I can’t help it. I can’t help getting a little teary-eyed when I watch TNT and see JWill go behind the back to CWebb. It’s artistry, yes, first and foremost. But it brings back memories of my days as a playoff legend.
Oh, you don’t believe me? Think you see me walking around campus, doing my best Eddie Vedder impersonation, telling you to attend the InterHall Talent Show that I’m hosting, and you’re reading this now, snickering. “Ted Bauer? That fattie? No way he had playoff glory!”
But oh. Oh. How wrong you are.
The year was 1994. Baseball was in ruins, the Devils were recovering from Messier’s prediction and the Rockets were loving Jordan’s desire to play baseball. It was a good time to be an American. I was a 14 year-old boy at the all boys Catholic institution known as “Saint David’s.”
But I was more. There was a demon inside of me. It was the same demon that possessed the likes of CWebb, The Dream, MJ and a bunch of other guys who go by nicknames rather than the full deal (just once, I want to say Ralph Sampson … ). It was a drive to excel and compete on hardwood floors from Portland to Portland, from Key Arena to Key West. It was a drive to be the man. It was a drive to have the rock.
There was one small problem. I wasn’t very good at basketball. But I practiced, believing the whole ”… makes perfect” message that my parents kept preaching?every afternoon for two hours at the local outdoor court, jump shot after jump shot, layup after layup, pickup game after pickup game. Most guys were discovering girls around this time. I was discovering my 15 footer.
I think that explains a lot.
Tryouts came, and you see, I still wasn’t good at all. But something magical happened on day two of the cuts … I dropped 12 points and registered 15 rebounds over the returning center. I have no idea how I did it. In fact, years later there are rumors I took the ball coast-to-coast a la Dana Barros (ah, Dana Barros) once during that tryout game. I recall it not, but it may have occured.
I made the lower level team, also referred to as “the white team.” The red team were the big boys; they even got to play out of city. We only got to play within a 15 block radius of boys schools in the area. But still, we did pretty well. I was still out of shape and not that good a rebounder and I didn’t get into games a lot. In fact, I had pretty much designed a home on the end of the bench by half of the way through the season.
The season was a long ordeal for me. I was still working on the jumper, working on the fadeaway, mimicking John Starks in his jersey everyday for two hours. It wasn’t until later I found out this was a bad idea …
We made the playoffs (you really didn’t think I was going to write a column and not have it end with us in the playoffs, now did you?) and our first round opponent was Collegiate, basically the best school in the entire conference. Their H.S. program had sent 10 kids to Division I programs over the past five years, surpassing every other school in the league combined by … 10.
These were mini Chris Dudleys we were playing against, good enough to excel at Yale but not really do much at any other level. And they were good enough to do a Shane Battier impersonation and draw fouls (although I don’t recall any of them to have an irreguarly shaped head … ). All our best players fouled out. It was my turn. I was called off the bench. As I fell onto the cold, hard wood in front of the table, I managed to utter “I need a sub when ya can” and I heard a reply of “Next buzzer.” This was it.
So I got in, to absolutely no reaction from the crowd. It was the third quarter. Six minutes to go. We were down 14. The first six transitions of the ball once I arrived on the scene passed without any involvement from the TDawg. I called for the ball on the wing, wide open and was denied by our point. I called for the ball in the post, posting up a guy six inches my biatch and was brutally rebuffed by the PG.
And then finally, it happened. Thirty-four seconds left in the third quarter. I was posting up some little beatnik about 11 feet out from the basket when the ball came majestically floating in towards me. I am not sure to this day whether the ball was meant to come to me or whether someone else was out of position. The point guard’s screams of “NOOOO!!” were somewhat of a giveaway, but the rock I grabbed, and sensing it was my only chance to register in the scoring column, I swirled on my pivot foot and faded away. It was a fade of all my hopes, dreams and countless hours pretending I was John Starks. It was a fade of everything that was important to me as a young buck.
It was a fadeaway. And it launched through the rusty gymnasium air. It clanked once on the side of the rim and bounced. I threw my arms around my head so as to not look at where the ball went next. I was sure it was headed off the rim and into the hands of some fast-break-starter-dude. But no.
The ball clanked back and swished the net. And then I heard a whistle. I found myself being given the ball at the line. Someone had hacked me, the ref had said.
Now I had two points. And I had a chance for three. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I toed the line, dribbled four or five times (time has whittled my memory down to mere nothingness, along with a bad phase around 1997) and stared at the hoop. I remembered all the times I had seen Starks do this or had seen Jordan do this and wished he didn’t do it so well.
I let fly. It was perhaps the worst shot in the history of organized basketball, clanking over the backboard. I think it hit some small child, perhaps seriously injured him. I don’t even know, I was crying on the free throw line as Collegiate began another play in transition. The crowd rode me.
It got to the point that my coach removed me. I never got back in. And we lost by 27. That was my playoff moment in the sun, dear reader. And as another year of me as a Sportsview columnist concludes, I thank you all for reading these pieces week in and week out. And remember, if any of you happen to see me after a huge Duncan fadeaway to bury some Western Conference foe, allow me a tear or two.
I cry for the past.
