0 comments Basketball Pickup Diaries (Part 3)

Justin Bieber’s got some flow. Check it out. Shocking, right? You probably expected a consolidated Vanilla Ice/Rebecca Black combo. So did I. Never judge a book by its cover, I guess.

The Dime pickup crew fell into that trap during our last hoop session. Maybe it was karma. We did bounce early from work to get in an extra hour or two on the court. But before our frustrating journey began, we ran into some mild interference. On one end of the NYU gym floor was a mind-numbingly inept game of three-on-three – but since we needed numbers, I had to ask if they wanted to join us. They promptly hurled a unanimous “no” in my face, followed by a refusal to move to a side court. They were there first. Who knew that the five-year-old rules of engagement trumped common courtesy.

Let me paint you a picture for a moment. At the gym we play at, there are six hoops and three full-length courts. Only the middle court is regulation width, so the warming up, games of H-O-R-S-E and three-on-three are relegated to the side courts. It was apparent that these guys were aware of the unwritten rules of the gym – they were all wearing NYU gear and clearly went to school there – they just chose to ignore them.

After a few minutes of transparent intimidation attempts on our hoop as a couple guys put up some humorously absurd shots, one brave soul decided it was time to put his foot down. I’m not one for confrontation. (What usually starts as an attempt at assertive authority somehow ends with me apologizing.) So this guy calmly strode over to their half and demanded that they move. After some mumbling, grumbling and squabbling, dude got his way, and therefore ours as well.

And off we went. Despite jumping out to an early lead with our usual up-tempo play and lights out shooting, we knew our opponent had a beast waiting to erupt: a 6-5, freakishly lanky guard who could handle the rock and knock down shots from range. It’s only because he came out conservative and deferential that we managed to grab the lead; had he decided to unleash his full offensive might, we would not have stood a chance. Luckily he continually passed to his useless teammates, never complaining when they turned it over or threw up airballs. You have to admire someone so willing sacrifice winning in favor of stroking the inflated ego of his untalented teammates. Then again, maybe he had some foresight; basketball is a five man game. Maybe one guy can carry you offensively, but that’s no defensive blueprint. So he inspired confidence and effort. After eventually easing his way into the selfish offensive weapon his team needed, they were happy to relinquish their offensive grips. Four straight buckets later, we were sitting on the wrong end of an 11-9 final score.
Game number two (against the same team – no one had next, so we were able to run it back) produced more favorable fortune.

The wingmen’s confidence disappeared, and the star’s ball domination clearly perturbed the lesser able. It’s formulaic, really. A domino effect that feels utterly irreversible. It all starts with a little too much selfish play. Then it’s one pass, shoot. Two passes, shoot. No passes, shoot. Maybe one or two courtesy ball swings, but that’s it. The less you touch the ball, the more you’re ready to leave your mark on the game. For better or for worse. I’d be lying if I said we didn’t suffer from a touch of that disease on occasion. But nothing like this. All we had to do was run back on defense, wait five seconds and box out. Ten minutes later we walked away with an 11-6 victory.

And this is where it gets awkward. Even though we split games, someone called winner only after the first game. A few minutes of shouting later, we were back at war. Except this time we got manhandled, and I’m not exactly sure how. They were generally short, slow and uncoordinated. The kind of guys you stand three feet off of and give a half-hearted effort to contest. Except they were making shots. I’m sure you know the type. The guy who shoots with such awkward rotation that two thoughts creep into your head – how do you contort the laws of physics to attain such ball rotation, and who taught you to shoot like that? Appropriately, neither of those questions really matter when the ball finds its way to the basket. And it did, seemingly every time down the floor. By the time the score reached 11-5, we were glad the embarrassment had ceased.
Scott and I jumped ship to hop on with the team who had next, which consisted of two NYU girls players. Bad decision on our part. Before you jump down my throat for being sexist, know that it wasn’t because of their gender. Their cardio was simply on another level – to the point where Scott and I were simply going from three-point line to three-point line (Cut to everyone who has ever played pickup recalling similar exhausted memories). They’d score a bucket and we’d inbound the ball to our point guard (one of the ladies). But she would already be on the move and her backcourt mate would be miles up the court. Meanwhile the rest of us ambled up the court, praying they didn’t shoot it too soon so we’d have to get back on defense. Even though we pulled out the first win, a part of me was slightly pissed. I had gone past crippling fatigue and was inching uncomfortably close to vomiting. So instead of focusing on the defensive end, I fell into another classic pickup trap. Burst energy. I ambled up and down the floor, barely contributing on either end. Once I touched the ball in a favorable spot, I emptied the tank and made my move toward the bucket. Except when you’re that tired, a miss is almost guaranteed. To compound the lost possession, you’re now supremely spent and mentally disheartened. It’s like at the end of movies when the guy runs to the airport before the girl goes off to art school in France – he catches her, they kiss, everyone at the airport ignores their anger at the fact that some jackass cut them in line and security guards forget that “I’m chasing a girl” is no excuse to let someone through. In my scenario, I missed the girl. In fact, I couldn’t even catch a cab to the airport. That’s how bad it was. The girls’ unending lung capacity let us steal the first game, but it all came to a crashing halt in game number two. And by “all,” I mean me. I’m pretty sure it was my atrocious play that led to the late game collapse.

