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.)

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.)

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.

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.

As much as I enjoy reminiscing upon bygone times, I strive to live in the present. Some things I loved as a child just haven't aged well, and I'm not afraid to admit that to myself. Or perhaps I just got old too fast. It's a possibility, I suppose... Just an unlikely one. Enough self-analysis. And no, I don't think it's weird that the Silver Surfer has no visible external genitalia. I can rationalize it by saying that he transcended his mortal existence when Galactus imbued him with the Power Cosmic; the Surfer's a cosmic being now. SO GET OFF MY CASE

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.

A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Six

Today's true story:

I can honestly say I am faster than an Olympic-caliber sprinter.

I was fairly athletic when I was a kid. Going to a private school from kindergarten through eighth grade, everybody in my grade pretty much knew each other and pigeonholed each other into various stereotypes. For some reason, even though I was the most dominant basketball player in my class, I never got no respect from the "cool" kids.

During the latter years of middle school, my school started participating in these annual track meets with other Lutheran schools throughout the Bay Area. To determine which events we would compete in, my P.E. teacher timed us on the sidewalk. (Literally... He took us across the street and timed us running on one of the most dangerous intersections in the entire district.) He also timed us on this twisting path over in Stern Grove. I was pretty much the fastest dude in the school by the time I was in like seventh grade.

We didn't really train much for the track meet. I mean, it was just running and I don't think they took it seriously as an athletic event. It didn't seem like the teachers really expected much out of us, at least. I guess they probably hoped we would do well, but they weren't training us hard or anything. By that age, though, I knew that when you compete in a sport, you play to win, baby. It's like this Herm Edwards clip, forever immortalized on YouTube: You play to win the game!

So the funny thing is, as a seventh grader, I ran a 12.24 in the 100m. At the time, it was a Lutheran Schools Athletic Association record. There was no training, I didn't wear spikes, didn't have starting blocks, and I ate a cliff bar a minute before the race. I just hopped on the track and smoked all the other boys. There's even a picture of me in the school yearbook, looking all smug with my old-school sideburns and kid-stache (even as a youngster, I was cementing my claim on "Hairiest Asian Ever"), shaking my P.E. teacher's hand.

During the 2008 Olympics, I was watching the 100m preliminary heats, right? And get this, during Tyson Gay's heat, there was this dude... I'll never forget him. His name is Shanahan Sanitoa, and he represented the country of American Samoa. Sanitoa clocked in at 12.60! He was completely outclassed in his race. I felt embarrassed for him.

Even though by most standards, Sanitoa would probably be a joke, I imagined he must have still been a hero in his homeland. I did a lazy quick Google search. Here - http://vaatsup.com/publicviewstory.php?storyid=616&newspaperid=189

Even though he couldn't even beat an American 12 year old in the 100m, his country still loves him. That's fantastic. I can only imagine the pride and honor involved at being able to represent one's country. Although he wasn't very fast, I'm sure he did his best, and he got to hold up his country's flag during the ceremonies. That's amazing. Kind of like Eric "the Eel" Moussambani.

I never did improve too much in the 100m. I think I peaked athletically at a very young age, 'cause I didn't grow very much after I was about 14 years old or so. (Well, I guess I've grown fatter and smarter, but that doesn't really count.) I can't remember my best time in the 100m in high school, but it might've been 11.67. Not very fast compared to top tier athletes. Decent for a high school kid, probably pretty fast compared to an average person off the street.

Sometimes I wonder how fast I can run a hundred meters now. I probably won't be able to beat 12 seconds unless I start working out, training, and start watching what I eat. However, I still feel pretty confident that I could beat up my former seventh grade self by running a sub-12.24. I don't care if it's wind-aided or not, or if it's hand-timed or electronically timed. I will continue to boldly claim that I am faster than an Olympic-caliber sprinter.

One of these days, though, I am gonna have to go back to Kezar and see exactly how fast I truly am.

A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Five

Today's true story:

I don't use a pillow when I sleep. I guess I've mentioned this to people a few times, so it's not really an obscure fact about myself.

