Berkeley Ball: Cal Edition

V.T.'s back in Berkeley, visiting the in-laws. Over a week without ball and he's jonesing for a game. Last visit, he checked out the local YMCA. The verdict: decent ball, but tiny court. This time, he ventures down to the Cal Rec Facility for noon ball, which appears to be a ubiquitous phenomenon.

He experiences a mix of disappointment and pride. Disappointment at the one-on-one nature of noon ball in Berkeley--the lack of hustle and teamwork--and pride because there is no comparison with noon ball back in Alberta. The ball in Edmonton is of another species entirely. It is competitive without being assholey, intense without any real hostility. The talented players pass and hustle. The lesser talented ballers--like V.T.--get their boards and garbage buckets.

There was too much mouthing off, too much no defense at the Cal Rec Center. Still, he'll be back.

Obama joins Church of the Hardwood

Wow. So it was exciting enough for this blog that President-Elect Obama is a baller. Now, word is Obama has actually been attending his own Church of the Hardwood since the election. Note to the administration: when the National Prayer Breakfast is officially replaced with a 5-on-5 hoops tournament, the Church of the Hardwood would be proud to send a team.

In the meantime, we'd be happy to accept "this one/that one" election day jerseys.

Rasheed Wallace is a toaster?

I'm lost.
How does Carmelo's game resemble salsa? What does Rasheed Wallace have to do with a toaster? This guy watches too much basketball on TV. The heart and soul of the game, as I've said before, is not in the league but on in the various Churches of the Hardwood. Still, got to give props to my ex-Writing Center colleague for pulling off this book.

Election day: it's game time

[via the Sporting Blog]

Baller in Chief

The Church of the Hardwood cannot stay on the sidelines--ok, the bench--any longer. Not that anyone cares, but, for the record, CotH endorses Barack Obama for Baller in Chief. (You're cool with that, right, Stat Boy?)

A rising tide lifts all jumpshots

So I guess the CofH tries to keep politics out of hoops (or maybe only officially), but after today's run, I couldn't help but notice an interesting correlation:

- Attendance at church of the hardwood: up. Slowly rising all semester, today we set a record (at least in my tenure) with 18 ballers. We had a game of 5s and a game of 4s at one point in time.

- Enthusiasm for the NBA season: up.

- Support for Obama: up.

We've documented Obama's love of hoops previously, but does the public's love of Obama carry over to the court? Does voter turnout = church of the hardwood turnout?

Hoops with Obama

Yea, we know Obama likes to hoop it up.

But what kind of a player is he? I'm dying to know. Is he the selfless type who makes all the players around him better? Is he the whiner, who screams every time he misses a shot? Maybe he's the coach type, the guy who's always critiquing your game. For my part, I hope he's the self-denigrating type, the guy who makes all the hustle plays and makes consistent jumpers but is constantly talking down his game. I don't know, but Barack, if you're out there and you need a fifth, I'll run witch ya.

Touch the Rim

V.T.'s really falling down on the job here. Over two weeks since the last post. He'll blame it on the teaching (don't they understand his real job?)

V.T. experienced a euphoric sensation yesterday: he inadvertently touched the rim while trying to block a shot. It was almost goaltending! It's been four years and several ankle and knee injuries since V.T. touched the rim. But suddenly, he felt it. Almost jammed his finger on it.

V.T. has this recurring dream of floating in the sky towards the rim. He's about to throw down a monster dunk but has to abort the dunk because he's going to break his teeth on the rim.

Dirty Old Guys

Why are Old Guys so dirty? They claw and scratch. If you get by them, they trip you. You get position on them down low, they grab your arms. They stick their jagged elbows in your chest.

V.T. got headbutted by a Dirty Old Guy last week. He still has a sore, purple eye socket as a souvenir. The Dirty Bastard then took the ball out, as if V.T. FOULED HIM!

V.T. prays to the basketball gods that he'll hang up the sneakers before he becomes one of these Dirty Old Guys.

Presidential Hoops: A One Act Play

We now have two ballers in the presidential race. Obama still plays pick-up, but Palin was once a state champion point guard. Let us imagine a one-on-one game between Sarah Barracuda and Black Sweatpants.

