Game 5: Blood, Sweat and Swears

As foolishly competitive as I am, I've still come to accept the fact that we're probably not going to win a game in this basketball league. Halfway through the schedule, we were a completely imperfect 0-4, and the combined records of our remaining opponents was 13-3. But, again, the aforementioned foolish competitiveness ensures that my team won't go down without some fight.

Game 5: July 1 vs. Anger Management

When I got home from work Wednesday, I found my wife locked in the bathroom with a can of paint (for painting, not sniffing) while our children ran relatively amok. And that was basically the state of my existence for the next couple of hours leading up to basketball. In fact, it actually made me late leaving for the game. Also complicating my arrival at the gym was the realization along the way that my gym bag contained only one shoe. Add six minutes to my ETA.

The game had started by the time I arrived, and we were already in a 16-3 hole. As annoyed as I was by that, I was further disgusted by the mere sight of our opponents. Their nine-man/boy rotation seemed to include an age range of about 16 to 35. They also brought along a fan base of probably a dozen, some aged in single-digit years and others well into the mid-life category. There seemed to be a loud cheer with every basket, every rebound, every fucking step these clowns would take. I had a feeling that by game's end I'd be ready to chuck a loose ball in their direction too.

Once I got onto the floor, it was fairly clear there was nothing we could do. I shit you not, they must have hit ten or 12 shots in a row, whether contested or uncontested. And many of them touched several parts of the rim before falling through the net. As if they didn't have enough of an advantage in overall skill, every loose ball, every bounce and every call seemed to be in their favor.

There was one particular shaggy, whiny bitch who was getting pretty well manhandled under the glass by our own Mr. Peterson, who's easily our best and most experienced player. Pete knows how to play the game the right way and knows how to push people around the right way. His man was crying about getting "cleared out" several times, so I guess there shouldn't have been much surprise late in the first half when Pete emerged from the trenches with blood falling from his nose. It was a cheap shot that our black-shirted queer of an opponent clearly meant to take, apparently not comforted enough by the fact that his team held a slim 27-point lead at the time. What did come as a surprise was that personal and technical fouls were charged to my teammate, the one who'd been bloodied. The ref clarified that he'd seen them both going at it, but shouldn't that mean that a double foul or double technical was more appropriate?

So imagine Pete's reaction, while holding a blood-soaked towel to his face, learning that he'd been the one assessed the technical. I thought it was reasonable enough for him to stick his middle finger in the official's face and yell "Fuck you!" He knew he'd be tossed, and he had to leave to go to the hospital anyway. In my book, he exited like a fucking man.

After probably a ten-minute delay for the otherwise worthless scorekeeper to clean up the blood splatter, Anger Management took its four free throws and the ball, and the first half rather quietly wound down. Halftime score: 48-20.

Frustration grew in the second half as the flow of the game continued just as it started. Our douchy opponents put on a pretty good show for their douchy fans, knocking down shots with rather remarkable consistency and easily collecting rebounds off of our repeated misfires. As usual, our offensive inefficiency also gave up a ridiculous number of transition opportunities. But to our credit (I think), we don't make a habit of giving up easy layups. We physically contested just about everything we could, so foul trouble was a problem. It doesn't help, of course, that the officials call what they think they see rather than what actually occurs. It continually amazes me that these worthless fucks make so little effort to get into position to make the right calls. How much can these fucking losers be getting paid? I'd really like to know that.

Anyway, I think there were about three minutes left in the game when I was whistled for my fifth foul, and it was another questionable one. Trust me, I know when I'm getting my money's worth on a foul, and this wasn't one of those occasions. But when a bigger guy is taking the ball to the rim on a 5'6" 155 lb. lad like myself, who do you think is going to get the benefit of the call? I asked the dumbass ref what I did, and he said, "You were holding him." That wouldn't have even been the right call to make. If anything, I could have seen him thinking I hacked the guy's arm, but a hold? Jesus, what a fucking joke. Just like last week when the worst and laziest ref ever called me for a hold on a guy who I was merely pushing. Semantics, I guess.

Regardless, I wasn't going down without a little more chirping as I made the long walk toward our bench, I loudly announced the fact that it was my fifth fucking foul, and that I had to come out ... and that I didn't want to be on the floor any fucking longer for that bullshit anyway, etc. By the time I reached the scorer's table, that dumb bitch hit the horn and said, "That's it! This game is over!" Perhaps the first game ever called due to excessive profanity. She told me that's why it was called and that this was a family environment. Yeah, a family environment that had witnessed a broken nose and a broken leg over the past two weeks. Fans should come at their own risk, and it's not our fault these fucking opponents had a couple of queers on their roster who weren't even legal adults. I had a solid urge to give that bitch the Peterson treatment with a big "F you" and a middle finger, but I instead just grabbed my shit and got off the court. Then I went to a nearby bar with my brother, downed four gin-and-tonics in about in hour and went home. Happy Fourth of July weekend.

Final Score: I have no fucking clue. We were down by a LOT when that final horn sounded though.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero. I honestly don't think I scored a fucking point, which would be appropriate if this game goes down as a forfeit (which it might). In most leagues, forfeits go in the books as a 1-0 or 2-0 score, unless you're in a league where total points are used as a tiebreaker; some of those have forfeit scores of 100-0. Anyway, I sucked in this game.
Record: 0-5

Next game: July 8 vs. T-Birds.