I used to use a pillow when I was a young child, but at some point I gave up on the pillow. I must have been around middle school age when I stopped using it. You know how sometimes people mention that they "slept funny" and woke up feeling sore around their neck? That used to happen to me when I used a pillow. Ever since I stopped, I've never hurt myself while sleeping. (Unless I bump my head against the wooden bed frame, which happens once in a while.)

I think what inspired me to stop using a pillow in the first place was sheer experimentation. When I was a kid, my dad sometimes used to sleep on this tatami mat. I always wanted to do everything my pop did, but my mom is one of those overprotective moms and wouldn't allow me to sleep on the floor. My young, feeble mind somehow reasoned that the next closest thing would be to sleep without a pillow. After a couple days without it, I just got used to it and haven't looked back.

Pillows just get in the way. I sleep on my back and I don't really move around too much when I sleep, so I still feel comfortable. Even if I sleep somewhere else, like if I use my sleeping bag someplace, I still won't use a pillow. I can sleep comfortably on a hardwood floor and just my sleeping bag. (As long as the floor is relatively clean, I guess. I am not a big fan of sleeping in filth.)

Now here's the twist ending: I didn't stop sleeping with my stuffed panda bear until I was well into high school.

A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Four

Today's true story:

I once got into a fight with a stranger over a street ball game.

This was quite a while ago. It was spring break 2002, and I was playing ball at Sunset Rec. We were playing some three-on-three on one of the halfcourts. My buddy Ma (aka OptionZero) and this one dude whom I knew from living in the dorms were on my team. The other guys we played were these Asian guys. One of them was kind of pudgy and one of them was a little shorter than me. (I forget who the third guy was because he wasn't involved in the fight.)

We were pretty much whooping on those guys. Ma and I were scoring at will and we had a large lead. The shorter Asian guy got super pissed, and he was being vocal about it. He started giving us dirty looks and cussing at us, Ma in particular. I can't remember exactly what he said, but it was mighty offensive and annoying. Eventually I acknowledged him and told him to chill out 'cause it's just a game. Dude took it totally the wrong way. He started yelling at me and acting all tough. He yelled, "You better shut the eff up! You shut the eff up!" ("Eff" means the f-word. I decided to censor myself in case somebody with delicate sensibilities reads this. But you get the picture.)

Now, let me ask you, if you were in my place, what would you do at that point? I suppose the rational thing would have been to act somewhat apologetic, or at least perhaps non-threatening; like, maybe you'd try to say something to soothe his ego and placate him. Or maybe you could just walk away and stop playing entirely. Now ask yourself what would Dru do? So predictable.

Of course, after he told me to shut the eff up, my response was to hold the ball, square my shoulders, fix a cold gaze on him, hold it for a second, and then say, "Why don't you make me?"

Surprisingly, this shut the dude up for a bit. I think he was miffed I would stand up for myself and my friend, so his feeble mind had to process this unexpected outcome. All of us then continued playing the game, and I figured that I'd defused the situation.

Next thing that happened, I chased after a loose ball and then the little jerkwad ran up and sucker punched me in the head! Sucker punches. What is it with the sucker punches? Bullies love sucker punching. I hate that. At the time, I was wearing my glasses, and he knocked 'em clean off my head. I had a bruise on my temple for a week, too. But at least it didn't knock me out or anything. I staggered back a few steps but I didn't fall to my knees. Basically, it was just on, baby.

I straight up charged the guy and we just went at it.

You know how Sunset Rec looks inside, right? One side of the gym is a bunch of hoops for people to play halfcourt games while the "good" players play fullcourt on the other side. Then you've got the old Chinese dudes playing hardcore ping pong off to the side. Well, everybody in the whole dang place stopped what they were doing to watch us fight. Even the old Chinese dudes stopped their hardcore ping pong.

And then the fat Asian dude on the instigator's team tried to get in the fight, but Ma (my lifelong buddy since kindergarten) jumped his back and started punching the hell out of the guy's head. It was pretty funny. Ma and I were in a lot of fights when we were kids but this was probably one of our most glorious team-ups.