Black Sweatpants: Ok, let's shoot for the ball.

Barracuda (banking in a two-footer): Sweet. My ball.

Sweatpants (not really playing defense, but trying to show Barracuda some respect): The point guard position is about ball distribution. An unselfish position.

Barracuda: And hitting clutch shots. (the ball rims out). Foul!

Sweatpants: I respect your calls. Your ball.

Barracuda (launching a three before Obama checks it out): Foul!

Sweatpants: Foul? You didn't even check it.

Barrucada: You hit my arm, Barack. It was flagrant.

Sweatpants: Fine. Call your own fouls.

Barracuda (dribbling into Obama, who puts his arms straight in the air): Another foul. That's blocking. Golly, did you ever learn the rules of this game? Maybe that's how you people play. Street ball.

Sweatpants: Enough! That was a charge. Let's look at the replay. It will be clear that you dribbled into me when I had position. That's called a charge!

Barracuda: There's no replay in pick-up, mister. And I'm up 1-0. The clock is ticking. Two minutes left and I've got to get back to moose hunting. Your ball, smartypants.

Sweatpants (makes an elegant crossover that leaves Palin frozen): You're out of practice, Sarah. (Fading away, Obama releases a beautiful jumpshot that goes straight through the net). That's it! Now we're tied and it's my ball.

Barracuda (arms circling around one another): Come on, Barack, you know you shuffled your feet. That's traveling.

(Enter campaign aides, impatiently tapping their feet).

Aides: Sorry kids, but there are interviews to do, funds to raise, spots to film. The game's over.

Barracuda (to Aide): Make sure you get this down: Palin 1, Obama 0.

Keep Hope Alive!

Before Jesse Jackson was cutting nuts off, he liked to say "Keep hope alive!"

And that's the message Vanilla Thunder would like to impart to his fellow ballers in Texas: "Keep hope alive!"

Keep up the Church, fellas. There's some rumors out there that the church is dying. That odd numbers are showing up. It's tough to split up teams with odd numbers.

Keep the Church alive!

Peace out,
V.T.

Summer Vacation

[inspired by/with apologies to: indexed]

Message from Stat Boy

"If you don't play, the terrorists win."

The French Canadians Stole my Basketball Court

V.T. has been in full-on hoops mode ever since he discovered noon ball at the University of Alberta. It's reputed to be one of the best pick-up games in all of Canada. In fact, V.T. can barely hang in this game, but it forces him to play smart and be the "hustle guy."

So he was pretty disappointed to find that the French Canadians decided to have their version of the Olympics on his basketball court this week. It's French Kanadia volleyball, basketball, badminton. They've taken over the University. Why come all the way out to Alberta, a place where only two percent of the population speaks French?

V.T. wants his court back.

Shirts and Skins Poll

It appears that shirts and skins is not the favored method of dividing teams in the 21st century. Three ballers said shirts and skins is antiquated and insults the intelligence. Two said they preferred skins. No one, I guess, likes the division of teams by race or ethnic origin.

In fact, that's always really awkward when that happens. You're on the court with nine strangers. There's a black guy, a few Asians, maybe a latino. No one knows anyone else's names, so you're trying to explain who's guarding who. You point to the black guy and say, "you're guarding the guy in, uh, the purple shorts." So awkward. Then there are the times when you're the only X in a group of all Ys. This used to happen to V.T. all the time. He played with a group of Israelis for a while on West 6th Street. Everyone but V.T. spoke Hebrew. Then there's the park on 43rd street in Hyde Park in Austin. V.T. was the "white boy." Come to think of it, the Church is pretty damn white. It just dawned on V.T. after looking at those photos on the blog. Ok, now we're really getting off topic.

Pickup style: rocking the headband

For all the old-man-ball fashionistas out there: A Guide to Wearing Headbands

[via TrueHoop]

Vanilla Thundered

V.T. got dunked on. He knows how that tall French guy felt when Vince Carter went right over him. V.T.'s not a seven footer, so he's a little easier to leap over.
Still, his feelings were a little hurt. But then again, it's not everyday that a mediocre 30-something gets to share the court with guys like this.

