Today's true story:
Christmas morning, my buddy Sheynis and I decided to go for a run around Lake Merced. When we got back to the parking lot, we witnessed one of the funniest and most pathetic things I've seen in a while.
Sheynis and I returned to the parking lot, the one right by where Sunset Boulevard ends. Having finished our run, we were just chilling and doing some pull-ups and cool-down stretches. Across the parking lot, I saw a kid (probably around eight years old) riding his bike in there. His father and his brother, also on bikes of their own, biked on the sidewalk path. The father saw one of his sons riding in the parking lot and started to yell at his kid.
"Get out of the parking lot!" he shouted. "I don't want you biking in there!"
The kid, obediently enough, maneuvered back to the sidewalk. Strangely, the father did not seem to notice this and decided to enter the parking lot. If you've ever been to that Lake Merced parking lot, you've noticed that there is a little "dry moat" separating the parking lot from the sidewalk. Every few meters, the moat breaks into a pathway to the lot so that it's easier to walk between the two sections. Well, as the father turned his bike into the entrance, he must have rolled into the curb because he came crashing down!
It was a blatant crash, too. My buddy Sheynis and I were probably a good 15 or 20 meters away and we could hear him hitting the pavement. The man's kids heard as well. One of them stopped and looked at him while the other one slowed down in surprise. It looked like it hurt, and the guy got up slowly. He probably got himself bruised pretty bad. When he got up, I could see him rubbing his knees and just checking himself for any injuries. Most of all, it was rather obvious that his pride was badly damaged.
Now, I usually try not to laugh at or enjoy other people's pain, but I have to admit that watching a guy fall off his bike was kinda funny. I thought about going over to ask if he was all right, but he seemed fine. If anything, he seemed upset because as soon as he was back on his feet he just started yelling at his kid again! He walked his bike back to his car as his kids got ready to go home, and as they walked by, he wasn't just scolding his son. He was yelling at him for going to the parking lot in the first place.
The thing that made his yelling seem completely silly was that it was obvious the father was just trying to restore his wounded pride. This could have been a fine opportunity to display some parenting skills. He calmly could have explained to his kids, "See, this is why you shouldn't bike in a parking lot. It's dangerous. You make other people have to follow you and accidents can happen." Or something to that effect. Instead, he was just in a rage, yelling, "I TOLD you not to go in there! Why did you go out there?!" over and over. Clearly, this man was putting down his own children in a misguided attempt to restore his manhood and superiority. I couldn't hear if his kids said anything in response. They might not have had the loudest voices, or perhaps they were just scared. It's quite disheartening for a son to see his own father humiliated in public. There really doesn't seem to be much a son can say right after that happens.
Well, eventually the man and his kids walked past Sheynis and me and got to their car. Sheynis and I continued stretching out while commenting on the absurd situation we'd just witnessed. Even though they were at their car, we could still hear the father yelling angrily as he packed their bikes into his hatchback. I don't know. Maybe the kids did tell their dad that they were sorry, but all Sheynis and I kept hearing was, "I TOLD you not to go out there!"
I'm glad I was with Sheynis because he's one of the few individuals I know who could see and appreciate the ridiculousness and the dark humor of the situation. We couldn't stop smirking as we walked back to my car.
Surprisingly, the man's car was directly next to mine. He still looked pissed. As we walked right by him, I offered my cheeriest possible smile and waved. "Merry Christmas!" I said. The man's mouth was a thin, angry line. His kids, halfway in the car, looked confused. He said nothing, but glared at us as he purposefully got into his car and finally drove off. Sheynis and I kept our poker faces until he was gone, and then we just busted out laughing and exchanged high fives.
It feels great to spread some holiday cheer.
Friday, December 25, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Seventeen
Today's true story:
Holidays have never been a big deal in my life. Not saying I ain't down with them, or anything, 'cause I like them just fine. Ever since I was a kid, my family never celebrated holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas like most others. Most of our relatives don't live close to us so it's always just my folks and me. We don't do much; probably go out to eat at a restaurant, and that's usually it. Other than that, we usually just spend the day at home and enjoy each other's company. My pop and I usually watch football (on Thanksgiving) or basketball (Christmas).
I don't even buy gifts for my parents for Christmas (or their birthdays, for that matter). I guess my household was never big on that tradition. Sure, my parents bought me stuff when I was a little kid, but once I got to a certain age, I recognized that I didn't really need them to buy me crap just because it was Christmas (or my birthday). So that never caught on with me.
However, I've always wondered it would be like to have a large family and extended family with whom to spend the holidays. I wonder if that would help me get into the so-called "holiday spirit" because I usually don't feel anything different at this time of year. Still, big get-togethers sounds like a big hassle to me. Besides, I am a fan of avoiding sentimentality. It's like that Radiohead song. Don't get sentimental; it always ends up drivel. Just look at some of the other crap I've posted on this blog, or ask me to show you my notebook full of poems I've written about unrequited loves.
Also:
Stan Van Jeremy probably feels sorry for me because I have nothing else to do on Christmas Day, other than watch an NBA game.
Somehow, I am okay with this.
Holidays have never been a big deal in my life. Not saying I ain't down with them, or anything, 'cause I like them just fine. Ever since I was a kid, my family never celebrated holidays like Thanksgiving or Christmas like most others. Most of our relatives don't live close to us so it's always just my folks and me. We don't do much; probably go out to eat at a restaurant, and that's usually it. Other than that, we usually just spend the day at home and enjoy each other's company. My pop and I usually watch football (on Thanksgiving) or basketball (Christmas).
I don't even buy gifts for my parents for Christmas (or their birthdays, for that matter). I guess my household was never big on that tradition. Sure, my parents bought me stuff when I was a little kid, but once I got to a certain age, I recognized that I didn't really need them to buy me crap just because it was Christmas (or my birthday). So that never caught on with me.
However, I've always wondered it would be like to have a large family and extended family with whom to spend the holidays. I wonder if that would help me get into the so-called "holiday spirit" because I usually don't feel anything different at this time of year. Still, big get-togethers sounds like a big hassle to me. Besides, I am a fan of avoiding sentimentality. It's like that Radiohead song. Don't get sentimental; it always ends up drivel. Just look at some of the other crap I've posted on this blog, or ask me to show you my notebook full of poems I've written about unrequited loves.
Also:
Stan Van Jeremy probably feels sorry for me because I have nothing else to do on Christmas Day, other than watch an NBA game.
Somehow, I am okay with this.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Sixteen
Today's true story:
Almost every day, I read out loud to a group of kids. There are, occasionally, times when it feels almost pointless. More often, however, I see firsthand how the words I read can excite, inspire, and otherwise engage young lives. It is a great feeling to be a witness.
I saw a child, sitting alone, sadly, apart from her classmates. I stopped reading the book and, under the somewhat false pretense of "You all are being too noisy today and need to calm down," told the rest of the class to put their heads down. Then I sat by the girl and talked to her quietly. She lost a parent recently. There was a numbness in those innocent eyes that made me want to cry. What can you say to help someone in that situation? What is there to say? I had no words. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid - afraid of emphasizing her pain and her loss, and afraid I'd lose my composure if I followed my impulse. Weakly, I settled for gently patting her arm and murmuring, "I'm sorry."
We sat, facing each other across a table, for a few moments before another kid came up to me and told me someone else made a rude gesture. Why did I feel so relieved to get up and deal with a simpler problem?
Soon, I picked up the book and continued reading. I was disappointed in myself for a reason I can't, even now, fully explain. My voice nearly cracked as I was reading. I had to steal a few deep breaths, between sentences, to gather myself. Even then, a selfish thought floated into my mind: how embarrassing it would be if the children saw you cry!
I wish, sometimes, that I could be heroic. I wish that I could charm, comfort, and dazzle with my wit. Oh, how I wish my words could save a life. But they can't. They're just words. And most of the time, I don't have enough of the right ones anyway.
Almost every day, I read out loud to a group of kids. There are, occasionally, times when it feels almost pointless. More often, however, I see firsthand how the words I read can excite, inspire, and otherwise engage young lives. It is a great feeling to be a witness.
I saw a child, sitting alone, sadly, apart from her classmates. I stopped reading the book and, under the somewhat false pretense of "You all are being too noisy today and need to calm down," told the rest of the class to put their heads down. Then I sat by the girl and talked to her quietly. She lost a parent recently. There was a numbness in those innocent eyes that made me want to cry. What can you say to help someone in that situation? What is there to say? I had no words. I wanted to hug her but I was afraid - afraid of emphasizing her pain and her loss, and afraid I'd lose my composure if I followed my impulse. Weakly, I settled for gently patting her arm and murmuring, "I'm sorry."
We sat, facing each other across a table, for a few moments before another kid came up to me and told me someone else made a rude gesture. Why did I feel so relieved to get up and deal with a simpler problem?
Soon, I picked up the book and continued reading. I was disappointed in myself for a reason I can't, even now, fully explain. My voice nearly cracked as I was reading. I had to steal a few deep breaths, between sentences, to gather myself. Even then, a selfish thought floated into my mind: how embarrassing it would be if the children saw you cry!
I wish, sometimes, that I could be heroic. I wish that I could charm, comfort, and dazzle with my wit. Oh, how I wish my words could save a life. But they can't. They're just words. And most of the time, I don't have enough of the right ones anyway.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Fifteen
Today's true story:
Those who know me decently well know that I am a music junkie. I have no musical talent of my own, but at one point in my life, I had a fair amount of pretentious indie rock street cred. I think about the music I like to listen to and I usually buy what I like and/or know is good. As a result, over the years, I have amassed a semi-large collection of CDs. I have a staggering amount of digital music, too, but I guess I am enough of a luddite that I still prefer owning a physical manifestation of the album.
Query: What's the most embarrassing CD that you own?
For me, there are two possible and completely valid answers to this question.
The first album that immediately comes to mind is definitely Spice, the debut album from the Spice Girls. It's not so much the shame of listening to the Spice Girls' music, which I will admit can be catchy in that guilty bubblegum pop way. I have no shame with listening to cheesy teeny bopper pop music. (Well, maybe as long as it's not in public.) No, the shame comes from having paid real American dollars for the right to own the CD. That is something that is difficult to swallow. It's just one of many things that goes on my list of life's regrets.
In my defense, however, I was thirteen when I bought it. You know - completely full of raging hormones and such. (Posh Spice was my favorite back then.)
The other album that I am ashamed of owning is Weathered by Creed. We all know how much Creed sucks. No need to explain it here, I don't think.
Unlike the Spice Girls' album, I honestly have no defense for this one. Keep in mind I was eighteen years old when I bought this. EIGHTEEN! A full grown man, according to some standards. And I actually paid money for this album! Not saying I was rid of my raging hormones at this point in life, but I think it's safe to say that raging hormones did not play a role in my choice to purchase it. I really don't know what I was thinking. My mind must have been in a weird place when I bought this.
Now that I've analyzed myself, it's pretty clear that the Creed album is the most embarrassing CD that I own. There's just no excusing this one. At least with the Spice Girls, that was something I bought when I was a horny adolescent. That's a worthy excuse, right? But I have no way of rationalizing why I bought that Creed album.
I wish I could forgive myself.
Those who know me decently well know that I am a music junkie. I have no musical talent of my own, but at one point in my life, I had a fair amount of pretentious indie rock street cred. I think about the music I like to listen to and I usually buy what I like and/or know is good. As a result, over the years, I have amassed a semi-large collection of CDs. I have a staggering amount of digital music, too, but I guess I am enough of a luddite that I still prefer owning a physical manifestation of the album.
Query: What's the most embarrassing CD that you own?
For me, there are two possible and completely valid answers to this question.
The first album that immediately comes to mind is definitely Spice, the debut album from the Spice Girls. It's not so much the shame of listening to the Spice Girls' music, which I will admit can be catchy in that guilty bubblegum pop way. I have no shame with listening to cheesy teeny bopper pop music. (Well, maybe as long as it's not in public.) No, the shame comes from having paid real American dollars for the right to own the CD. That is something that is difficult to swallow. It's just one of many things that goes on my list of life's regrets.
In my defense, however, I was thirteen when I bought it. You know - completely full of raging hormones and such. (Posh Spice was my favorite back then.)
The other album that I am ashamed of owning is Weathered by Creed. We all know how much Creed sucks. No need to explain it here, I don't think.