I was just drunk with rage. You know how people associate the color red with anger? I still remember my vision turned red during this fight. Maybe it was 'cause I took a sucker punch to the head, but I was pretty pissed. My vision had a reddish tint to it that I'd never experienced before.

I didn't use any fancy moves on that guy. We just got in close and started pounding each other. I don't think I took any particularly painful blows (other than that stupid sucker punch) but I felt like I delivered some powerful ones.

Anyway, after what was most likely, in reality, a short time, someone (I don't remember whom) split up all four of us and the fight thus ended. I still got in a cheap shot, though, 'cause while someone was grabbing and holding back the instigator, I was unrestrained. I picked up a ball and chucked it right at his groin. Seeing him double over in pain was immensely gratifying. I know it probably makes me sound like lousy, petty, unforgiving person to admit satisfaction in this, but that's how I felt at the time.

After a few minutes to cool off from the fight, I left.

If I were to find myself in a similar situation again, I would probably just quit playing with the annoying jerk and walk away. It ain't worth it. You never know. Next time I get into a fight, could be the last thing I do. Even if the guy isn't tougher than me, he could have a weapon or a gang of idiot friends or something. This is one of the reasons why I prefer playing with friends or people I know. I don't like having to deal with pricks if I can avoid 'em. (The Fob Academy aren't really jerks with whom I'd fight, I guess - I just don't like them very much 'cause they complain about everything and call fouls all the time. Also, I'd like to note that I am still lifetime undefeated in games against the Fob Academy.)

Misadventures in Saturday (and Sunday) Balling: 10/03, 10/10, and 10/11/09

My right foot’s been bugging me for a couple weeks now. For some reason, since the end of September, the nerves in the front part of my foot have just been kinda painful. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I still have my usual range of motion and I don’t think anything is seriously wrong, but trying to run or jump off the balls of my foot sends jolts of pain coursing up my leg. I guess I’m just hoping the pain will go away by itself.

Last week, I tried to go easy on my foot so I could play ball on Saturday (10/03/09). It seemed to work. I was okay to play. Once I got the adrenaline coursing through my veins I was able to run around almost like normal. I was probably at about 85% percent.

So I got to the Lowell courts around 11AM. Surprisingly, the Fob Academy was not there. There was a group of Asians playing a halfcourt game there, but I don’t think they were the Fob Academy. Other than those guys, there were a handful of others just shooting around at the other baskets. After I shot around for a few minutes, Harry (note to self: he needs a nickname) and Alex the Man eventually arrived. We shot around some more to get warmed up. Also, there wasn’t anyone else to play with because those other Asians didn’t want the taint of outsiders to ruin their game, and there weren’t enough other guys at the other courts who were interested in playing a game.

For some reason, the Lowell JROTC drill team was practicing. Broad daylight and no shame, baby. They weren’t in their uniforms or anything, but they were marching in weird patterns all over the basketball courts. You know that game Snake? That’s how those kids were marching, except they didn’t end up eating themselves. They kept walking on our court, too, even though three men were clearly using the space. I guess they must have been super proud or just blind or something.

After a while, Harry, Alex the Man, and I decided to play hunch. I emerged triumphant in glorious fashion, of course, because someone (not me, honest) had the great idea to place no limits on free throws after a made basket. We were playing up to eleven, and once I scored my first point, I drained ten straight free throws to ice the victory. I didn’t even sweat. I’m not making this up. Ask Harry or Alex the Man. They were both witnesses.

Yeah, I think I can shoot free throws better than Andris Biedrins. I don’t care if he’s got 18,000 people screaming at him. I’m pretty sure what I accomplished that day proves I can shoot better than him.

After a few more minutes of shooting around and bemusedly watching the JROTC marching around, a few more other players from the other courts decided it was time to get a game going now that we had enough to play full. I’m writing about this day more than a week after it happened, so I can’t remember every single detail, but this is the gist of it. Harry was on my team and Alex the Man was on the other team. My team won the first game and I had a respectable performance.