Yes, I actually got dunked on by that guy. He's no Big Country Reeves, but the guy can play.

The Oklahoma City Toby Keiths

V.T.'s been trying to be dispassionate about the whole NBA-to-OKC deal. It's bound to fail. Professional sports teams in Oklahoma always fail. The Tulsa Roughnecks, the Oklahoma Outlaws, the Tulsa Fast-Breakers (and they won a championship!). Pick a sport, and the same thing always happens. The okies get all jazzed up and sell out the place for a season. Come next season, the novelty wears off and the okies say, "naw, I think I'll watch a rerun of the 2001 Red River Shootout."

But this uniform extravaganza's getting V.T. worked up. He likes the collective singular nouns: the Frontier, the Storm, the Bison. Maybe it's Bisons. I don't know, spell check prefers Bison. I like the nod to the Grapes of Wrath here with the b-ball in the Depression-era knapsack. I really hope the team embraces its okie-ness. Kinda like the guy who designed the uniform with Toby Keith's fat face on the front of the jersey.

Um, Um, Um, I love this basketball team. The team colors could be red, white, and blue, and TK could sing that "boot up your ass" song. Kevin Durant might not get it, but the rednecks would get fired up!

This Must Be Stopped

Nothing to do with basketball, but V.T. has nightmares about this video..

Watch it like 56 times, as V.T. has, and it only gets worse. Who are these people? What were they thinking? Why does this exist? It's things like this that make V.T. happy to be in Canada.

King's Court

So, I'm shooting around with two Canadians at the University of Alberta. We all want to get some sort of game going, but there's no sign of a fourth player for two on two.

In my universe, that means it's time for a game of 21. But this is isn't my universe. This is Canada. Here they play "King's Court," something I've never heard of. I thought it might have something to do with being part of the British Commonwealth, but then, that would be "Queen's Court," right?

King's Court is a game of one-on-one that's constantly rotating, so that the person that loses a point sits out while the other two player a game of one-on-one to one. The person who wins the point is the king. You go to 11, constantly rotating. The hardest thing about this game is that you only get four dribbles.

I played with an ex-All Canada, semi-pro player who kicked our asses. Then we played 21, which I had to teach them. I I still lost.

The Almost NBA

Vanilla Thunder here, still trying to track down a game in Edmonton. Tried out the YMCA and found nothing but a few stragglers who'd rather play indoor soccer. A couple of days ago, I wound up at the Butterdome, a massive yellow cube that functions as the University of Alberta's all-purpose rec center. The track team was running hurdles and the facility was technically closed, but there were four indoor basketball courts with a few stragglers shooting around. I always wonder about stragglers. Are they just bored? Are they looking for a game? Are they practicing? Personally, I like to recreate High School practices when I shoot by myself. I run lay-ups (the weakest phase of my game). I shoot one hundred jump shots, free throws... Anyway, I'm getting distracted.

I was in the Butterdome, crashing the track team's drills and shooting by myself, when a 50-ish guy introduced himself as Allen. He wanted to go one-on-one. I love these one-on-one games with over-the-hill guys like myself. You know you're not impressing anyone with your crossover dribble. You're just hustling around the court, getting the heartrate up and trying to not get injured.

I had my mid-range jumper working and beat Allen, but then he wanted me to play with a handful of Native kids from his organization, the ENBA. It's kinda like the NBA, he said, except that it's the Edmonton Native Basketball Association. It's a great organization. I love the concept. And the aboriginal (as they say here in Canada) kids can play! One of the "kids" (ok, he was like 25) put on a dunking exhibition after our co-ed 4-on-4 game. Vanilla Thunder loves the idea of helping kids through basketball, and he's always thought he might be part Native anyway.

The ENBA's main dilemma is court space. Renting out the Butterdome is out of the question ($5000 an hour), but they're looking for spots around town. Count me in!

Can't Make Fun of Obama?

Maureen Dowd says that it's basically impossible to make fun of Obama. Sure, that New Yorker cover is a flop. Dowd says no one can find anything "buffoonish" about Barack: he's too polished, too, well, "articulate." And he's black.

