The Sunday Pick Up

A black eye is not a great look for me, particularly not on Easter Sunday. “What did you get in a scuffle with the Easter bunny?” my bride quipped.  This was 8 years ago this weekend when Paul’s elbow came down on my cheek like a meteor strikes Jupiter, at least it felt that way. I’m 5 foot nothing with a vertical leap no better than an aging cricket and thought I could outrebound a 6 foot something who had boxed me out of the lane. I could not. My cheek swelled quickly and my jaw vibrated and twitched in excruciating, albeit perfect rhythm.  On that Sunday, I cupped the left side of my face and slunked off the court but there were no ice bags so I jammed my face left-side down onto the bubbler, letting the water envelop my burning face. Funny how when there’s pain, check that–anguish–you care little about touching public surfaces so carelessly. The game ended about 5 minutes later at half past 8 on this Sunday morning, the pancakes still bubbling up in houses around town. Guys mosey into this mahogany gym before the paper guy even flings the Sunday comics onto your front stoop. The dark wood beams here are striking, running along an A frame ceiling giving the gym the feel of a 1950s Hickory Huskers field house. The players carry small duffle bags with throwback New Balance sneakers and two jerseys: one white, one dark. Sunday ball is not a shirts and skins game like it was in the 80s. There’s a modest level of embarrassment here even though no one would admit it. It’s one thing to show off how bad you are from 15 feet, but quite another to show off the belly you have let go as you fill the lane on a break. Jiggling could be distracting and induce further injury. And, heck, getting guys to change from dark to white shirts after the first game is harder than peeling a Made-in-China sticker off the kid’s Christmas toys. These games feature a lot of bald, bulky and banged up middle age guys: four wear knee braces, two or three have goggles, one has a kind of arm band that looks more like a Downey pillow, at least six have massage gear or compression socks to keep their calves from tightening, and there’s one guy who has athletic tape over pretty much every possible part of his skin. On Sunday, one guy started warming up with “high knees” but pulled something then said “I’m out.”  In between games guys talk about work and tuition bills and last night’s ballgame, and if you listen carefully some of us talk about a leg cramp we’ve been having or this weird abdominal pain.  But once the games begin, this is no medical unit, slow-it-down half court, no defense, 3-point contest. This is a first 10 in the gym full-court war, with down and dirty man to man defense, pick and rolls, dribble screens, post up pivots, and outlets to a break. These players, despite what you’d think, are not intramural hall of famers whose claim to fame is that College Spring Weekend Sigma Fi 3-point shooting championship where you had to wash back a grape crush shooter before every shot. No, these are ballers, a mix of D1 and D2 throwbacks, who played in an era of Pete Carril’s motion offense and bank shots and backdoor cuts you just know are coming but still can’t catch. Players don’t necessarily fit the stereotype of an old man basketball player, but there are patterns that emerge: there’s the “I’m sorry guy” who invariably takes 17 footers that never hit rim, or the “My bad guy” whose entry passes hit the guy in the groin rather than the hands. There’s “Full court guy” who takes every board and screams up the court at warp speed, always veering right near the hoop before throwing up a brick. There’s the “I can only go right guy” who, well you guessed it – can only go right. For every turnover there’s an offensive board put-back, a no-look give and go and, if you’re watching closely, an occasional Sherm Douglas to Rony Seikaly alley-oop lay-in that ESPN might even consider Top 10 worthy. Okay, that’s a stretch, but I got to say that an “Old Man Basketball” Network might not be a totally horrible idea. It’s March Madness on muscle relaxants. Think of a reality TV comedy version of Mad Men and White Shadow. Could call it Hoops & Hopalongs or As The World Turnsover.  Episodes could have a bit of Glengarry Glennross and Gordon Gekko Wall Street feel to them in between games as the players talk business and trade proposals. There would be no need for a script or actual actors because, let’s be honest, these guys can play the part of a middle age not-quite-as-good-as-we-used-to-be basketball player as well as any actor could. They could debate healthcare reform or argue over whose injuries are worse during the next dead ball. The reality, of course, is that these guys aren’t getting up on Sundays to debate anything. They already know who they are by now. We already know. The game is really just a way to temper the zillions of things going on in our head and in our life, the college payments, project deadlines, anxious teen, nana’s memory loss, and that unpainted deck. That’s why, black eye and swollen face and all, I will be back next Sunday. When the email comes over asking ‘who’s in?,’ there’s really only one answer I can give.