Unlike the Spice Girls' album, I honestly have no defense for this one. Keep in mind I was eighteen years old when I bought this. EIGHTEEN! A full grown man, according to some standards. And I actually paid money for this album! Not saying I was rid of my raging hormones at this point in life, but I think it's safe to say that raging hormones did not play a role in my choice to purchase it. I really don't know what I was thinking. My mind must have been in a weird place when I bought this.
Now that I've analyzed myself, it's pretty clear that the Creed album is the most embarrassing CD that I own. There's just no excusing this one. At least with the Spice Girls, that was something I bought when I was a horny adolescent. That's a worthy excuse, right? But I have no way of rationalizing why I bought that Creed album.
I wish I could forgive myself.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Fourteen
Today's true story:
My earliest coherent memory is the time my dad gave me a haircut and cut into my ear.
I wasn't even two years old yet, but I still remember this fairly vividly. We were in the garage and I must have been incapable of sitting still. My dad accidentally cut my ear, and I started bleeding like crazy. I didn't cry, though, probably because I was too stupid to realize I was hurt. The thing that makes this memory stand out is how I remember my mom yelling at my dad. I remember being confused because I had no idea why my mom was so angry. She made my dad drive me to the emergency room, but about halfway there, my dad changed his mind and we went home. That's where the memory ends.
I just spent fifteen minutes trying to see if I could come up with some insightful or somehow witty commentary to go along with this brief yarn. Nope. Nothing. Guess I'm not creative enough tonight. Sorry.
Maybe next time, baby.
My earliest coherent memory is the time my dad gave me a haircut and cut into my ear.
I wasn't even two years old yet, but I still remember this fairly vividly. We were in the garage and I must have been incapable of sitting still. My dad accidentally cut my ear, and I started bleeding like crazy. I didn't cry, though, probably because I was too stupid to realize I was hurt. The thing that makes this memory stand out is how I remember my mom yelling at my dad. I remember being confused because I had no idea why my mom was so angry. She made my dad drive me to the emergency room, but about halfway there, my dad changed his mind and we went home. That's where the memory ends.
I just spent fifteen minutes trying to see if I could come up with some insightful or somehow witty commentary to go along with this brief yarn. Nope. Nothing. Guess I'm not creative enough tonight. Sorry.
Maybe next time, baby.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Thirteen
Today's true story:
So I had to use a sick day on Monday. Although I rested in bed most of the day, it seemed like I couldn't get very many consecutive hours of sleep. I think I went to bed on Sunday night at around 11PM and didn't fully get out of bed until Monday at 6PM. (I was up for one or two hours in the afternoon just so I could eat and read.) It's weird to constantly wake up every two or four hours. And each time I woke up it would usually be twenty minutes past the hour. Very predictable.
The strangest thing about staying in bed all day, sleeping for one, two, three, or four hours at a time? Definitely the dreams.
My dreams were fractured and repetitive, and I've already forgotten most of them because I was too lazy to write them down in my Dream Journal. Actually, that could be because I was too lazy to buy a Dream Journal in the first place. Oh, well. There was one funny dream that I remembered, which I thought would be worth sharing.
I dreamt (that's right, I used "dreamt" and not "dreamed") that I was back in high school, playing basketball with some other guys, including my buddy Ma, in the school gym during a free period near the end of the day. It was just a normal pickup game until I noticed that the girl I had a massive crush on walked into the gym with her best friend.
Knowing I had to do everything in my power to impress the girl, Ma started feeding me the ball on every possession, and he started setting good picks and letting me go iso every once in a while. I started launching threes and I was feeling it, too. I could feel myself playing harder and better than usual, turning it up a few notches. Took a heat check and knew I was on fire. I glanced back to where the girl was and of course she wasn't even looking at the game. She and her friend were staring at the ceiling talking about who knows what. After a few more minutes, they left the gym. I don't think she noticed me.
I was still on fire after she left, though. My team just destroyed the other team. That girl ended up going to the winter formal with some other dude. I won a battle, but lost the war. Ain't that a shame.
What I think makes this dream funny is that it wasn't a dream, but a memory. And I don't know if I dreamed it or if I just remembered it while trying to sleep. I haven't thought of this memory in a long time. I wonder why I thought of it on Monday.
I wonder why I can't stop thinking of it now.
So I had to use a sick day on Monday. Although I rested in bed most of the day, it seemed like I couldn't get very many consecutive hours of sleep. I think I went to bed on Sunday night at around 11PM and didn't fully get out of bed until Monday at 6PM. (I was up for one or two hours in the afternoon just so I could eat and read.) It's weird to constantly wake up every two or four hours. And each time I woke up it would usually be twenty minutes past the hour. Very predictable.
The strangest thing about staying in bed all day, sleeping for one, two, three, or four hours at a time? Definitely the dreams.
My dreams were fractured and repetitive, and I've already forgotten most of them because I was too lazy to write them down in my Dream Journal. Actually, that could be because I was too lazy to buy a Dream Journal in the first place. Oh, well. There was one funny dream that I remembered, which I thought would be worth sharing.
I dreamt (that's right, I used "dreamt" and not "dreamed") that I was back in high school, playing basketball with some other guys, including my buddy Ma, in the school gym during a free period near the end of the day. It was just a normal pickup game until I noticed that the girl I had a massive crush on walked into the gym with her best friend.
Knowing I had to do everything in my power to impress the girl, Ma started feeding me the ball on every possession, and he started setting good picks and letting me go iso every once in a while. I started launching threes and I was feeling it, too. I could feel myself playing harder and better than usual, turning it up a few notches. Took a heat check and knew I was on fire. I glanced back to where the girl was and of course she wasn't even looking at the game. She and her friend were staring at the ceiling talking about who knows what. After a few more minutes, they left the gym. I don't think she noticed me.
I was still on fire after she left, though. My team just destroyed the other team. That girl ended up going to the winter formal with some other dude. I won a battle, but lost the war. Ain't that a shame.
What I think makes this dream funny is that it wasn't a dream, but a memory. And I don't know if I dreamed it or if I just remembered it while trying to sleep. I haven't thought of this memory in a long time. I wonder why I thought of it on Monday.
I wonder why I can't stop thinking of it now.
Monday, November 9, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Twelve
Today's true story:
Somehow, I got sick over the weekend. Nothing too serious. Just a cold. I've got a big sore throat and my voice sounds whack right now.
Someone just told me that maybe the one upside of being sick is that it means he gets a good, deep, restful night's sleep. I thought this was interesting because I have the complete opposite experience.
When I am sick, even if it's a minor head cold that takes like two days for my healing factor to juvenate, I don't sleep like I normally do. Normally, I go to sleep and don't wake up until it's time to wake up. Either my alarm clock wakes me up, or I just wake up automatically when I've had enough sleep. When I am sick, though, I find myself constantly waking up at all hours of the night.
I don't necessarily attribute all the waking up as effects of being sick. Like, if I have a bad cough, I don't always just wake up hacking and wheezing or anything. I just wake up and have to try to go back to sleep. Or sometimes I will have to wake up and use the bathroom, something I never have to do when I am not sick.
The reason why it's annoying to wake up over and over is because it means I have to fall back asleep. I don't think I have a diagnosable sleeping problem, but usually it takes me a while to fall asleep. Some people can fall asleep within a few minutes. When I am tired, sometimes it takes me a good twenty minutes to fall asleep. It's annoying, and waking up at 2AM, then having to fall back asleep, only to wake up again at 4AM, rankles me.
Even when I wake up just once during the night, it's a good tip-off that I am sick. This happened to me a week ago. I went to sleep one night feeling completely fine, but I woke up around 5AM. I didn't even have to swallow or anything. My first conscious thought was, "Aw, crap. I must be sick." And sure enough, I had a little sore throat.
And then I proceeded to go about my week as I normally do, only I probably didn't take as good care of myself as I should have, and now, instead of being fully healed, I am sicker than I was when I first woke up that one morning. What is the point of an early-warning system if you don't heed it? I don't know. I guess I am just a glutton for punishment. Either that, or a master of cliches. Probably both.
The point is, I am probably not as smart as I think I am. Somehow I am okay with this. If I were a bit smarter, maybe I'd have a problem.
Somehow, I got sick over the weekend. Nothing too serious. Just a cold. I've got a big sore throat and my voice sounds whack right now.
Someone just told me that maybe the one upside of being sick is that it means he gets a good, deep, restful night's sleep. I thought this was interesting because I have the complete opposite experience.
When I am sick, even if it's a minor head cold that takes like two days for my healing factor to juvenate, I don't sleep like I normally do. Normally, I go to sleep and don't wake up until it's time to wake up. Either my alarm clock wakes me up, or I just wake up automatically when I've had enough sleep. When I am sick, though, I find myself constantly waking up at all hours of the night.
I don't necessarily attribute all the waking up as effects of being sick. Like, if I have a bad cough, I don't always just wake up hacking and wheezing or anything. I just wake up and have to try to go back to sleep. Or sometimes I will have to wake up and use the bathroom, something I never have to do when I am not sick.
The reason why it's annoying to wake up over and over is because it means I have to fall back asleep. I don't think I have a diagnosable sleeping problem, but usually it takes me a while to fall asleep. Some people can fall asleep within a few minutes. When I am tired, sometimes it takes me a good twenty minutes to fall asleep. It's annoying, and waking up at 2AM, then having to fall back asleep, only to wake up again at 4AM, rankles me.
Even when I wake up just once during the night, it's a good tip-off that I am sick. This happened to me a week ago. I went to sleep one night feeling completely fine, but I woke up around 5AM. I didn't even have to swallow or anything. My first conscious thought was, "Aw, crap. I must be sick." And sure enough, I had a little sore throat.
And then I proceeded to go about my week as I normally do, only I probably didn't take as good care of myself as I should have, and now, instead of being fully healed, I am sicker than I was when I first woke up that one morning. What is the point of an early-warning system if you don't heed it? I don't know. I guess I am just a glutton for punishment. Either that, or a master of cliches. Probably both.
The point is, I am probably not as smart as I think I am. Somehow I am okay with this. If I were a bit smarter, maybe I'd have a problem.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Powerful Excerpt from A.W. Tozer's "Attributes of God"
"The nearness of God's mercy is 'as a father pitieth his children' (Psalm 103:13).
After the first World War the United States with its big heart gave vast sums of money to the dislocated orphans of Europe, but they didn't have enough to meet the need. In one of the places where they were taking in orphans, a man came in, very thin, with large, unnaturally bright eyes, thin cheeks and thin arms, leading a little girl. She also showed signs of malnutrition---eyes too large and bright, her little abdomen distended and her thin little legs and arms too small and too thin for her age.
This man led her in and said to the person in charge, 'I would like you to take in my little girl.'
And they asked him if she was his daughter.
'Yes,' he said.
'Well,' they said, 'we're awfully sorry, but our rule here is that only full orphans can receive any help. If one of the parents is living then we can't take responsibility because we just don't have enough. There are too many full orphans for us to take a half orphan.'
And he looked down at his little girl, and she looked up questioningly with big, too-bright eyes, and then he turned and said, 'Well, you know, I can't work. I'm sick. I've been abused. I have been in prison. I've been half starved, and now I'm old and I can't work. I can barely stagger around. But I brought her down for you to take care of her.'
And they said, 'We're sorry, but there's nothing we can do.'
He said, 'You mean that if I were dead, you'd take care of my little girl and feed her and she could live and have clothing and a home?'
They said, 'Yes.'
Then he reached down and pulled her little skinny body up to himself and hugged her hard and kissed her. Then he put her hand in the hand of the hand of the man at the desk, and said, 'I'll arrange that,' and walked out of the room and committed suicide...
Jesus said, 'The Son of man is delivered into the hands of men, and they shall kill him' (Mark 9:31). Peter said, 'Lord: this shall not be unto thee' (Matthew 16:22). But Jesus said, in effect, 'If I don't, you don't live.' And so He went out not to slay Himself but to put Himself where they could slay Him. Mercy was showing compassion in the only way it could at the moment, by dying. So Christ Jesus our Lord died there on that cross, for He loved us and pitied us as a father pities his children" (pp. 90-92).
After the first World War the United States with its big heart gave vast sums of money to the dislocated orphans of Europe, but they didn't have enough to meet the need. In one of the places where they were taking in orphans, a man came in, very thin, with large, unnaturally bright eyes, thin cheeks and thin arms, leading a little girl. She also showed signs of malnutrition---eyes too large and bright, her little abdomen distended and her thin little legs and arms too small and too thin for her age.