Has no one investigated the Obama hoops videos for comic material?

Where's the Hoops ?

Let's see... Curling, floor hockey, squash, racquetball. Where's the hoops game? Come on, Canadians. I know you play ball. I mean, Steve Nash. Where will he play when he's a 45-year-old retired baller with tapped up knees and ankles?

Speaking of injured joints, my friend Chris summed up his approach to pick-up ball in his 30's thusly: he won't play in a game unless the ballers are wearing braces or tape. I like that rule. If you don't tape up your ankles and knees, you're too young for me.

I have a sneaking feeling I'm going to have to take up floor hockey. The gym at the local YMCA has hockey goals under the baskets. Damn.

Frozen Hoops, Eh?

Vanilla Thunder arrives in Canada in mid-summer to find that it's still cold. There's snow on the ground. How is that possible? It's still sunny at 10:00pm. This is very bizarre.

In the coming weeks (and months and possibly years) I will be documenting hoops in Canada. Do they play with those wonky free-throw lines? Do they call ticky-tack fouls?
Do they say "eh" on the hardwood? I will find out.

First, though, I gotta find a game in Edmonton. Anyone out there know anything about pick-up ball in Edmonton? (I know it's a stretch, but I have to start somewhere).

In the meantime, I'll keep BRICING the ankle. Hosing ankle!

RICE to BRICE

Welcome back to Old Man Hoops, Vanilla Thunder. You come back to the USA jonesing for a pick-up game. You run down to the nearest YMCA (in this case, Berkeley, CA). You get on the hardwood, the adrenaline comes back. You haven't played for SO long, but here you are, open for a three. You can it! It's like riding a bicycle, you never lose it.

But then, trying to keep up with a kid half your age, you make a cut and feel the crunch. The damn ankle again. That familiar fall to the ground. The blackness of intense ankle pain. Before you know it, you are condemned to two weeks of R-I-C-E.

Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.



In this case, let's make it BRICE. Add a beer to the formula and we're good to go.
I

The Old Testament

Not sure what the correct strained metaphor is for this (church elders, the orthodox C of HW, hmmm...), but let me just say, enjoy:

Sunday Morning Hoops (via Setshot)

And I am proud to say that the good doctor did make a return to the hardwood (and has made several comebacks, in fact) and is still going strong.

"All-time"ing it

It happens every year. The semester ends and people go on vacation. What was a regular game of 12-13 guys drops to some number smaller than 8 for a few weeks. However, even with smaller numbers, for most configurations there is some semi-logical game to play:

1 guy: come back on the right day, bud
2 guys: one-on-one
3 guys: 21
4 guys: 2's
6 guys: 3's
7 guys: short games of 3's with one man out

But what do you do with 5 guys? This is what we were facing today. Somehow, in the years I've been playing, we've never had to deal with 5. If you're JB Jr, you suggest 2's with an all-time offensive player. (Note: You could also run all-time D, which I would actually like, because my game is closer to Ben Wallace's than Kobe's.) Amazingly, it worked for a game or two, although we didn't have to play like that for too long because some randoms showed up so we could run. Running the 2 on 2 with all-time O felt like we were running some kind of drill- I was waiting for some coach to start yelling at us. Also, the defensive strategy that emerged was to sag into the lane and leave the guy with the ball open until he got within a certain distance of the hoop. It was kind of interesting (in a Stat Boy kind of way), even though we were "unlearning" how to play good on-the-ball D. Maybe next time I'll lobby for all-time D.

Then again, next time I'll lobby for 5 more guys.

Yo Quiero Jugar Baloncesto

Vanilla's roadshow continues after a successful stint in Austin. I'm now in Mexico (on my honeymoon, actually. Thank you very much.)

Wouldn't mind hooping it up at 7,000 feet in the smoggiest city in the world--Mexico City--if I could just find a game.

Considering that last night's NBA playoff games were not to be seen on Mexican TV, I have little hope finding an Iglesia de la Madura Dura. Still, if anyone out there knows of a good pickup game in Mexico, I'm willing to travel.