So we were 1-2 as a crew. A pretty bad day. But we’ll be back for more and ready to improve upon our 7-5 summer record.

3 comments Basketball Pickup Diaries (Part 2)

As you may remember from last time, we left the court pretty self-satisfied – a 3-2 record with our last loss due to a we’re-in-better-shape-than-you thrashing. Armed with fresh legs and growing chemistry, we strutted into the gym ready to take it to the competition. Well all that came to a screeching halt when we had to watch the grandpa crew run the court at two miles per hour. Part of me couldn’t ignore my blood boiling – at this rate, we weren’t going to get on the court for another hour. They walked the ball up the floor (I’m not one to say that street ball needs a shot clock, but this was bordering on ridiculous. I’m talking Brook Lopez ambling up the court slow.), fouled incessantly and argued every call. But they won twice, and my other half clung to a sliver of respect for their performance. Even writing that sentence felt wrong – but their victories happened, and I still have no idea how. Kind of like the Mavs stealing the title from the Heat. It happened, but I’m struggling for the words to decipher the phenomenon.

So we stood on the sidelines, warming up on a side court and waiting our turn. But know that I’m using the term “warming up” lightly. Because, let’s be honest: No one warms up. After pretending to touch our toes and stretch our triceps, we grab a ball and start. At least that’s what I do. (I can’t remember the last time I actually stretched a muscle.) Most people put up some jumpers, dribble the ball around – nothing spectacular or noteworthy. Just something to get a feel. So here I was, in the middle of that monotonous routine, when another classic pickup figure graced us with his presence; the warm-up champ. I’m talking about the guy who abuses the defense with staggering crossovers, one-footed fadeaways and psychedelic dribbling. Okay fine, there’s no defender. But if there were, he’d have no chance.

I’d venture to say that Andrea Bargnani will average 10 boards per contest before the warm-up champ even attempts to use his warm-up skills on the court. The one I encountered had a specific knack for the annoying. After cruising through his array of absurdly difficult shots, he took his ball and walked right up to the bucket. And thus the lay-up bonanza ensued. Refusing to move to an empty hoop, his two-foot lay-ups deflected other shots left and right. If you want to take shots near the rim, knock yourself out. Just not on a hoop where five other people are shooting.

After thirty minutes, it was time. And to our surprise, the crew of tribal elders still stood strong. Well, they stood. Despite my desire to send them packing, I did preserve an ounce of pity for their one good player. It was clear that he just got stuck on the wrong team. As much as I detest players ganging up in pickup to form an unbeatable team, this was just an unfortunate consequence of the “who’s got next” line.

The game got off to a rocky start as their resident fat guy, straight out of Along Came Polly, (If you know what I’m talking about, it was that guy to a tee. If you don’t, just trust me. I wouldn’t be making a reference to Along Came Polly unless it was absolutely necessary.) kept backing down Mike (one of our crew) and shielding him with his enormous width. Not to mention that the dude was tall, nasty sweaty and fairly hairy – a terrible combination. Mike’s no pushover, but he was giving up four inches and 100 pounds. So despite our ease scoring at the other end, we found ourselves in the midst of a 4-4 tie thanks to Eddy Curry’s bastard brother. Fortunately their wheels fell off once we began to push the ball and use our superior athleticism (meaning we could run more than two steps without sucking down air like it was running out). 7 points later, we cruised to an 11-4 win.