This man led her in and said to the person in charge, 'I would like you to take in my little girl.'
And they asked him if she was his daughter.
'Yes,' he said.
'Well,' they said, 'we're awfully sorry, but our rule here is that only full orphans can receive any help. If one of the parents is living then we can't take responsibility because we just don't have enough. There are too many full orphans for us to take a half orphan.'
And he looked down at his little girl, and she looked up questioningly with big, too-bright eyes, and then he turned and said, 'Well, you know, I can't work. I'm sick. I've been abused. I have been in prison. I've been half starved, and now I'm old and I can't work. I can barely stagger around. But I brought her down for you to take care of her.'
And they said, 'We're sorry, but there's nothing we can do.'
He said, 'You mean that if I were dead, you'd take care of my little girl and feed her and she could live and have clothing and a home?'
They said, 'Yes.'
Then he reached down and pulled her little skinny body up to himself and hugged her hard and kissed her. Then he put her hand in the hand of the hand of the man at the desk, and said, 'I'll arrange that,' and walked out of the room and committed suicide...
Jesus said, 'The Son of man is delivered into the hands of men, and they shall kill him' (Mark 9:31). Peter said, 'Lord: this shall not be unto thee' (Matthew 16:22). But Jesus said, in effect, 'If I don't, you don't live.' And so He went out not to slay Himself but to put Himself where they could slay Him. Mercy was showing compassion in the only way it could at the moment, by dying. So Christ Jesus our Lord died there on that cross, for He loved us and pitied us as a father pities his children" (pp. 90-92).
So thankful to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Eleven
Today's true story:
I have never enjoyed Halloween.
It's probably my least favorite holiday of all time. Even when I was but a child, I never celebrated it. Dressing up in a costume, going trick-or-treating - it all never appealed to me. I don't have any rational explanation as to why I never got into Halloween, but I surmise that one reason may be that I was born with an intense disdain for cosplay.
Yes, cosplay. I am not down with it. At all.
And what is Halloween if not an excuse for otherwise normal, respectable citizens to engage in copious amounts of filthy cosplay?
It's disgusting.
Cosplay - one of my most despised foes. I'd like to be able to explain why I hate it so much. It's hard to really boil it down coherently because I'm just not good enough of a writer to explain something that is completely irrational. I'll do my best to list the reasons why I hate cosplay:
1) It is abnormal, despicable behavior. I love superhero comic books more than the average person, but people just aren't meant to wear primary colors in public. And don't get me started on wearing underwear on the OUTSIDE of pants.
2) The Look At Me Factor. In my mind, one of the most unattractive qualities in a person is the desire to constantly be noticed, whether through word, deed, or appearance. I don't find it appealing when a person actively seeks the attention and/or approval of other people. Putting on a costume and trying to look like an anime character and posing for pictures just screams ATTENTION WHORE to me. Attention Whores are another one of my most hated and feared enemies, right up there with serial murderers, hardened criminals, drama queens, bullies, and seagulls (see Day Ten). I don't want anything to do with them. And in my (admittedly, extremely biased) opinion, most cosplayers fall under the Attention Whore subdivision, making them my lifelong enemies.
3) I can't think of a third reason that isn't, in some way, related to #1 or #2.
So it looks like I really only have two primary reasons for hating cosplay. But I think they're great reasons. The only time I can ever imagine myself engaging in cosplay is on my honeymoon night, and that's only if my wife begged for it. And trust me, I'd still feel dirty about it.
When I was a child, I didn't know what cosplay was. I only knew that I didn't wanna do it. I think I went trick-or-treating once, and it was a half-hearted attempt around the block before I decided I'd had enough and went home. I never worshipped candy like most other children.
This one year I also went to my school's Halloween Night event (an alternative for the school kids whose parents didn't want them celebrating a pagan holiday, seeing as how I went to a Lutheran school and all). I can't really remember too much of it, other than there was a lot of weird looking hair and stuff in the giant bobbing for apples bucket. It's hard to imagine kids today playing bobbing for apples. That's clearly a game whose time has expired. Anyway, I don't think I stayed that long. I felt awkward and ashamed of dressing up in a costume. Don't ask me what I wore, because I don't remember.
If I really wanted to analyze myself, I'd probably figure that it's all a product of growing up as an only child. As a kid, I was always reading books and that always satisfied my desire for adventures; I'd rather take my mind on an adventure than go out and go on one. Wait, maybe this still describes me as a grown man, which either means I was extremely precocious as a child, or that I'm just a big kid. I'll let you decide.
I guess it might be all right to celebrate Halloween if you are under the age of twelve. Any older than that and I will have nothing but contempt for such behavior. Adults like Halloween because it gives them an excuse to go out and party and revel in drunkeness and debauchery, but that stuff never appealed to me. Dressing up in a costume only makes it worse. I wish people would keep those kinky fetishes to themselves.
And what's up with kids getting so brazen recently? This year some kids trick-or-treated at my house. I gave them some Kit Kats, and one of them asked if he could have more. What's up with that? Why can't they just be thankful for what they did get? It's not my job to give out free candy. I didn't HAVE to open the door and give them some treats. I could have ignored them. (If they'd tried to toilet paper my house I woulda come out and kicked their lily just kidding, even I wouldn't do that. I think.) Why can't parents teach their kids to be less greedy? Sweet Christmas.
When I have a kid, I am going to try to raise him to not care about Halloween. I'm gonna teach him how to be an upstanding and moral person who worships Jesus.
Halloween. It just brings out the worst in people.
A cosplay corollary:
The only time it is acceptable to engage in cosplay is if you are at a Raiders game, like if you're in the Black Hole or something.
I have never enjoyed Halloween.
It's probably my least favorite holiday of all time. Even when I was but a child, I never celebrated it. Dressing up in a costume, going trick-or-treating - it all never appealed to me. I don't have any rational explanation as to why I never got into Halloween, but I surmise that one reason may be that I was born with an intense disdain for cosplay.
Yes, cosplay. I am not down with it. At all.
And what is Halloween if not an excuse for otherwise normal, respectable citizens to engage in copious amounts of filthy cosplay?
It's disgusting.
Cosplay - one of my most despised foes. I'd like to be able to explain why I hate it so much. It's hard to really boil it down coherently because I'm just not good enough of a writer to explain something that is completely irrational. I'll do my best to list the reasons why I hate cosplay:
1) It is abnormal, despicable behavior. I love superhero comic books more than the average person, but people just aren't meant to wear primary colors in public. And don't get me started on wearing underwear on the OUTSIDE of pants.
2) The Look At Me Factor. In my mind, one of the most unattractive qualities in a person is the desire to constantly be noticed, whether through word, deed, or appearance. I don't find it appealing when a person actively seeks the attention and/or approval of other people. Putting on a costume and trying to look like an anime character and posing for pictures just screams ATTENTION WHORE to me. Attention Whores are another one of my most hated and feared enemies, right up there with serial murderers, hardened criminals, drama queens, bullies, and seagulls (see Day Ten). I don't want anything to do with them. And in my (admittedly, extremely biased) opinion, most cosplayers fall under the Attention Whore subdivision, making them my lifelong enemies.
3) I can't think of a third reason that isn't, in some way, related to #1 or #2.
So it looks like I really only have two primary reasons for hating cosplay. But I think they're great reasons. The only time I can ever imagine myself engaging in cosplay is on my honeymoon night, and that's only if my wife begged for it. And trust me, I'd still feel dirty about it.
When I was a child, I didn't know what cosplay was. I only knew that I didn't wanna do it. I think I went trick-or-treating once, and it was a half-hearted attempt around the block before I decided I'd had enough and went home. I never worshipped candy like most other children.
This one year I also went to my school's Halloween Night event (an alternative for the school kids whose parents didn't want them celebrating a pagan holiday, seeing as how I went to a Lutheran school and all). I can't really remember too much of it, other than there was a lot of weird looking hair and stuff in the giant bobbing for apples bucket. It's hard to imagine kids today playing bobbing for apples. That's clearly a game whose time has expired. Anyway, I don't think I stayed that long. I felt awkward and ashamed of dressing up in a costume. Don't ask me what I wore, because I don't remember.
If I really wanted to analyze myself, I'd probably figure that it's all a product of growing up as an only child. As a kid, I was always reading books and that always satisfied my desire for adventures; I'd rather take my mind on an adventure than go out and go on one. Wait, maybe this still describes me as a grown man, which either means I was extremely precocious as a child, or that I'm just a big kid. I'll let you decide.
I guess it might be all right to celebrate Halloween if you are under the age of twelve. Any older than that and I will have nothing but contempt for such behavior. Adults like Halloween because it gives them an excuse to go out and party and revel in drunkeness and debauchery, but that stuff never appealed to me. Dressing up in a costume only makes it worse. I wish people would keep those kinky fetishes to themselves.
And what's up with kids getting so brazen recently? This year some kids trick-or-treated at my house. I gave them some Kit Kats, and one of them asked if he could have more. What's up with that? Why can't they just be thankful for what they did get? It's not my job to give out free candy. I didn't HAVE to open the door and give them some treats. I could have ignored them. (If they'd tried to toilet paper my house I woulda come out and kicked their lily just kidding, even I wouldn't do that. I think.) Why can't parents teach their kids to be less greedy? Sweet Christmas.
When I have a kid, I am going to try to raise him to not care about Halloween. I'm gonna teach him how to be an upstanding and moral person who worships Jesus.
Halloween. It just brings out the worst in people.
A cosplay corollary:
The only time it is acceptable to engage in cosplay is if you are at a Raiders game, like if you're in the Black Hole or something.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday Balling 10/24/09
Got to the Lowell courts around 12:30PM on Saturday. 90 minutes later than usual, I know, but it was pretty foggy in the morning, and kinda misty. The ground was kinda wet, but by around noon the sun started to come out and dry things up a bit. There were some people there, but the one game going on looked like it was just high school kids - beneath my notice. (Nah, but it'd just feel creepy to be "that guy" who hangs out with teenagers all the time. Kind of reminds me of my high school track coach. Ugh.)
I just started shooting around by myself at one of the courts. (Isn't that how these recaps usually start? Gimme some new material. Maybe one of these days I'll show up super late and everyone else will wonder what happened to me.) At the court next to me, there were four regulars I recognized because they are always there on Saturdays as well. To kill time, they played Horse and two-on-two while waiting for more players to show up so we could get some real games going. I will now, for future reference, give each of these four players a name. I'm basing the first three of them on the Superfriends.
1) The first dude is this Asian dude who always looks like he's squinting when he's excited. He also likes to talk a lot but generally seems to have fun. He's okay, but he seems like a guy who thinks he's better than he actually is. I'll refer to him as Aquaman from now on. Why? Because I don't know what the purpose of his existence is. (I was gonna call him Vibe, but that guy is probably so obscure that no one who reads this will get the reference without checking Wikipedia.)
2) The second dude is Aquaman's buddy, a Hispanic dude who looks like he's at least in his thirties. He always shows up to the courts with his hair slicked all the way back like Dean Cain in Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. This guy kind of annoys me and I don't like playing with him unless I have to. He talks a lot, but in an annoying way. He has this really smug attitude that rubs me the wrong way. He constantly takes lousy shots like a walk-up the court, pull-up three before the rest of his teammates are ready to get a rebound. He cherry picks a lot, too. Thought about giving him a nickname referring to his cherry picking, but don't wanna be accused of being racist in case he's from Mexico, so I'll call him Superman.
3) The third dude is another one of the superfriends. He's a tall Asian dude. He's actually pretty good although sometimes it seems like he just kinda coasts through games and doesn't really play hard until the game is on the line. This guy doesn't talk too much. As a result, he's my favorite Superfriend. I'll call him Metamorpho.
4) The fourth dude is a forty year-old black dude. I don't think he's actually one of the Superfriends, but he seems to get on well with them because they've played so often. This guy is actually pretty funny. The way he reacts to things on the court constantly amuses me. For example, after he misses a shot, he will say something like, "Come on, don't make me do all the scoring! I'm forty! Too old for this s---! Gimme some help out here for God's sake!" And he says this after forcing up a contested, fallaway, double-clutch seven foot jump shot, surrounded by three defenders while at least one teammate is standing around, wide open. And he can never keep track of the score, but despite trying to argue, is eventually a pushover and just accepts what he is told. It's fun to play with this guy. He doesn't use his size, but he loves taking outside shots. Sometimes he even makes them. I will call him The Black Pat Burke.
