Game 6: This Is Really a Fucking C League?

Call me stereotypical. Call me a racist. Whatever. But when my basketball team – a rag-tag roster of whiteys between the ages of 25 and 35 – is matched up against a primarily African-American team with no one appearing to be as old as 25, I know pretty quickly that we're going to be in deep shit. For Christ's sake, these guys were doing organized lay-up drills before the game. Give me a fucking break.

By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.

Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds

On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.

The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.

Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.

I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.

Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.

We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.

I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.

The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.

Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6

Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.