Game number two came against a mixed squad that included two of the fairer sex. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t think we’d win easily (which we did). But it wasn’t because of the girls. One could stroke it from deep and the other was lightning quick with good handles and vision. Although the latter was lacking height, so I did feel a twinge of sympathy when I threw a lob to Scott, who's 6-2, on a two-on-one fastbreak.

Game three brought a crew ready to ball and challenge us for real. Their equal skill and imposing physicality proved problematic on the defensive end. Even worse, however, was another staple of the pickup game: the referee. You’ve seen him a million times. He’s the one that slows down games and reminds you why you hesitate to even play pickup in the first place. There’s no doubt this guy had talent. But every time he went to the basket, he initiated contact and called a foul, putting us in an impossible situation: street ball rules dictate that you respect the call – but what do you do when someone abuses the “call your own fouls” privilege? If you want contact, don’t go all Tim Duncan incredulous on everyone when the defender bangs right back. But that wasn’t even the worst part. On the other end of the floor, we couldn’t take it to the rack. And no, it wasn’t because of their stifling defense. Every time we even sniffed the paint, they’d hack, grab and shove with reckless abandon. Literally intentionally fouling, I kid you not. My man, who rocked Lil Wayne’s hair with an NFL fullback’s body, would yank my arm every time I blew by him. (The drawback of looking like an NFL fullback is that you defend like one as well – physically capable but altogether incapable of side-to-side movement.) He even called a carry on Mike AFTER he drove to the basket and scored. But we’re men of the high road, so we respected all the calls. Karma was on our side and we weren’t going to mess with it. With the score tied 8-8, we weren’t losing to these chumps. This game was personal. They encroached on the unwritten rules of pickup with no mercy. It was our duty to realign the stars and bring justice to the hardwood. And we did with three straight points and an 11-8 victory. Watching them drag their bodies off the court was the most satisfying moment of the entire day.

At this point the wait for next had ballooned to four or five teams, so a loss would equal our exit from the gym. Of course a guy who clearly played for the NYU basketball team (he was fully geared up) brought himself and his crew of similarly athletic guys onto the court next. It was clear that he was the best on the court and had no business play pickup with us scrubs. Maybe he wasn’t that good, or maybe his mom never loved him enough and he yearned for that ever-elusive self-confidence – I don’t know. Either way, he clearly didn’t get the memo that pickup is for people who suck/think they’re good but suck/mediocre to good players. He clearly fit none of these categories.

After a few minutes of up and down action, it was obvious that he had game. But we weren’t willing to fold. The whole game we trailed by two, struggling to find any sort of offensive consistency but somehow managing to drop buckets. Trailing 7-5, Mike decided enough was enough. Using an array of floaters, pull-ups and other can’t-get-near-the-bucket-moves, he engineered a 6-3 run and an 11-10 lead for Team Dime. After a stop and a mini fast break, the ball was hurled up court to me. Standing alone on the three-point line, the opportunity to end the game was right there. But I had too much time. I started to rotate the ball, and worst of all, think. And you only have one thought in that situation: “If I miss, there’s no way we’re winning this.” When the ball left my hand, I knew it immediately. Long. The ball clanked off the back iron and caromed right into an opponents hands, turning into a lay-up at the other end. Two points later, I left the court enveloped by guilt as we lost 13-11.

As badly as I wanted to get back on the court and show the NYU guy that fancy gear and color coordinated clothing are not always equivalent to basketball skill, I wasn’t going to wait an hour.

And thus ends part two of our pickup journey. For those scoring at home, that gives us a 6-3 summer record. Not too shabby, I think.

5 comments Basketball Pickup Diaries

Basketball, really, is my wife. Steady with exciting and sometimes frustrating wrinkles. Even if I have moments of doubt in the summer, I always come back to my greatest love. With the lockout upon us, I thought about pouring part of my now partially empty soul into baseball. But I just can’t make the switch because baseball has always been my on-the-side fling. In small doses, it’s great. But 90% of the time I’m left wanting more. That rush of knowing every play matters because the clock is ticking. Dig yourself in a hole and there might not be enough time to crawl your way out. (Cut to Dirk and the Mavs shaking their heads and pointing to their championship rings. Well, bracelets. Or anklets. I don’t know.)