So those were the four guys who were already there. The courts were bookended by these teenage skateboarders (they were all over the court next to the one I was shooting around, the one closest to the soccer field) and the Lowell JROTC drum corps (they took over the far end court right next to the parking lot).
Skateboarders at Lowell kind of annoy me. I have no problem with skateboarding, but there's a time and place for it. It's irritating to have to watch out for skateboarders while shooting around. Especially these kids on Saturday. They moved onto my court where I was shooting and often skated within a few feet of me. They kept trying to do ollies and stuff but I felt like my space was invaded. A couple times, one of them would skate right under the basket I was shooting at. Ain't gonna lie - I was tempted to "miss" a shot and hit the dude. But then I realized that there was only one of me and five of them. Pretty unwinnable odds once you factor in the fact that five skateboards are way more dominant weapons in a fight than one single basketball. I just tried to not let my nerves get too razzled.
(This one time, I was driving west on Fulton. I saw this idiot skateboarder skating, a few blocks ahead of me, on the street. He wasn't just on the side of the right lane, either. He was in the middle of the street, weaving back and forth between both lanes. He was going pretty slow and just enjoying himself, I guess. As I got closer to him, I had to slow down for this idiot because he was oblivious. Then a funny thing happened. He must have hit a bump or something, because he lost his footing on his board and jumped off. Lucky for him, he landed on his feet and gathered himself, but because the street was sloped, he had to run to catch up to his board. The dude was just taking his time, though, and just kind of half-jogged toward it. Next thing I know, this big blue old-school pickup truck revs past me and runs over the skateboard, cracking it in half! I was driving just slow enough to see the idiot dude pick up the two pieces of his skateboard, gesture in bewilderment, and scream an expletive. That made my day. Actually, I probably lived off the joy of that moment for like a week, at least.)
Anyway, back to Saturday Balling.
Chris Cheng (or, as I call him, Tayshaun Prince because of his all-around game) and Alex the Man (whom, as you'll soon discover, is the Chinese Chuck Hayes of San Francisco) eventually showed up.
Interesting fact about Chris: he took 10 minutes to get ready before shooting his warmup shots. He had the most complicated ankle wrap I've ever seen, which probably took at least seven minutes to put on. Then he had to tape his fingers. Finally, he had to put on one of those wrist braces like the ones old lady secretaries wear to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome. Thus, Chris' alternate nickname is The Mummy.
Eventually, enough people showed up and we got a fullcourt game going. It was Metamorpho, The Black Pat Burke, Alex the Man, Chris, and me on one team. I always feel good whenever Tayshaun is on my team. He led Lowell to a championship, so he's a proven winner.
As an added twist, the Lowell JROTC Drum Corps was still on the court right next to us, doing their routine. 16 kids with drums (I counted, to cement my factual accuracy in this recap) including two xylophones. It was quite epic. And loud. I couldn't hear much, other than the martial beats they were playing. At one point, Chris pointed out that having the drum corps play for us was like how those suburban schools have their marching bands play for them.
It always takes me a while to warm up in a game. That first game we played, I went for a rebound very early and started to feel a little tightness in my left calf. Nuts, I thought. I can't be about to cramp up in the first minute of the game! Not when I'm on Chris' team and, therefore, have a good chance of walking off with the sweet taste of victory! During a lull in play, I tried to stretch it a bit. That seemed to do the trick. I didn't cramp up. Whew.
I think we played a good game. The other team was all right, but no match for the Black Pat Burke and Tayshaun. I think they were our leading scorers. I think I made a layup or something, maybe a couple more gimme buckets, but nothing spectacular. I basically just tried to feed Tayshaun the ball and get the heck outta the way. It was tough to communicate on the court because of the drum corps, but Chris said that their loudness simulated "playoff atmosphere." He would know. He's been to the promised land.
On defense, we played a 2-3 zone. I usually don't enjoy playing zone (it just feels wrong somehow, in street ball, and you never know how it'll turn out if you play alongside people who don't know what they're doing), but Tayshaun made it work. He played the upper perimeter of the zone like a champ. He knew exactly how to rotate, how to execute the perfect traps, and his Tayshaun-like arms were all up in the passing lanes. He racked up some steals and blocks. His lateral quickness was amazing. I don't know why he needed an ankle brace. It's like I say, a 75% healthy Chris Cheng is still better than a 100% Dru. That's why I want him on my team every time.
Alex the Man was a beast on the boards, too. I really like playing with him. He is one of the hardest working players I have played with and even though he often claims he doesn't know what he is doing, he makes most of the shots that he needs to make. He has solid defense and great hops (must be those volleyball skills). He made a couple of steals when people thought they could lob the ball over him. What really stands out, though, is the ferocity in his rebounding. This dude isn't the biggest dude on the court, but when there is a loose rebound in the air, no one else goes up for it as hard and as fiercely as Alex the Man. He plays bigger than you would expect him to play, considering his size. That's what makes him the Chinese Chuck Hayes.
That first game we played dragged out a while. I think we were playing "win by two" so it took forever. The drum corps kids didn't stop playing. It was a constant auditory assault. We eventually triumphed because the Black Pat Burke made just enough lucky shots to help us pull through.
The Black Pat Burke sat out the second game we played, though. He said he was old and tired and needed more time to recover. I don't even remember whom we picked up to replace him, but whomever it was, that player wasn't as good as the Black Pat Burke. The second team we played was better than the first, too. They had the size and the speed advantage.
It was a tough, hard-fought game. We fell behind early, but Chris basically willed us back into the game. He knows how to play a great team game but he also knows when to take on the burden of scoring some points. I definitely laud his abilities. Chris has a really pretty game. I think you can usually tell how good a player is by observing his body language and posture when he handles the ball, and Chris projects sure-handed confidence. He doesn't do any flashy stuff to show off, but his fundamentals are plain smooth, and that's what I like to see. Even when he doesn't have the ball, he plays the game of basketball, setting good picks, cutting through defenders, and anticipating his teammates. If his playing style were a girl, I'd marry her or die trying.
We played a zone for part of that second game but eventually switched to man. For some reason, I was guarding this Persian-looking dude who had a couple inches and a bunch of pounds over me. He was more effective once we went to our man defense. It's shameful to admit, but this dude backed me down more than once and just got some easy buckets. After he scored a few points on me, Metamorpho wanted to switch, so I started guarding this older-looking dude on the other team. And for an old-guy, he was actually pretty decent. He looked just like a skinny version of Stan Van Gundy/Ron Jeremy. He had the right hair and the right mustache. He also had good hustle, so I still had to concentrate in order to play against him. That mustache was a huge distraction, though. I didn't want none of that!
At one point during this game, one of those skateboarders from before got too close to us and lost control of his board. The board rolled onto our court and this bald white dude on the other team just kicked it towards the parking lot and yelled crossly at them, dropping an f-bomb or two for good measure. I thought there was gonna be a fight or something, because what that white dude did and said were fighting words. Apparently the skateboarder didn't want none because he just stalked off and got his board.
It would have been interesting if the skateboarders had decided to fight the ballers. I wonder if the Lowell JROTC Drum Corps, who were still going at it, would have gotten involved.
We did our best, and Chris almost carried us to victory, but we were just faced with an uphill battle. I really appreciate playing with Chris and Alex because they don't quit even when things look grim. The Chinese Chuck Hayes was still jumping for rebounds even after some guy fell on his head and knocked his jaw. Nothing could deter Alex. In the end, we lost the game. The drum corps were still playing their songs.
The three of us sat around for a few minutes and caught our breaths. By the time it was about 3PM, it was time to go. The drum corps stayed.
____________
I went home. A pair of my old college buddies were coming to town. Sam Park and Kevin Lee. I remember back when I first started balling with those two guys. Sam was a typical goofy tall Asian guy with questionable shot selection. Kevin was like Muggsy Bogues without the bulk. Now that they've hit the prime of their street ball careers, they've blossomed and reached their potential. Sam is an Asian man's Sam Perkins, aka Big Smooth. (Gotta love the sweet outside-shooting big man.) Kevin is the self-proclaimed Kevin Johnson. (KJ is one of my all-time favorite players. Sacramento is lucky to have him for mayor just like California is lucky to have Arnold as Governator.)
Those two guys met at my house around 3:30 or so. Before we went back to Lowell, I ate a couple handfuls of walnuts. All I'd eaten that day was a bowl of Cheerios around 11AM in between MvC2 matches. And it wasn't a big bowl because I can't run around with milk and stuff joshing around in my stomach. It's too discomforting. I have no idea if walnuts are actually good providers of energy or nutrients, but I really had nothing else to eat at that moment, so I scarfed 'em down. The walnuts were close at hand.
We got back to Lowell around 4. The Lowell JROTC Drum Corps were gone. The skinny Stan Van Jeremy guy just finished his last game and I saw him leave. My other buddy Justin was about to start a game. His team only needed one more player, though, so Sam, Kevin, and I cast lots to determine who would play. Sam was the chosen one. Actually, we didn't cast lots. I don't even know what that means. It just sounds Biblical and I wanted to sound spiritual.
Kevin and I hung around and watched them play. I think Justin had already played a couple games by then, so he might have been a bit tired. He's a good player with solid fundamentals and a high basketball IQ. Like me, he also disdains a lot of things that are prevalent in today's game. For example, hop steps, hesitation dribbles/palming violations, AND 1 bullcrap like that... I don't like that stuff. I don't know where the hopstep came from but some guys who hopstep don't really hop. They just jump. I hate that. And half the time when people (streetballers and pros) do hesitation moves, they carry the ball. Can't stand that! Go watch film of Bob Cousy. You won't see him do a palming violation. Jerry West didn't have to carry the ball. It's whack!
Anyway, for most of Sam and Justin's game, Kevin and I just stood off to the side and commentated on the game. We didn't know the names of any of the other players, so we would just refer to them by the color of their shirts. He was the play-by-play and I was the color man. I discovered it's pretty tough to commentate intelligently when you don't know anything at all about the people you're analyzing. Most of our comments were dumb and pointless. Now I wish we'd recorded them.
During the game, Sam had one awesome block. That man's got some fire in him. A player tried to pull up for a midrange jumpshot and Sam just swatted that crap into the next court. It was monstrously fierce. I never saw Sam play like that when we were in Davis. It was one of those blocks that would have been an awesome, awesome, AWESOME moment for Sam to do the Dikembe Finger Wag. Unfortunately, doing the Dikembe Finger Wag to some stranger is a good way to start a fight, so I guess that's why Sam didn't do it. Later in the game, he had another nice block, but instead of recovering the ball (it was right in front of him) he admired his handiwork and the guy put it back in.
It was a really long game. It was one of those games where the guys playing must have been so tired that at the end, nobody could score. It was ugly and sloppy. At one point, one of the players approached Kevin and me. We thought he must have heard our insulting commentating, but he just apologized that the game was taking forever. Maybe we were just jerks. Right toward the end there, Justin pulled up lame with a cramp and had to leave the game. I subbed in for him. By this time, I was ice cold because it been a couple hours since the last game I played. In a way, I had fresh legs, but these guys were way more invested in the outcome of the game.
I was like Daniel Ewing during that one game when the Clippers played the Suns in the playoffs. He came in ice cold at the end of regulation to guard Raja Bell. Bell ended up drilling a game-tying three-pointer right in Ewing's face. The same thing happened to me, except maybe not as humiliating because the moment wasn't captured on YouTube. Sam's team lost that game, possibly because I came into the game cold and my man hit the winning jumper a few seconds later. It was bad.
But no matter. Kevin and I still had next, so we picked up Sam, another Asian dude, and a white dude. Both of the guys who joined our team were pretty decent, although I think the white dude committed a palming violation every time he did a crossover (which was probably every other time he touched the ball). Whatever, though. He was on my team so I didn't really mind as much.
The team we played against had a massive height advantage, though. They had this one white guy who was probably something like 6'4 and could dunk. We couldn't really stop him; we could only hope to contain him. Most of the other players on the team were bigger than me, too, and most of them could shoot. It wasn't really a good matchup on paper because Sam was our biggest guy. That was one of those times where we just had to resort to a zone defense out of strategic logic. Even then, it was a really tough game.
We did have a couple things going for us, though. Number one, those guys didn't take us seriously. They probably looked at us, saw four small Asian guys and figured we would be pushovers. I always enjoy being underestimated because I feel it gives me a hidden advantage, however slight. Two, they were starting to get tired. They had just played a few consecutive games because they kept winning, but their fatigue was getting to be a factor.
