"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...