Arcade Fire Basketball Redux

What do you think? Did the dude from Arcade Fire steal the basketball?

Perhaps. But then, maybe it's even worse than it sounds.

Keep the game running.

Outdoor Wrapup

These guys are bigger than I remember. A Train, Busch, Stat Boy, Osama bin Lisle: they are harder to push around than those little guys in Berkeley. My Berkeley game consisted in posting up, moving out the guy guarding me with a simultaneous elbow hook and ass bump. Easy point-blank shot.

Couldn't do that here. Too much size, too many sweaty, stinky bodies. I had my mid-range game going, though. At least for the first two games. Then the heat started to get to me and guarding the A-Train zapped my energy.

That when the frat boys came on and want to play. It's not as ugly as it could be, but Okie Ben has it out for one of them. Later, he tells us that one of the undergrads is a columnist for the Daily Texan. The kid apparently writes everything with a hard-right, conservative Christian take. The kid does not join in our post-game discussion of Barack Obama's recent appearances with the Tar Heels.

Take it outside, fellas

So for the past few weeks we've moved the regular midweek run outside- our version of the Rodeo road trip (it's really IM indoor soccer that's moving us). Well, we moved the game to courts right next to the freshman dorms. While this is good because there are dudes around to pick-up (the midweek run is usually a couple of regular guys short of a full game), the downside is that these guys typically are idiot freshmen (no kidding).

Yesterday, the difference between "gym guys" and "outdoor guys" (or perhaps, more accurately, between freshmen and old dudes like us) was made clear. We needed three more to run, so we picked-up three buddies. Let's just say these guys were a little too eager to go skins- it must have had something to do with their fake-n-bake "tans." The games themselves were pretty awful- there was no D by anybody really, and we (the old guys) couldn't make a damn layup to save our lives. It was hot. It was ugly. But above all, the worst thing was getting your arm scraped by something as you posted up or set a screen. What the hell was that? you think for a second. Then you realize: you just got a dose of chest hair stubble. Nasty. Freshmen tools.

Racist Hoops. Ugh.

He was there again today, the F.B.W.A, Frat Boy With Attitude. I saw him shooting alone and left the gym.

"That's it, I'm not playing today," I said to myself.

I rode the stationary bike for four minutes. Completely boring. Went back to the gym and they were forming teams. I made sure I wasn't on the F.B.W.A's team.

We smoked them. He demoralizes his teams by screaming at them.

The ugliest part of his ,though: His core belief that Asians can't play ball. Every time one of the two Asian guys on my team scored, he would say something like, "You've got to be joking."

After one Asian dude lit him up for 10 points, he screamed, "Seriously?!"

"Seriously," I said to him.

I can't believe I hooped it up with a KKK member in Berkeley.

Somebody Call Out the P(r)ick!

Today's edition of the Church of the Hardwood is dedicated to you, Mr. Kick-It-Back-Out-I'm-Open-For-Three:

You are a lame-o. You ruin basketball for a dozen people at a local YMCA. You make the world a dark and sinister place. You suck, you and all your kicking and screaming, prima donna, childish behavior. You are horrible. No one likes you and you don't care, you go on shouting instructions to everyone.

Ok, so you've got a decent shot. You hustle, rebound and play D on the other team's best player. That doesn't make your general crappiness acceptable. You are still the worst person on the court.

We know we're in trouble when you get the first in-bounds, launch an NBA three, miss it, and yell, "Fucking A. I shoulda hit that."

No, you should not have hit that. You should have passed that.

No, you should not even be on the court. You should be in therapy. You should be on Zoloft and Xanex and any other med that will modify YOUR HORRIBLE BEHAVIOR.

I didn't want to play with you today and even after we won the first game, I wanted us to lose. That's why I didn't hustle back on the break, why I didn't call the picks, why I half-heartedly put up a left hook. Because you are the biggest pain in the ass in the world.

Your game should be banished. If there were any justice in the world, you would never make another basket ever again and you would have to find another hobby. Perhaps knitting.

(For more context, see this site. Scroll down to "Coach on the Floor." )

He was that guy. What a dick.