As the game started, I think we played a solid game. We made good shots to stay competitive. The white guy on our team was good at scoring because no one ever called him out on his palming violations. I think I'll call him Palmer from now on. Palmer was an aggressive scorer but I actually didn't think he was a selfish player if only because he made a decent percentage of his field goal attempts. He loved slashing through traffic to get layups. Sometimes he kicked it out to the open man, too. I think I missed the first one or two open shots I needed to make, and Palmer started to worry that all his Asian teammates sucked. (I could see the fear in his eyes.) Luckily, on one possession he gave me one last chance on a catch-and-shoot turnaround off a slip screen and I swished the shot. I think that restored his confidence in the team. He fed me a couple more times throughout the game and I made some decent shots.
Sam, Kevin, and the other Asian dude all contributed. Sam had one or two blocks and changed a few shots. Kevin drilled some jumpers to keep us in it. The other Asian dude was quick and had hustle - he got us some rebounds and found ways to score really easy close buckets.
So, somehow, the Force was with us. We made it a real game. So what if the tall 6'4 white dude had a breakaway dunk on a fast break? Okay, I guess that is pretty demoralizing, but the score was close. We kept it just close enough to make things dramatic and interesting. And toward the end of the game, the other team started losing their composure. They lost their chemistry. They started to take selfish, bad shots where only two guys would touch the ball during their entire possession. They started to take and miss walk-up threes. The tall 6'4 dude stopped trying to dominate us in the paint and started falling in love with his jumpshot. (All right, his jumpshot loved him back and he made a lot of shots, but still. I told you we couldn't really stop him.)
And then... and then... Could it be? We clawed back, fought, got lucky on a fair share of plays, and what happened? Game point, tie game, baby! Win by two! We were still in it! You ever sit down to take a dump, only to realize that you forgot to put down the toilet seat? Not a good feeling, right? Well, you know the facial expression you make at that horrible moment of realization that your butt's no longer as clean as it's supposed to be, only you can't take a shower quite yet because you feel a bowel movement coming? Everyone on the other team had that face.
And then... and then... AND THEN... I had what was possibly the single greatest performance in the history of my streetball career. Top two at the very least. I think I scored something like 5 of our last 7 points in overtime.
Ever have that feeling when the Holy Spirit just takes over you, and you do some business for Jesus and then when it's all over, you look back in bewilderment and say to yourself, "Wow, I can't believe that happened the way it did. Way better than I ever dared dream. I can't believe God used me to do that!" That's what it was like for me at the end of that game.
Even now, I don't really know what happened. I just happened to make a couple of tough, but not impossible, shots in succession while we traded baskets. A twisting layup here, a contested jump shot there. Every time we were down by one, I managed to even things up. I started feeling good. My biorhythm was hot.
I think the moment I had this vague feeling something was different was this one play when I tried to beat my man off the dribble. I kind of got past him but he managed to poke the ball away. I chased after it before it got too loose and recovered it, with my back turned from the basket, at the free throw line, right elbow. Now, normally I would have reset the offense at that point, and just gathered myself. But some instinctive primal force I can't explain compelled me to force up what would normally be a horrible shot. Off-balance, on one leg, I looked up and saw a small window of an open look. As I turned to face the basket as I picked up the ball, I started falling backwards to my right. I shot the ball anyway. Drilled it in. Off-balance, turnaround fallaway jumper barely looking at the basket. I like to believe that shot demoralized the other team.
Justin and some other people were watching us play. Hearing the "ooohs" was a great feeling that I don't get to enjoy very often. My only regret is that there weren't any beautiful women watching. But I guess it's okay. I might have bricked more shots if I knew women were watching. Possibly. Maybe. Probably.
Anyway, we went back and forth a couple more times after that. I nailed a rhythm jumper off, I think, a Kevin screen that put us up by one. We got a defensive stop somehow. And on our final possession, I drove to the hoop. There were too many tall guys there, so I drove back out. Two of my teammates set some excellent screens for me (and this was all completely improvised) and suddenly, I had just dribbled in a complete circle through the paint, Steve Nash style. More importantly, I was suddenly and dramatically completely wide open coming back into the lane. The one guy who had a chance of stepping up and defending me had his back turned! I don't know if he was just locked in on his man or if he was just confused by my unconventional use of overdribbling, but he had no idea I was behind him. I banked in the easy runner and that was that.
To quote the inimitable Raul Julia as M. Bison in Street Fighter the Movie (the greatest action movie ever filmed, and also, not coincidentally, Jean-Claude Van Damme's finest hour), "Gaaaaaame... OVAAAAARRHH!!!!"
Winning that game felt great. Maybe eating those walnuts did the trick. I'm gonna eat more walnuts before playing ball in the future/ I only wish someone had YouTubed that game so I could relive my own glory until the end of time. I wonder, when we get to heaven, will God let us watch highlight reels of our earthly lives? (Probably not. Still, I hope I don't get smited for the thought. Or for typing that last sentence.)
We stayed for a couple more games. We lost the second but won the third. The team we played in both of those games had this old 50 year old Asian guy and a slender young Asian guy with fob spectacles and an Nuggets A.I. jersey. The fobby guy liked to call fouls and he dribbled too high. That's all I've got to say about him.
The old man, on the other hand, was a force not to be trifled with. (Don't you hate it when you end a sentence with a preposition? I'm too lazy to go back and reword it.) I don't know what the blazes was going on, but it wasn't like he was fast, athletic, strong, or quick. He just made ridiculous shot after ridiculous shot. Our other Asian guy was guarding him most of the game and I think he might have been going a little too easy on the old guy. But the old guy ended up doing a lot of damage to us and killed us in the first game he played against us.
In the rematch, we switched it up a little bit. The old guy was their leading scorer, but he had a low field goal percentage. Palmer and Sam kept racking up blocks on him. It was almost too easy. Still, he was their best player and kept them in it. Now I kinda know how pros in the late '80s felt whenever they had to play Kareem. Dude was so old and slow but we just weren't mean enough to complete take him out of the game. And he kept bailing himself out with bullcrap foul calls. In the end, though, three of his teammates were the equivalent of Jud Buechler in his rookie year. No help at all.
We beat those guys and left. Then we had some Fresca with our dinner. It's the drink of champions. (Except for Kevin, who claims to be allergic to "fake sugar" or so he says. Blasted heathen.)
I just started shooting around by myself at one of the courts. (Isn't that how these recaps usually start? Gimme some new material. Maybe one of these days I'll show up super late and everyone else will wonder what happened to me.) At the court next to me, there were four regulars I recognized because they are always there on Saturdays as well. To kill time, they played Horse and two-on-two while waiting for more players to show up so we could get some real games going. I will now, for future reference, give each of these four players a name. I'm basing the first three of them on the Superfriends.
1) The first dude is this Asian dude who always looks like he's squinting when he's excited. He also likes to talk a lot but generally seems to have fun. He's okay, but he seems like a guy who thinks he's better than he actually is. I'll refer to him as Aquaman from now on. Why? Because I don't know what the purpose of his existence is. (I was gonna call him Vibe, but that guy is probably so obscure that no one who reads this will get the reference without checking Wikipedia.)
2) The second dude is Aquaman's buddy, a Hispanic dude who looks like he's at least in his thirties. He always shows up to the courts with his hair slicked all the way back like Dean Cain in Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. This guy kind of annoys me and I don't like playing with him unless I have to. He talks a lot, but in an annoying way. He has this really smug attitude that rubs me the wrong way. He constantly takes lousy shots like a walk-up the court, pull-up three before the rest of his teammates are ready to get a rebound. He cherry picks a lot, too. Thought about giving him a nickname referring to his cherry picking, but don't wanna be accused of being racist in case he's from Mexico, so I'll call him Superman.
3) The third dude is another one of the superfriends. He's a tall Asian dude. He's actually pretty good although sometimes it seems like he just kinda coasts through games and doesn't really play hard until the game is on the line. This guy doesn't talk too much. As a result, he's my favorite Superfriend. I'll call him Metamorpho.
4) The fourth dude is a forty year-old black dude. I don't think he's actually one of the Superfriends, but he seems to get on well with them because they've played so often. This guy is actually pretty funny. The way he reacts to things on the court constantly amuses me. For example, after he misses a shot, he will say something like, "Come on, don't make me do all the scoring! I'm forty! Too old for this s---! Gimme some help out here for God's sake!" And he says this after forcing up a contested, fallaway, double-clutch seven foot jump shot, surrounded by three defenders while at least one teammate is standing around, wide open. And he can never keep track of the score, but despite trying to argue, is eventually a pushover and just accepts what he is told. It's fun to play with this guy. He doesn't use his size, but he loves taking outside shots. Sometimes he even makes them. I will call him The Black Pat Burke.
So those were the four guys who were already there. The courts were bookended by these teenage skateboarders (they were all over the court next to the one I was shooting around, the one closest to the soccer field) and the Lowell JROTC drum corps (they took over the far end court right next to the parking lot).
Skateboarders at Lowell kind of annoy me. I have no problem with skateboarding, but there's a time and place for it. It's irritating to have to watch out for skateboarders while shooting around. Especially these kids on Saturday. They moved onto my court where I was shooting and often skated within a few feet of me. They kept trying to do ollies and stuff but I felt like my space was invaded. A couple times, one of them would skate right under the basket I was shooting at. Ain't gonna lie - I was tempted to "miss" a shot and hit the dude. But then I realized that there was only one of me and five of them. Pretty unwinnable odds once you factor in the fact that five skateboards are way more dominant weapons in a fight than one single basketball. I just tried to not let my nerves get too razzled.
(This one time, I was driving west on Fulton. I saw this idiot skateboarder skating, a few blocks ahead of me, on the street. He wasn't just on the side of the right lane, either. He was in the middle of the street, weaving back and forth between both lanes. He was going pretty slow and just enjoying himself, I guess. As I got closer to him, I had to slow down for this idiot because he was oblivious. Then a funny thing happened. He must have hit a bump or something, because he lost his footing on his board and jumped off. Lucky for him, he landed on his feet and gathered himself, but because the street was sloped, he had to run to catch up to his board. The dude was just taking his time, though, and just kind of half-jogged toward it. Next thing I know, this big blue old-school pickup truck revs past me and runs over the skateboard, cracking it in half! I was driving just slow enough to see the idiot dude pick up the two pieces of his skateboard, gesture in bewilderment, and scream an expletive. That made my day. Actually, I probably lived off the joy of that moment for like a week, at least.)
Anyway, back to Saturday Balling.
Chris Cheng (or, as I call him, Tayshaun Prince because of his all-around game) and Alex the Man (whom, as you'll soon discover, is the Chinese Chuck Hayes of San Francisco) eventually showed up.
Interesting fact about Chris: he took 10 minutes to get ready before shooting his warmup shots. He had the most complicated ankle wrap I've ever seen, which probably took at least seven minutes to put on. Then he had to tape his fingers. Finally, he had to put on one of those wrist braces like the ones old lady secretaries wear to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome. Thus, Chris' alternate nickname is The Mummy.
Eventually, enough people showed up and we got a fullcourt game going. It was Metamorpho, The Black Pat Burke, Alex the Man, Chris, and me on one team. I always feel good whenever Tayshaun is on my team. He led Lowell to a championship, so he's a proven winner.
As an added twist, the Lowell JROTC Drum Corps was still on the court right next to us, doing their routine. 16 kids with drums (I counted, to cement my factual accuracy in this recap) including two xylophones. It was quite epic. And loud. I couldn't hear much, other than the martial beats they were playing. At one point, Chris pointed out that having the drum corps play for us was like how those suburban schools have their marching bands play for them.
It always takes me a while to warm up in a game. That first game we played, I went for a rebound very early and started to feel a little tightness in my left calf. Nuts, I thought. I can't be about to cramp up in the first minute of the game! Not when I'm on Chris' team and, therefore, have a good chance of walking off with the sweet taste of victory! During a lull in play, I tried to stretch it a bit. That seemed to do the trick. I didn't cramp up. Whew.
I think we played a good game. The other team was all right, but no match for the Black Pat Burke and Tayshaun. I think they were our leading scorers. I think I made a layup or something, maybe a couple more gimme buckets, but nothing spectacular. I basically just tried to feed Tayshaun the ball and get the heck outta the way. It was tough to communicate on the court because of the drum corps, but Chris said that their loudness simulated "playoff atmosphere." He would know. He's been to the promised land.