I remember this because it almost never happens, but I was 4-for-4 from the field and I had at least two assists, a couple rebounds, and a steal. Not too bad, other than the fact that it’s dorky to keep track of your own stats in a street ball game… and then remember those stats over a week later, as though trying to vainly reclaim some bygone glory.

The second game we played, my team just got beat bad. I don’t remember the score or anything, but even though it might have been close, I knew the other team was in control. It was one of those games where I didn’t really like my teammates (other than Harry, of course) so I essentially quit on the team. The other guys on the team were talking too much, or just ballhogging, or just generally taking stupid shots. That’s all fine and dandy when those bad shots go in and we win the game, but not when we’re down big. Like, this one guy kept taking pop-up threes. He made like one the entire time but it was enough to make him believe he was on fire. And this other guy kept trying to drive to the hoop, only the defense constantly collapsed on him resulting in one of two bad decisions: either the dude would force up a bad shot, or he’d just try to keep the ball and end up turning it over. The third guy just kept talking trash to an opposing player, calling for the ball, and then trying to take his man one on one.

(You ever think about what “team chemistry” really is? Analysts and writers love to bring it up, but isn’t “good” team chemistry present on every team that wins and “bad” team chemistry present on every losing team? Has there ever been a really good dominant team in the NBA with “bad” chemistry? Isn’t chemistry really just the result of winning? The more you win, the happier everyone is and the better team chemistry is. Vice versa when you’re losing. Why do people treat team chemistry like it’s a potion that can be mixed in a laboratory? The closest example to a good team with “bad” chemistry I can think of is the Lakers that last year they had Shaq… and they didn’t win the championship.)

I didn’t stop playing in the middle of the game or anything, but I was just going through the motions. Once I saw how the flow of the game was going, I stopped passing and tried to shoot the ball no matter what. Also, they had one tall guy on their team, and even though he wasn’t my man, I had to guard him a few times. I had to use my wiles to try to contain him, and he did tell me I had good d after the game, so I took some pride in that. I was still pissed I lost, but I blame the guys on my team for that one. (Except for Harry.)

__________

Balling at the church retreat was good times as well. That was pretty much all I did all afternoon… on Saturday and Sunday.

The court at the retreat site wasn’t anything special. It was smaller than normal. They had those double rims that always irritated me, and I think the hoops might’ve been a few inches lower than usual. (Not that I could touch the rim or anything – I can’t jump.) To top it all off, the ground wasn’t perfectly smooth. But when you’re desperate, it don’t really matter, I suppose. It’s like that Al Harrington shoe commercial: “You don’t need money to play this game. You need shoes. Protégé. Only at Kmart.”

You don’t even need a court to play this game as long as you have shoes. And maybe a ball. And some baskets. Al Harrington said so. And he’s a genius. He graduated from high school and went straight to the NBA, which proves he’s smart.

Saturday, we had enough players to play some four-on-four, full court. We had some decent games. Pastor Kim was on the other team. At one point, I swatted one of his shots. I was about to boast, maybe say something like, “Aw, yeah! Put THAT in your next sermon!” but then he picked up the ball and laid it in while I was mentally formulating trash talk. Sometimes I wish I were quicker on my wits. Maybe I should have just done the Dikembe Finger Wag. Oh, well. Next time I swat a pastor, I guess I’ll have to be prepared.

Not much else to say about Saturday’s games other than they were good exercise and I realized I could no longer take anyone off the dribble with my whacked out foot. It’s not like I was ever the quickest dude or anything, but I feel like a slow white guy now. It’s like if Eric Snow woke up one day and found himself in Jud Buechler’s body. I might still have that explosive first step, but it’s the second step that I’ve temporarily lost. Also, Galen’s Shane Battier-esque defense frustrated me and I had some nasty turnovers. On the plus side, I can honestly say that I didn’t cuss a single time that day. Even though Mike Singletary doesn’t like moral victories, I am willing to take whatever I can get. But I think I won those games anyway, ‘cause Pastor Alton was on my team.