11 Guys You'll Always Find...

Great video

If you've played pick-up ball in the last fifty years on planet Earth, you'll recognize these characters. You might even recognize yourself.

My favorite: Mr. Excuses.

Mr. Excuses: "It's just the war. I've got an uncle over there."

Other Guy: "You missed that layup because of the war?"

Classic.

Cisco Sighting

Berkeley, California. Not the kind of place you expect to see NBA players rolling up in blingy cars for a night on the town. Yet here was Francisco Elson, walking right by my table at a sort-of swanky, sort-of laid-back Chinese place. I was dumbstruck. What the hell was Cisco doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be in Seattle? And why was his lady companion carrying his San Antonio Spurs jersey? Sure, the Sonics are terrible, but his career in San Antonio wasn't exactly stellar.

In any case, I was star-struck. My companions, my wife and her parents, blew it off. Not huge NBA fans, these guys. I tried to get them interested: Here's an NBA player from the Netherlands who plays in Seattle carrying his San Antonio jersey to a restaurant in Berkeley. What the hey?! They shrugged. A waiter went over to the table and chatted with him and his two companions. When he came by, I grabbed his attention.

Who is that? I said, knowing full well who it was.

Franciso Elson, he said. He played at Cal.

Ok, mystery explained. But the rest of dinner I had to fight the urge to invite him to the local YMCA for some pick up ball. After all, I have guarded a 7'0 NBA big man. Once. But the Vanilla Thunder vs. Bryant Big Country Reeves will have to wait for another time.

Crisis Moment

I'm guarding a guy who looks like my mirror image: white six footer in his mid-thirties. A little bulk around the middle. But I can't hold him. He drains threes in my face. I get closer and he goes by me. The little twat. He's got these baby blue North Carolina shorts on. You know, the ones with the argyle pattern on the sides. So pretentious. For someone who takes pride in his defensive prowess, I'm a little down. If I can't hold a guy like this, maybe it's time to do something else... It's a basketball crisis moment on a sunny day in April in Berkeley.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. There's of basketball to discuss here. It's been a long road to get to this YMCA. Really, the road starts back in Houston about eight months ago. The Houston Downtown Y. There are rumors that Joel Osteen hoops it up there. I never saw him and I played my fair share of ball there.

Hoops at the Houston Y all started with my job at the city's alt weekly paper, where I was working as a sort-of staff writer. Ok, it was a glorified internship for a corporate newspaper--no reason to put lipstick on that pig. It was a miserable job, miserable people, and I was looking for a lunchtime game. The Houston Y has the right personality for a gritty pick up game. For starters, it smells like 50 years of old man sweat. You notice it when you first walk up the stairs to the front door.



Second, the gym is poorly lit, like a good dive bar. You can't really make out the faces of the guys you're playing against, nor would you want to. There's the Serbian Terror, Mr. T, Mr. Miyagi, a few 50-something wannabe coaches who alternately pout and scream.

Houston is big enough that two games are always running: there are the aging players who were legitimately good players in high school or even college, and then there's the game for old guys...

YMCA Ball: Berkeley Edition

Vanilla Thunder is back here to provide stories and reflections about basketball in various locations across the country. This blog will be given over to a new series over examinations on how the game is played and what the game means, from Berkeley, California to Tulsa, Oklahoma. From Houston, Texas, to ... well, you never know. I'm without an home right now, traveling from place to place, staying with friends and family all over the country. The one constant: Basketball. Everyplace I go, I'm endeavoring to find a decent game of hoops.

If you're addicted to pick-up basketball (despite your creaky knees and expanding midsection), where do you start in an unfamiliar town? The YMCA, young man. And that's where we start this week. In Berkeley, at the downtown Y, hooping it up with whoever might be there.

I'll be posting my experiences and random thoughts about the game in the next few weeks. In about a month, I'll be rejoining the folks who started it all in Austin--the Church of the Hardwood.

So, keep checking in as we chronicle life through basketball in the coming weeks. In the meantime, I've made some changes to this site, including some of my favorite artifacts from Old School Hoops.

Peace out,
Vanilla T.