And then it hit me. I may have given up on my NBA dreams years ago, but that doesn’t stop me from unleashing my competitive drive on unsuspecting street ballers (More often than not it’s my opponent that does the unleashing, but we’ll ignore that for a second). If following basketball can’t do the trick, I might as well play the game a bit more. So that’s what I’m trying to do.

I think I speak for everyone in my pickup crew when I say that our basketball-writing skills surpass our on-the-court aptitude. But there’s a certain pride that pickup elicits – actually, it’s more like anger. The shame of defeat is compounded by having to sit out at least the next game. And by the time you do get back on the court, you’re probably tired, stiff and cold. Not to mention the anger that has been festering inside after the loss.

But losing isn’t the worst part. It’s losing to that one guy – the one who’s beyond frustrating because he’s just doing something that’s not kosher. Everyone knows that there are certain unwritten rules of pickup that must be followed: no charges, no tic-tac fouls, no cherry picking, no excessive smack talking or gear. (Only NBA players are good enough for headbands, finger tape, arm bands, etc.) When that anger boils, there’s nothing more I’d like to do than send the offender packing. It’s not even about dropping buckets. It’s the knowledge that he’ll be at the end of the line if I beat him. Watching him sulk and bicker gives me shameless amusement and satisfaction. I’m happy and he’s pissed. I’m still playing, he’s not. And with that victory comes a sliver of respect from the next opponent. And let me tell you, it’s nice to be respected on the basketball court. There’s nothing worse than someone loudly explaining to his teammate why you suck and don’t need to be guarded tightly – talk about a confidence killer. And that’s really all pickup is - a game of confidence. There’s a reason why everyone is playing in that gym with you. They’re not going anywhere in the basketball-playing lives either. It took me years to acknowledge and accept that revelation. But once I did, it made my basketball life that much easier.

As a group, we’re strong defensively. Because in pickup, that’s all it takes. Most refuse to play offense unless the ball is in their hands. So we’re physical. We push, we shove, we foul. Nothing’s easy. And most importantly, we box out. None of us have Dwight Howard hops or strength, so we go the Kevin Love route – positioning, positioning, positioning.

We started out our run of five games with a 14-12 loss (the game was to 11). I personally couldn’t get going because my defender was simply too quick, strong and physical for me to handle. I got some buckets here and there, but nothing consistent. I’m just glad that no one had the box score, because my line would have probably resembled something straight out of the Larry Hughes/New York Knicks era. Relying on our bread and butter (jumpers), everyone else was knocking down shots. But they had that guy I’m preconditioned to hate. He cherry picked and he called weak fouls. And then he had the audacity to go nose-to-nose with my teammate Scott (wearing an Oregon Ducks t-shirt) and blurt out, “no easy buckets in New York.”

That put us over the top, anger-wise. So when we lost, we slouched down against the bleachers, pissed beyond belief and ready to go again. But our next opponents were weak and we coasted to victory. If we’re Kirk Hinrich on the athleticism scale, then they were Mike Bibby. But no one was in the gym, so we built up our confidence by hammering our overmatched opponent twice in a row.

Next up was a game were amped for. Led by a jersey wearing, muscle-bulging screamer who emphatically celebrated every positive play by his team (I’m all for positive energy, but this was bordering on Jon Gruden on Monday Night Football territory), the adversary seemed strong. But that’s lesson No. 1 of pickup: never judge an opponent based on looks. Well, we were guilty of just that, except they were way worse than advertised. So we cruised to an easy victory, complemented by defeating my favorite pickup player: the surprise guy. He’s the one that’s utterly shocked when he puts up a brick. Confusing himself for Dirk, he just can’t believe that he missed a contested 20-foot turnaround fadeaway. But it’s not his irrational confidence that confuses me most. It’s that his surprise at the miss is purely genuine. The best NBA players make 50% of their shots – but this guy is better and will not tolerate anything less. Anyway, we thankfully managed to win that game.

By our 5th game (against the screamer and the surprise guy, plus three newbies), we were exhausted, although it could’ve just been me. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m in the same shape as Eddy Curry, but I like to think that it’s because I was giving my all on every play. Anyway, we got killed. It felt like Game 4 of the Lakers/Mavs series. They countered our every punch with a jab, right hook, upper-cut, then kick to face while we were down. Every miss turned into a fast break. Every rebound went their way. So we lost 11-4, but ultimately proud of our 3-2 record.