Monday Night Basketball

Monday evenings in the spring have become an evening for random exercise. No Monday Night Football and no softball on this night. Rather, the stationary bike, the free-weights, the local tennis court, and the pick-up basketball courts have taken over. Yes, I miss the weekly football-viewing ritual, but you never know what random choices of sport and exercise will bring your way.

This last Monday I called around. Who wants a run? Who wants to get a game together? Who wants to at least shoot around? Almost a dozen local calls and no one was up for it. That wasn’t going to keep me from trying to sustain some kind of jumper and keep up on my post moves. I set out for a one-on-nobody, gym-rat-type workout.

One hour before dusk, I jog-dribbled up the street to the school, mixing in between the legs and around the back staggers with my bull-terrier trying to guard me up the street. He still fouls way too much.

When I got to the entrance of the black top, I heard an unfamiliar voice across the street shout out to me, “aye mayne, aye mayne where you goin’ to?”

While heeling my dog I turned to see who was shouting in my direction. It was a young, well-dressed African-American man that I didn’t recognize. I replied, “just going to head over here and shoot.  Why, you want me to show you something?”

With his phone stuck to his ear he began to laugh and proclaimed to whoever was on the other end of the line, “yo, you hear dis? This kid over here says he wants to show me something! You hear dis over here?”

I jogged onto the court that was the grammar-school recess stadium of my youth, dressed for the sweat-drenched occasion. My challenger, adorned in his slacks, tie and cardigan, with the phone still stuck to his ear, slowly followed.

We shot around with respectful ball-returns. There were a lot of them because we were both splashing the bottom of the net from twenty or more continuously. I knew I was in for a challenge. He knew he was in for one too.

We exchanged backgrounds. Jamal was 25 and from Durham, North Carolina. He said he had only been in the area for a very short time. When I mentioned “The Dukies” to him, he raised an eyebrow and said, “you could get beat up where I’m from by calling them that.”

He was surprised that I also had visited his hometown some five years ago, and that the smoke-snorting bull in left field was never hit at the game I attended. I was ticked off that I didn’t win a steak at the Durham Bulls game.  He laughed.

When I told him about my life, he couldn’t get over how lucky he thought I was. This gave me a small sense of pride, yet at the same time, made me feel like I might be taking my fortuity for granted.

First to seven. Visitor gets first. Ball in.

He whizzed by me in dress clothes and I backed him down in my Adidas. Soon the score is point-four, advantage, me. A back-down, turn-around from the elbow. Game. We were both winded. He isn’t happy with the outcome, as he catches his breath to utter, “best two outta three.”

We got a quick drink from the nearby water fountain. We exchanged plights. I quickly learned that mine didn’t even compare to his. He was dressed as he was because he was selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door for an organization that supplies sporting goods to underprivileged youth.

Game two. My endurance wasn’t what I thought it would be. Jamal scored by going by me to the hole and hitting mid-range, fade-away jumpers after sagging my defense to my heels, as I was seemingly unable to challenge his shots. Home team loses, seven to three.

I talked about Cayucos and the Central Coast. He talked about how he is slowly getting used to the way things are here but still misses home. Its a tough way to go, 3,000 miles away from home, out there on your own.

He expressed how stingy he thought everyone here was. I told him, “welcome to the world of being a salesman during tough economic times, regardless of where you are.”

People are used to what they are used to, be it a lot or a little, which may very well be a socio-economic fault of our capitalistic system. He seemed to understand and yet rebel at the idea at the same time.

Rubber match.

Ball. Jab. Shot-fake. Jab. Cross. Lay-up.

I then conserve some energy and hit a jumper after the same initial jab fake. 2-0 big fella.

Back and forth. He scores while I admit fouls and I back him down with a few Shaq-esqe, drop-step gimmies. I then channel Mr. Leary on the same court in which we used to play. “Four to three, good guys.”

Jamal snickers in frustration and tosses the ball underhand to me a little harder than he has been. Sundown is saturating a low, foggy haze on the top of Cayucos Drive.

Bricks and rebounds ensue.

As the result lags to the finish, the home team ultimately prevails with slow, measured back-downs that end in jump hooks and an up-and-under. The winner “showed him something,” yet is humble about it, and the loser is just appreciative for the game.  Funny how a game can mirror life, personality and circumstance.

We gathered our goods and walked out onto the street as darkness sets in. We shared a genuine handshake and parted ways by wishing good luck to each other.

When most would feel comfort in this, I felt guilt that even in these hard times, my advantages were something that I may take for granted, and he was going to need a lot more luck than me to make it here through no fault of his own.