On defense, we played a 2-3 zone. I usually don't enjoy playing zone (it just feels wrong somehow, in street ball, and you never know how it'll turn out if you play alongside people who don't know what they're doing), but Tayshaun made it work. He played the upper perimeter of the zone like a champ. He knew exactly how to rotate, how to execute the perfect traps, and his Tayshaun-like arms were all up in the passing lanes. He racked up some steals and blocks. His lateral quickness was amazing. I don't know why he needed an ankle brace. It's like I say, a 75% healthy Chris Cheng is still better than a 100% Dru. That's why I want him on my team every time.
Alex the Man was a beast on the boards, too. I really like playing with him. He is one of the hardest working players I have played with and even though he often claims he doesn't know what he is doing, he makes most of the shots that he needs to make. He has solid defense and great hops (must be those volleyball skills). He made a couple of steals when people thought they could lob the ball over him. What really stands out, though, is the ferocity in his rebounding. This dude isn't the biggest dude on the court, but when there is a loose rebound in the air, no one else goes up for it as hard and as fiercely as Alex the Man. He plays bigger than you would expect him to play, considering his size. That's what makes him the Chinese Chuck Hayes.
That first game we played dragged out a while. I think we were playing "win by two" so it took forever. The drum corps kids didn't stop playing. It was a constant auditory assault. We eventually triumphed because the Black Pat Burke made just enough lucky shots to help us pull through.
The Black Pat Burke sat out the second game we played, though. He said he was old and tired and needed more time to recover. I don't even remember whom we picked up to replace him, but whomever it was, that player wasn't as good as the Black Pat Burke. The second team we played was better than the first, too. They had the size and the speed advantage.
It was a tough, hard-fought game. We fell behind early, but Chris basically willed us back into the game. He knows how to play a great team game but he also knows when to take on the burden of scoring some points. I definitely laud his abilities. Chris has a really pretty game. I think you can usually tell how good a player is by observing his body language and posture when he handles the ball, and Chris projects sure-handed confidence. He doesn't do any flashy stuff to show off, but his fundamentals are plain smooth, and that's what I like to see. Even when he doesn't have the ball, he plays the game of basketball, setting good picks, cutting through defenders, and anticipating his teammates. If his playing style were a girl, I'd marry her or die trying.
We played a zone for part of that second game but eventually switched to man. For some reason, I was guarding this Persian-looking dude who had a couple inches and a bunch of pounds over me. He was more effective once we went to our man defense. It's shameful to admit, but this dude backed me down more than once and just got some easy buckets. After he scored a few points on me, Metamorpho wanted to switch, so I started guarding this older-looking dude on the other team. And for an old-guy, he was actually pretty decent. He looked just like a skinny version of Stan Van Gundy/Ron Jeremy. He had the right hair and the right mustache. He also had good hustle, so I still had to concentrate in order to play against him. That mustache was a huge distraction, though. I didn't want none of that!
At one point during this game, one of those skateboarders from before got too close to us and lost control of his board. The board rolled onto our court and this bald white dude on the other team just kicked it towards the parking lot and yelled crossly at them, dropping an f-bomb or two for good measure. I thought there was gonna be a fight or something, because what that white dude did and said were fighting words. Apparently the skateboarder didn't want none because he just stalked off and got his board.
It would have been interesting if the skateboarders had decided to fight the ballers. I wonder if the Lowell JROTC Drum Corps, who were still going at it, would have gotten involved.
We did our best, and Chris almost carried us to victory, but we were just faced with an uphill battle. I really appreciate playing with Chris and Alex because they don't quit even when things look grim. The Chinese Chuck Hayes was still jumping for rebounds even after some guy fell on his head and knocked his jaw. Nothing could deter Alex. In the end, we lost the game. The drum corps were still playing their songs.
The three of us sat around for a few minutes and caught our breaths. By the time it was about 3PM, it was time to go. The drum corps stayed.
____________
I went home. A pair of my old college buddies were coming to town. Sam Park and Kevin Lee. I remember back when I first started balling with those two guys. Sam was a typical goofy tall Asian guy with questionable shot selection. Kevin was like Muggsy Bogues without the bulk. Now that they've hit the prime of their street ball careers, they've blossomed and reached their potential. Sam is an Asian man's Sam Perkins, aka Big Smooth. (Gotta love the sweet outside-shooting big man.) Kevin is the self-proclaimed Kevin Johnson. (KJ is one of my all-time favorite players. Sacramento is lucky to have him for mayor just like California is lucky to have Arnold as Governator.)
Those two guys met at my house around 3:30 or so. Before we went back to Lowell, I ate a couple handfuls of walnuts. All I'd eaten that day was a bowl of Cheerios around 11AM in between MvC2 matches. And it wasn't a big bowl because I can't run around with milk and stuff joshing around in my stomach. It's too discomforting. I have no idea if walnuts are actually good providers of energy or nutrients, but I really had nothing else to eat at that moment, so I scarfed 'em down. The walnuts were close at hand.
We got back to Lowell around 4. The Lowell JROTC Drum Corps were gone. The skinny Stan Van Jeremy guy just finished his last game and I saw him leave. My other buddy Justin was about to start a game. His team only needed one more player, though, so Sam, Kevin, and I cast lots to determine who would play. Sam was the chosen one. Actually, we didn't cast lots. I don't even know what that means. It just sounds Biblical and I wanted to sound spiritual.
Kevin and I hung around and watched them play. I think Justin had already played a couple games by then, so he might have been a bit tired. He's a good player with solid fundamentals and a high basketball IQ. Like me, he also disdains a lot of things that are prevalent in today's game. For example, hop steps, hesitation dribbles/palming violations, AND 1 bullcrap like that... I don't like that stuff. I don't know where the hopstep came from but some guys who hopstep don't really hop. They just jump. I hate that. And half the time when people (streetballers and pros) do hesitation moves, they carry the ball. Can't stand that! Go watch film of Bob Cousy. You won't see him do a palming violation. Jerry West didn't have to carry the ball. It's whack!
Anyway, for most of Sam and Justin's game, Kevin and I just stood off to the side and commentated on the game. We didn't know the names of any of the other players, so we would just refer to them by the color of their shirts. He was the play-by-play and I was the color man. I discovered it's pretty tough to commentate intelligently when you don't know anything at all about the people you're analyzing. Most of our comments were dumb and pointless. Now I wish we'd recorded them.
During the game, Sam had one awesome block. That man's got some fire in him. A player tried to pull up for a midrange jumpshot and Sam just swatted that crap into the next court. It was monstrously fierce. I never saw Sam play like that when we were in Davis. It was one of those blocks that would have been an awesome, awesome, AWESOME moment for Sam to do the Dikembe Finger Wag. Unfortunately, doing the Dikembe Finger Wag to some stranger is a good way to start a fight, so I guess that's why Sam didn't do it. Later in the game, he had another nice block, but instead of recovering the ball (it was right in front of him) he admired his handiwork and the guy put it back in.
It was a really long game. It was one of those games where the guys playing must have been so tired that at the end, nobody could score. It was ugly and sloppy. At one point, one of the players approached Kevin and me. We thought he must have heard our insulting commentating, but he just apologized that the game was taking forever. Maybe we were just jerks. Right toward the end there, Justin pulled up lame with a cramp and had to leave the game. I subbed in for him. By this time, I was ice cold because it been a couple hours since the last game I played. In a way, I had fresh legs, but these guys were way more invested in the outcome of the game.
I was like Daniel Ewing during that one game when the Clippers played the Suns in the playoffs. He came in ice cold at the end of regulation to guard Raja Bell. Bell ended up drilling a game-tying three-pointer right in Ewing's face. The same thing happened to me, except maybe not as humiliating because the moment wasn't captured on YouTube. Sam's team lost that game, possibly because I came into the game cold and my man hit the winning jumper a few seconds later. It was bad.
But no matter. Kevin and I still had next, so we picked up Sam, another Asian dude, and a white dude. Both of the guys who joined our team were pretty decent, although I think the white dude committed a palming violation every time he did a crossover (which was probably every other time he touched the ball). Whatever, though. He was on my team so I didn't really mind as much.
The team we played against had a massive height advantage, though. They had this one white guy who was probably something like 6'4 and could dunk. We couldn't really stop him; we could only hope to contain him. Most of the other players on the team were bigger than me, too, and most of them could shoot. It wasn't really a good matchup on paper because Sam was our biggest guy. That was one of those times where we just had to resort to a zone defense out of strategic logic. Even then, it was a really tough game.
We did have a couple things going for us, though. Number one, those guys didn't take us seriously. They probably looked at us, saw four small Asian guys and figured we would be pushovers. I always enjoy being underestimated because I feel it gives me a hidden advantage, however slight. Two, they were starting to get tired. They had just played a few consecutive games because they kept winning, but their fatigue was getting to be a factor.
As the game started, I think we played a solid game. We made good shots to stay competitive. The white guy on our team was good at scoring because no one ever called him out on his palming violations. I think I'll call him Palmer from now on. Palmer was an aggressive scorer but I actually didn't think he was a selfish player if only because he made a decent percentage of his field goal attempts. He loved slashing through traffic to get layups. Sometimes he kicked it out to the open man, too. I think I missed the first one or two open shots I needed to make, and Palmer started to worry that all his Asian teammates sucked. (I could see the fear in his eyes.) Luckily, on one possession he gave me one last chance on a catch-and-shoot turnaround off a slip screen and I swished the shot. I think that restored his confidence in the team. He fed me a couple more times throughout the game and I made some decent shots.
Sam, Kevin, and the other Asian dude all contributed. Sam had one or two blocks and changed a few shots. Kevin drilled some jumpers to keep us in it. The other Asian dude was quick and had hustle - he got us some rebounds and found ways to score really easy close buckets.
So, somehow, the Force was with us. We made it a real game. So what if the tall 6'4 white dude had a breakaway dunk on a fast break? Okay, I guess that is pretty demoralizing, but the score was close. We kept it just close enough to make things dramatic and interesting. And toward the end of the game, the other team started losing their composure. They lost their chemistry. They started to take selfish, bad shots where only two guys would touch the ball during their entire possession. They started to take and miss walk-up threes. The tall 6'4 dude stopped trying to dominate us in the paint and started falling in love with his jumpshot. (All right, his jumpshot loved him back and he made a lot of shots, but still. I told you we couldn't really stop him.)
And then... and then... Could it be? We clawed back, fought, got lucky on a fair share of plays, and what happened? Game point, tie game, baby! Win by two! We were still in it! You ever sit down to take a dump, only to realize that you forgot to put down the toilet seat? Not a good feeling, right? Well, you know the facial expression you make at that horrible moment of realization that your butt's no longer as clean as it's supposed to be, only you can't take a shower quite yet because you feel a bowel movement coming? Everyone on the other team had that face.
And then... and then... AND THEN... I had what was possibly the single greatest performance in the history of my streetball career. Top two at the very least. I think I scored something like 5 of our last 7 points in overtime.
Ever have that feeling when the Holy Spirit just takes over you, and you do some business for Jesus and then when it's all over, you look back in bewilderment and say to yourself, "Wow, I can't believe that happened the way it did. Way better than I ever dared dream. I can't believe God used me to do that!" That's what it was like for me at the end of that game.
Even now, I don't really know what happened. I just happened to make a couple of tough, but not impossible, shots in succession while we traded baskets. A twisting layup here, a contested jump shot there. Every time we were down by one, I managed to even things up. I started feeling good. My biorhythm was hot.
I think the moment I had this vague feeling something was different was this one play when I tried to beat my man off the dribble. I kind of got past him but he managed to poke the ball away. I chased after it before it got too loose and recovered it, with my back turned from the basket, at the free throw line, right elbow. Now, normally I would have reset the offense at that point, and just gathered myself. But some instinctive primal force I can't explain compelled me to force up what would normally be a horrible shot. Off-balance, on one leg, I looked up and saw a small window of an open look. As I turned to face the basket as I picked up the ball, I started falling backwards to my right. I shot the ball anyway. Drilled it in. Off-balance, turnaround fallaway jumper barely looking at the basket. I like to believe that shot demoralized the other team.
Justin and some other people were watching us play. Hearing the "ooohs" was a great feeling that I don't get to enjoy very often. My only regret is that there weren't any beautiful women watching. But I guess it's okay. I might have bricked more shots if I knew women were watching. Possibly. Maybe. Probably.