Sunday, I warmed up by playing some dodgeball with the fellas. That was amusing. At one point, while dodging, I must have planted wrong and really hurt my right foot again. Waves of pain just blasted my foot. I wanted to quit but I think there were girls watching so I didn’t say anything and just acted like nothing happened even though I lost my agility and couldn’t really run effectively.

The first game we played was five-on-five and each team had a girl. I think they played pretty well. Tiffany and Denise knew what they were doing and made some shots. At one point, Denise stuffed Pastor Alton’s shot and he immediately clutched his shoulder so we had a little injury timeout. He’s a Pastor, so I assume he actually has some past injury with his shoulder, and he wasn’t just pretending to be hurt ‘cause a girl blocked his shot. Although that would be pretty funny if true. I don’t know. If Tiffany had blocked one of my shots or something, I probably would have just pretended to have a sprained elbow or something. If she’d given me the Dikembe Finger Wag I would have pretended to have a concussion. Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

The girls only played like one or two games with us, and then I guess they had enough. I don’t remember the games too well ‘cause I played so many of them and had a bunch of different teammates.

The fun thing was just playing with fellow brothers and sisters in Jesus. It’s a different feeling than playing against the Fob Academy all day long because I don’t really get as pissed off if my team is behind. Also, I feel like I can kind of trust the other Christians not to call fouls every single possession. I can lower my guard and enjoy the game. I wasn’t as obsessed with having to win the games so I tried some things I normally wouldn’t go for if I were playing to win. Even with my hurt foot, I tried penetrating, but that usually ended up in me forcing up a stupid bad shot. If we were playing the Fob Academy, my stupid bad shot tendency would decrease dramatically, I promise you that.

Towards the end of Sunday afternoon, this one large white dude joined us. I don’t know who he was, but his body type reminded me of Oliver Miller. Dude was a big dude, but he kept trying to play like he was A.I. or someone! Can’t believe he kept trying to do crossovers when he couldn’t even dribble without taking his eyes off the ball. I thought those were some pretty bad moves. He played better when I told him to post up can catch a lob down low. He was able to score then. But every time he tried to take someone off the dribble, he’d lose the ball. Either his defender would just pick him clean or he would just completely lose the handle. I even saw him try to split a double team while his head was totally pointed straight down ‘cause he had to look at the ball while he was dribbling. I felt embarrassed.

I lost the last couple games that day. Each time, Pastor Alton hit a game-winning jumper over me. I guess that’s a sign from God that I must study my Bible much more.

After basketball, we played some football. I have been obsessed with football the last few years but I rarely get a chance to play even touch football, so it was a blessing to be able to have a few guys. Alex the Man has a rocket arm like Alex Smith. Brian Chang was playing like Brian Dawkins. He had five INTs and I think he would have had a few TAINTS if he didn’t keep trying to toss laterals. (TAINT stands for Touchdown After Interception. It’s one of my favorite sports acronyms of all time, baby! I can say it all day long. TAINT, TAINT, TAINT. There’s just something about this acronym that makes me laugh. Pretty lowbrow, but whatever.)

Gilbert “Brown” Kwan was playing like Randy Moss, too. He burned his man on a streak and caught a bomb in stride after playing a really laid-back game up to that point. In the post-game interview, he quoted Moss when he said, “I play when I wanna play.”

A Month of Facts about Dru: Day Three

Today's true story:

Even though I am right-handed, I wear my watch on my right wrist. I have done this ever since I was a little kid. I used to have this Mickey Mouse watch way back when I was in elementary school. I think that was my first watch. Well, I always noticed that my pops wore his watch on his right wrist even though he, too, is right-handed. I pretty much just imitated him and it became a lifelong habit.

You know what's weird, is that kids today just don't know how to tell time. Maybe it's 'cause they've grown up in a digital age, but they cannot read an analog clock worth crap. Even fourth and fifth graders still have trouble reading an analog clock. Shoot, I could read a clock when I was in kindergarten. I don't know what parents teach their kids at home these days.