.

Us: That’s a foul in a boy’s game. This is man’s game. Man up, son.

 

We ran pick and rolls, stop and pops, and screened-out like bulldozers backing up.

Bill Walton would have been proud of our arms out and up on D.

After we wore them out with a gentle beatdown we gave them a clinic on jump-stops, crossovers, and how to switch on the pick and roll.

They were good city boys who needed to up their game instead of complain.

While I had their attention I told them I’d just won my new sweatshirt, and since we beat them my buddy should get to pick one of theirs.

They didn’t agree.

 

Cutthroat Friday Game

One Friday night in Southern Oregon I met two guys in a dim gym to play for the big prize, a gold faced watch.

The guys were high school coaches, guys that had some game. We knew each other.

The game that night had rules: the guy with the ball faced two defenders. Whoever rebounded the ball off a missed shot had to take out above the key, then get into their bag of basketball tricks.

We played to twenty-one by ones.

My game was the same as always, get them moving their feet, drive into their body and spin to the inside.

The extra defender posed another problem once you cracked past the first guy so I had to wrap up the ball with both arms, then get my shot off in their face with a quick extension.

If they moved too slow, or got too close, they risked getting hit in the face with the ball.

It’s a rough way to play the game, but these were rough guys would didn’t like the idea of getting beat on their home court.

They were scrappy enough, but I won the gold faced watch.

At the end something was off. I tracked it down to lost respect from the guys.

They expected a friendly game?

I should have left the watch?

Or what?

 

PS: Sportsmen of a certain stripe, like Michael Jordan and I,  play for keeps, not for feelings.

PSS: Or we don’t play at all. We take these things personally.