Anyway, we went back and forth a couple more times after that. I nailed a rhythm jumper off, I think, a Kevin screen that put us up by one. We got a defensive stop somehow. And on our final possession, I drove to the hoop. There were too many tall guys there, so I drove back out. Two of my teammates set some excellent screens for me (and this was all completely improvised) and suddenly, I had just dribbled in a complete circle through the paint, Steve Nash style. More importantly, I was suddenly and dramatically completely wide open coming back into the lane. The one guy who had a chance of stepping up and defending me had his back turned! I don't know if he was just locked in on his man or if he was just confused by my unconventional use of overdribbling, but he had no idea I was behind him. I banked in the easy runner and that was that.
To quote the inimitable Raul Julia as M. Bison in Street Fighter the Movie (the greatest action movie ever filmed, and also, not coincidentally, Jean-Claude Van Damme's finest hour), "Gaaaaaame... OVAAAAARRHH!!!!"
Winning that game felt great. Maybe eating those walnuts did the trick. I'm gonna eat more walnuts before playing ball in the future/ I only wish someone had YouTubed that game so I could relive my own glory until the end of time. I wonder, when we get to heaven, will God let us watch highlight reels of our earthly lives? (Probably not. Still, I hope I don't get smited for the thought. Or for typing that last sentence.)
We stayed for a couple more games. We lost the second but won the third. The team we played in both of those games had this old 50 year old Asian guy and a slender young Asian guy with fob spectacles and an Nuggets A.I. jersey. The fobby guy liked to call fouls and he dribbled too high. That's all I've got to say about him.
The old man, on the other hand, was a force not to be trifled with. (Don't you hate it when you end a sentence with a preposition? I'm too lazy to go back and reword it.) I don't know what the blazes was going on, but it wasn't like he was fast, athletic, strong, or quick. He just made ridiculous shot after ridiculous shot. Our other Asian guy was guarding him most of the game and I think he might have been going a little too easy on the old guy. But the old guy ended up doing a lot of damage to us and killed us in the first game he played against us.
In the rematch, we switched it up a little bit. The old guy was their leading scorer, but he had a low field goal percentage. Palmer and Sam kept racking up blocks on him. It was almost too easy. Still, he was their best player and kept them in it. Now I kinda know how pros in the late '80s felt whenever they had to play Kareem. Dude was so old and slow but we just weren't mean enough to complete take him out of the game. And he kept bailing himself out with bullcrap foul calls. In the end, though, three of his teammates were the equivalent of Jud Buechler in his rookie year. No help at all.
We beat those guys and left. Then we had some Fresca with our dinner. It's the drink of champions. (Except for Kevin, who claims to be allergic to "fake sugar" or so he says. Blasted heathen.)
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Ten
Today's true story:
I once got crapped on by a flock of seagulls.
I was pretty young at the time. I think I was in preschool or kindergarten and my class went on a field trip to the zoo. We were looking at monkeys or something, and then a flock of seagulls flew overhead. Being inexperienced at real life, I thought they were part of the zoo, and I got super excited at watching them flying. Then it started raining bird poop.
I got hit pretty hard. At first, I didn't really understand what happened. I just had this weird, gooey stuff covering me. It was all over my head and my body. My mom happened to be with me on that field trip, and because she was right next to me, she also endured the seagulls' excrement. She was angry, and I think that tipped me off that something wasn't right. Maybe I started crying then. Or maybe I didn't. Nah, actually I bet I probably did cry. I cried a lot as a kid, believe it or not. I still cry a lot as a grown man, too, but I just do it in private.
Ever since that incident, I've always hated and feared birds that fly above me. Even if it is just a single bird, I will, to this day, cover my head instinctively with an arm. It's just a reflex now, completely ingrained in my mindset, even though think I've only been crapped on one other time since that day. I hate it when birds fly over me. I always have a bad feeling that I'll get pooped on. If I am wearing a hat, I feel a little more protected, though.
Unless I'm wearing my Warriors hat. I can't let that hat, with that logo, get crapped on. Nothing can be allowed to disrespect the logo. Once, one of the kids at the school I work at playfully hit the bottom of the brim of my Warriors hat, knocking it off. It landed on the floor. I immediately benched her for that. You think I'm joking? No. This really happened. She was upset, but I had to explain her own impudence to her and teach her to respect the logo. Now, kids know better than to even touch my Warriors hat. It's just off limits. They can't touch it. They just can't. That is a line they are not allowed to cross. I can't allow them to do it. It's like how Batman doesn't let anybody touch his cape. (Except maybe Alfred, when it's time to wash it.)
I once got crapped on by a flock of seagulls.
I was pretty young at the time. I think I was in preschool or kindergarten and my class went on a field trip to the zoo. We were looking at monkeys or something, and then a flock of seagulls flew overhead. Being inexperienced at real life, I thought they were part of the zoo, and I got super excited at watching them flying. Then it started raining bird poop.
I got hit pretty hard. At first, I didn't really understand what happened. I just had this weird, gooey stuff covering me. It was all over my head and my body. My mom happened to be with me on that field trip, and because she was right next to me, she also endured the seagulls' excrement. She was angry, and I think that tipped me off that something wasn't right. Maybe I started crying then. Or maybe I didn't. Nah, actually I bet I probably did cry. I cried a lot as a kid, believe it or not. I still cry a lot as a grown man, too, but I just do it in private.
Ever since that incident, I've always hated and feared birds that fly above me. Even if it is just a single bird, I will, to this day, cover my head instinctively with an arm. It's just a reflex now, completely ingrained in my mindset, even though think I've only been crapped on one other time since that day. I hate it when birds fly over me. I always have a bad feeling that I'll get pooped on. If I am wearing a hat, I feel a little more protected, though.
Unless I'm wearing my Warriors hat. I can't let that hat, with that logo, get crapped on. Nothing can be allowed to disrespect the logo. Once, one of the kids at the school I work at playfully hit the bottom of the brim of my Warriors hat, knocking it off. It landed on the floor. I immediately benched her for that. You think I'm joking? No. This really happened. She was upset, but I had to explain her own impudence to her and teach her to respect the logo. Now, kids know better than to even touch my Warriors hat. It's just off limits. They can't touch it. They just can't. That is a line they are not allowed to cross. I can't allow them to do it. It's like how Batman doesn't let anybody touch his cape. (Except maybe Alfred, when it's time to wash it.)
Friday, October 23, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Nine
Today's true story:
Do I really need to smile more often?
I guess over the years, I have built up a rep for stoicism. Quite a few people have pointed out to me that I don't seem to smile much. This kind of boggles me. I smile at least a couple times every day. Maybe not every couple minutes like some people, but what's wrong with that? Other people, not just kids, have also asked me why I don't smile much. Typically, my response to this is to put on a straight face and say, "Why don't I smile? Maybe you're just not funny." I wait a couple of beats while the other person feels uncomfortable, and then I smile.
(Or maybe I actually smirk. I've never looked at myself in the mirror when doing this. This reminds me - I need to go practice my smirk. The smirk is one of the most underrated facial expressions of all time. It's almost like a smile, but most people will not have the courage to question you about the undercurrent of smugness. Thus, you can smirk with impunity. It's the grown-man's version of a teenager shrugging his shoulders.)
I don't think my default facial expression is a scowl or anything. Maybe I don't have the facial muscles to walk around with a smile all the time, not like Hines Ward who's always smiling every time you see him play on TV. It just ain't me. It doesn't mean I have a stick up my butt or that I'm angry all the time. I guess a smile isn't natural for me, and I'm okay with that.
I played kickball with the kids today. I was sitting on a bench and one of the kids, a third grade girl, asked me why I don't smile much. Not really the first time I've heard that. Funny thing is, she also said, "I wish you would smile. Then that would make me happy forever!" How could I not smile after hearing that? Even my heart's not that hard.
Do I really need to smile more often?
I guess over the years, I have built up a rep for stoicism. Quite a few people have pointed out to me that I don't seem to smile much. This kind of boggles me. I smile at least a couple times every day. Maybe not every couple minutes like some people, but what's wrong with that? Other people, not just kids, have also asked me why I don't smile much. Typically, my response to this is to put on a straight face and say, "Why don't I smile? Maybe you're just not funny." I wait a couple of beats while the other person feels uncomfortable, and then I smile.
(Or maybe I actually smirk. I've never looked at myself in the mirror when doing this. This reminds me - I need to go practice my smirk. The smirk is one of the most underrated facial expressions of all time. It's almost like a smile, but most people will not have the courage to question you about the undercurrent of smugness. Thus, you can smirk with impunity. It's the grown-man's version of a teenager shrugging his shoulders.)
I don't think my default facial expression is a scowl or anything. Maybe I don't have the facial muscles to walk around with a smile all the time, not like Hines Ward who's always smiling every time you see him play on TV. It just ain't me. It doesn't mean I have a stick up my butt or that I'm angry all the time. I guess a smile isn't natural for me, and I'm okay with that.
I played kickball with the kids today. I was sitting on a bench and one of the kids, a third grade girl, asked me why I don't smile much. Not really the first time I've heard that. Funny thing is, she also said, "I wish you would smile. Then that would make me happy forever!" How could I not smile after hearing that? Even my heart's not that hard.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Eight
Today's true story:
My all-time favorite superhero is the Silver Surfer.
Most people would probably claim Spider-Man, Batman, Wolverine, or Superman as their favorite superhero. Those guys are probably the most famous and well-known. If any comic book superheroes could be considered icons, those guys would probably fit the bill. (Wonder Woman should be up there, but although she is well-known, I don't think she gets enough love.) I like them all, too; it's just that I don't like them as much as the Surfer.
Ever since I was a kid, I was a huge fan of the Surfer. He's got a unique look, and the fact that he's this cosmically-powered being who travels through space on a surfboard is offbeat enough that something about him just set my imagination ablaze with wonderment and awe.
His heroism was always a huge inspiration to me when I was growing up, especially as I was an impressionable child who ravenously absorbed everything I could possibly read. Norrin Radd, a citizen of the planet Zenn-La, sacrificed his own freedom to Galactus, the Devourer of Worlds. In exchange, Galactus spared Zenn-La and transformed Norrin into his personal herald, the Silver Surfer. It's almost a Biblical space opera.
For some undisclosed amount of time, the Surfer loyally serves Galactus as his herald. The Silver Surfer soars the spaceways in search of suitable planets for his master to consume. Of course, Galactus eventually comes to devour Earth, having been led there by the Surfer. The Surfer encounters the Fantastic Four, who manage to hold him off, but it's really a blind human woman who manages to open his eyes by pleading for him to recognize the sanctity of life. His heart touched for the first time since his own transformation into Galactus' herald, the Surfer rebels against his nearly omnipotent master and joins the Fantastic Four in what is, ostensibly at least, a hopeless battle.
Of course, they manage to drive off Galactus, but only after Galactus exacts his punishment on his creation by exiling him. As a result, the Surfer loses his freedom and gets stuck on Earth, a superpowerful alien who once roamed space.
It always blew me away that there was a superhero who sacrificed so much and still saved humanity on a planetary scale. We can compare Superman to Moses due to the many parallels they share. I've long associated Batman with Sisyphus, eternally frustrated because he's essentially cursed with an impossible task. The Surfer, on the other hand, is a messianic figure. I stop short of comparing him to Jesus, but I've often read of people comparing him to Christ.
The Surfer's early series from the 1960s stands out as one of Stan Lee's most affecting works. It's all about this noble, messianic hero who endeavors to save humanity from ourselves, only he's circumvented at every turn by the people he seeks to protect. Human selfishness constantly undermines his benevolent efforts. Governments hate and fear him. Normal people mock him. And yet he wants to save them anyway. Sound like anyone from the Bible?
Yeah, there are other superheroes who are hated and feared by the world they are sworn to protect. The X-Men immediately come to mind. Spider-Man, to an extent, fits the bill. And Batman, well, his goal is to be feared. The thing that sets the Surfer apart is his intense solitude. He doesn't really have any friends he can rely on. The X-Men have each other. Spider-Man has his Aunt May and the rest of his supporting cast. The Surfer is truly an alien. Despised. Feared. Misconstrued. And yet he somehow finds it within himself to truly love man, despite wielding the power to smite the world at his whim.
There's something about his story that always inspired me. Although the quality of his adventures has varied depending on the writer/artist team telling the stories, the character remains my favorite superhero ever.
___________________
For an extra-long post, I'm tacking on these paragraphs about my first Surfer comic. Why? Because I wrote it a long time ago and had it lying around in my hard drive for months for no real purpose. I write primarily for myself, but I guess the point of any writing is always to share it with the world, or at least with someone. Not that I'm sure anyone would read this. Oh, well. TAINT TAINT TAINT TAINT yeah baby! Anyway...
The second comic book I ever owned was Silver Surfer #54. You can see the cover at the top of this very post. Vintage '90s.
Silver Surfer #54, more so than even that X-Men Classic comic book I first owned, had a big impact on me. I was probably about eight years old when I got it. This was the late spring/early summer of 1991, which was when the Infinity Gauntlet crossover storyline was kicking off – an awesome time for a little kid to get into Marvel comics. In retrospect, it is funny how lame Silver Surfer #54 is. I mean, it’s the Surfer vs. the Rhino, for crying out loud! Yup, Spider-Man’s third-tier supervillain. You know, the big bulky guy who dresses up in a rhino suit and rams into things with his horns! That isn’t even really a fight. But when I was a kid, I didn’t really think about that. I just saw a buff dude in a rhino suit charging into Silver Surfer on the cover of the comic. He knocked the Surfer clean off his board! Never mind the unlikelihood of such an event.
Although my parents gave away most of my childhood collection by the time I was in high school, I recently, shall we say, “reacquired” SS #54, and reread it for the first time in years. It’s worse than I remembered it to be. The story is cheesy as hell: with all of existence on the brink of interstellar apocalypse (due to Thanos’ sinister machinations with the Infinity Gauntlet), the Rhino decides to make the best of his remaining time alive by going to the zoo and freeing the animals from their cages. The Surfer, who just happens to be flying by the zoo, encounters the subsequent chaos and confronts the Rhino. They do battle until the Surfer saves the life of a tiger, who was shot by a cop while stalking pedestrians. As a result, the Rhino thinks the Surfer is a good dude ‘cause he likes animals, and then they kiss and make up.
That story impressed me when I was eight, though. Plus, it got me into all the stuff going on in The Infinity Gauntlet miniseries. All that cosmic stuff combined with the superhero action really kicked my imagination into overdrive. The Silver Surfer swiftly (you dig that alliteration?) became my favorite superhero and I collected his series on a monthly basis for several years.
One thing that really stood out about SS #54, however, was the artwork. Ron Lim, baby, it was Ron Lim! That man was totally my childhood comic artist hero. I still think he’s great. He’s got good storytelling skills, and solid draftsmanship. The way he drew the Surfer is nearly unparalleled. Jack Kirby and John Buscema are in a class of their own, of course, but I have nothing but love for Ron Lim. His Surfer actually looked shiny. Also, the action scenes were kinetic and intense. Ron Lim drew incredible power blasts and explosions of energy. He definitely maxed out the Kirby Crackles. It basically blew my mind away. Every time the Surfer used the Power Cosmic to blow something up, it was like there was a Power Cosmic explosion in my brain. Keep in mind that this was in an age before digital painting and PhotoShop and computer effects were in use in comics.
Although I greatly enjoyed Silver Surfer #54 when I was young, time has tempered my critical appraisal. Sometimes people still like the stuff they liked as a kid, whether it’s cartoons, toys, comics, or whatever. I think nostalgia is a taint. Taint, taint, taint. (Remember, I like that word. Seeing it in print makes me laugh. Taint.) Nostalgia sometimes taints people’s analyses of their memories.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Seven
Today's true story:
One of the reasons I like playing basketball is 'cause you really can get to know someone on the court.
In my mind, a person's style of play on the court definitely reveals his (or her) inner character. When I analyze my own game, I witness my true self come to the forefront: the real me, no fronting. When I play sports with my friends, I learn about them as well. Playing sports is a different setting than usual, one that forces people's personalities to rise to the surface, so to speak. This is one reason why playing ball is quality bonding time. Another reason is that it is fun to win together; and the flipside, of course, of sharing in a bitter defeat together. It sounds melodramatic but these things impact me.
I'll grant that some of these observations could be my own biases and opinions projecting themselves so that I see what I want to see, but I honestly feel that, more often than not, a person's game reveals truths, truths that I come to notice primarily because we've played ball together.
When I scrutinize my own game, and my temperament on the court, I can really pinpoint why I play the way I play. It's because that's just how I am. For example, one thing I have come to recognize is that I have a very low level of aggression when I play. This sounds strange, considering I recently shared how I got into a fight over street ball game, but in this case I refer to aggression in terms of my actions in the flow of the game. Usually, I don't attack the basket, I don't go all-out and hustle for loose balls, and I don't cut to the hoop as often as I should. To me, these attributes totally represent me as a person because I am typically not a "go get 'em" type of guy. Sometimes I just don't fight hard enough, I guess. I am usually not the guy to draw first blood, but I try my best to not get knocked out. I am more reactive, less proactive. I don't know if I'd call these character flaws, but they're just characteristics. My characteristics.
There are times, on the court, when I recognize the weaknesses in my own game. I have played with other players that I didn't consider vastly better than me, but because of their aggressive mindset, they seem to be able to score more buckets or have a bigger impact on the game. Sometimes, even when it's a close game, when I am tired, I won't box out my man properly, or I won't fight as hard to grab a rebound, or I will go under a screen rather than through it. Occasionally, my selfishness costs my whole team. It's not a pleasant feeling when I know my team lost the game because of my own failures. In real life, I find that I often rely on others to pick up my own slack. I don't always battle hard enough to do what I ought to do; instead, I get lazy and just hope I get lucky and things don't go sour. These are definitely things I need to improve in my own life.
I also know that I don't have the prettiest game around. I wish I had the dexterity to have crazy awesome handles, but I ain't got it. I wish I could be a dancer on the court, weaving through the entire defense like Isiah Thomas, maybe the best pure point guard of all time. (On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I could be a better studio analyst, CBA commisioner, coach, and general manager than Zeke. But that's a whole 'nother story, baby.) Sometimes my game is just flat out ugly, though, and I know it. You don't wanna see me try a left-handed layup. Sometimes I can make them, but it just doesn't look right. But that's just how I operate. I guess I care about appearances somewhat, but getting the job done is always the bigger priority.
When I watch other people, I get a feel for them based on how they react and play. I'm very judgmental like that. If I've ever played basketball with you, I've probably got a dossier of you in my mind.
I do the same thing when I watch the pros play. It's interesting to read and learn about what players do off the court, but I also imagine what they are like, as people, when I watch 'em play.
Sasha Vujacic, for example, is a fool. You can tell by his game. I remember watching him play for the first time back in his rookie year. The Lakers were playing the T'Wolves in some meaningless late-season game and after a pick and roll, Vujacic was, for some reason, isolated on KG. Vujacic had the ball and he did a little crossover, dribbled past the Big Ticket, and scored. Then he started hopping up and down a bit. Musta been super proud about scoring on KG. A camera caught a reaction shot of KG. He had this puzzled look on his face, like he was thinking, Who was that scrub? Did he just score on me? Eff that.
T'Wolves inbounded and KG immediately called for the ball and drained a 15 footer. Lakers came back with Vujacic handling the ball, and again, somehow KG was the isolated defender. Vujacic tried to do another crossover and KG just calmly stretched his arms and ripped the ball away. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen in a basketball game. Vujacic was completely flummoxed. Someone smart wouldn't have tried the same move twice in a row, but Vujacic is a fool. After the T'Wolves scored on the ensuing fast break, Vujacic called timeout, benched himself, and retired after the game. Oh, how I wish that last sentence were true. I hate Vujacic.
I wish I could find a clip of this on YouTube, but I can't. I don't think I imagined it. It must be real, it must! Oh, well. It's probably funnier if you just use your imagination anyway. I guess they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I say a cliche is worth negative two. So there.
EDIT: I did, however, find this gem for you - Boom Dizzle gives the Machine an unfriendly shove.
EDIT #2: And this is a pretty pleasant memory, too. I remember this game. Skip to My Lou making a mockery of the Machine.
One of the reasons I like playing basketball is 'cause you really can get to know someone on the court.
In my mind, a person's style of play on the court definitely reveals his (or her) inner character. When I analyze my own game, I witness my true self come to the forefront: the real me, no fronting. When I play sports with my friends, I learn about them as well. Playing sports is a different setting than usual, one that forces people's personalities to rise to the surface, so to speak. This is one reason why playing ball is quality bonding time. Another reason is that it is fun to win together; and the flipside, of course, of sharing in a bitter defeat together. It sounds melodramatic but these things impact me.
I'll grant that some of these observations could be my own biases and opinions projecting themselves so that I see what I want to see, but I honestly feel that, more often than not, a person's game reveals truths, truths that I come to notice primarily because we've played ball together.
When I scrutinize my own game, and my temperament on the court, I can really pinpoint why I play the way I play. It's because that's just how I am. For example, one thing I have come to recognize is that I have a very low level of aggression when I play. This sounds strange, considering I recently shared how I got into a fight over street ball game, but in this case I refer to aggression in terms of my actions in the flow of the game. Usually, I don't attack the basket, I don't go all-out and hustle for loose balls, and I don't cut to the hoop as often as I should. To me, these attributes totally represent me as a person because I am typically not a "go get 'em" type of guy. Sometimes I just don't fight hard enough, I guess. I am usually not the guy to draw first blood, but I try my best to not get knocked out. I am more reactive, less proactive. I don't know if I'd call these character flaws, but they're just characteristics. My characteristics.
There are times, on the court, when I recognize the weaknesses in my own game. I have played with other players that I didn't consider vastly better than me, but because of their aggressive mindset, they seem to be able to score more buckets or have a bigger impact on the game. Sometimes, even when it's a close game, when I am tired, I won't box out my man properly, or I won't fight as hard to grab a rebound, or I will go under a screen rather than through it. Occasionally, my selfishness costs my whole team. It's not a pleasant feeling when I know my team lost the game because of my own failures. In real life, I find that I often rely on others to pick up my own slack. I don't always battle hard enough to do what I ought to do; instead, I get lazy and just hope I get lucky and things don't go sour. These are definitely things I need to improve in my own life.
I also know that I don't have the prettiest game around. I wish I had the dexterity to have crazy awesome handles, but I ain't got it. I wish I could be a dancer on the court, weaving through the entire defense like Isiah Thomas, maybe the best pure point guard of all time. (On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I could be a better studio analyst, CBA commisioner, coach, and general manager than Zeke. But that's a whole 'nother story, baby.) Sometimes my game is just flat out ugly, though, and I know it. You don't wanna see me try a left-handed layup. Sometimes I can make them, but it just doesn't look right. But that's just how I operate. I guess I care about appearances somewhat, but getting the job done is always the bigger priority.
When I watch other people, I get a feel for them based on how they react and play. I'm very judgmental like that. If I've ever played basketball with you, I've probably got a dossier of you in my mind.
I do the same thing when I watch the pros play. It's interesting to read and learn about what players do off the court, but I also imagine what they are like, as people, when I watch 'em play.
Sasha Vujacic, for example, is a fool. You can tell by his game. I remember watching him play for the first time back in his rookie year. The Lakers were playing the T'Wolves in some meaningless late-season game and after a pick and roll, Vujacic was, for some reason, isolated on KG. Vujacic had the ball and he did a little crossover, dribbled past the Big Ticket, and scored. Then he started hopping up and down a bit. Musta been super proud about scoring on KG. A camera caught a reaction shot of KG. He had this puzzled look on his face, like he was thinking, Who was that scrub? Did he just score on me? Eff that.
T'Wolves inbounded and KG immediately called for the ball and drained a 15 footer. Lakers came back with Vujacic handling the ball, and again, somehow KG was the isolated defender. Vujacic tried to do another crossover and KG just calmly stretched his arms and ripped the ball away. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen in a basketball game. Vujacic was completely flummoxed. Someone smart wouldn't have tried the same move twice in a row, but Vujacic is a fool. After the T'Wolves scored on the ensuing fast break, Vujacic called timeout, benched himself, and retired after the game. Oh, how I wish that last sentence were true. I hate Vujacic.
I wish I could find a clip of this on YouTube, but I can't. I don't think I imagined it. It must be real, it must! Oh, well. It's probably funnier if you just use your imagination anyway. I guess they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but I say a cliche is worth negative two. So there.
EDIT: I did, however, find this gem for you - Boom Dizzle gives the Machine an unfriendly shove.
EDIT #2: And this is a pretty pleasant memory, too. I remember this game. Skip to My Lou making a mockery of the Machine.
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