My family has always placed a premium on being a good sport. My sisters and I were required to play three sports a year, one for every season, and it was implied that we would play with effort, dignity and respect. We were perfectionists, committed to giving our all, whether it came in the form of shooting free throws for hours or running extra laps after practice. We may not have had a lot of talent, but we had heart.
The fact of the matter, though, is that eventually heart runs out and anger takes over. I can attest to this firsthand-I once tried to fight someone’s grandmother during a recreational league basketball playoff game.
I was 14 and my family had just moved to South Carolina. My younger sister and I signed up for recreational basketball, figuring that since we had played on the prim and proper courts of Connecticut, we would do fine south of the Mason-Dixon line. We were wrong. The games were a free-for-all. Teams had one play, the fast break, and fouls were frequent and brutal. It was social Darwinism at its best-play or get off the court.
As shocked as we were by the pace and style of the game, we adapted. We still stayed after practice to work on our jump shots, but we also spent time honing our elbow-throwing skills. I developed a move that involved grabbing a member of the opposing team’s shorts just as she was about to shoot, so that when she jumped, her pants would stay put.
Our tactics paid off and our team made it to the playoffs. We were the underdogs; the team we were scheduled to play was meaner and more skilled than we ever dreamed of being. Still, we had heart, and we went into the game relying solely on our moxie to pull us through.
The game was close and dirty. The dank, poorly lit gym was packed to the gills with fans, and the din from the stands almost drowned out the referee’s whistle. My team was tenacious, our patience worn thin by the constant fouls from the other team but our resolve strong. As center, I got hacked mercilessly, regardless of whether or not I had the ball . Perhaps this is why I snapped.
As we lined up for a free throw, a voice resonated above the crowd: “Hey number 14! You’re garbage! Get off the court! You can’t play!” Number 14 was my number. I slowly turned around. The verbal assailant turned out to be an elderly woman, frail and wrinkled, her eyes flashing with anger.
In retrospect, I should have just turned back around and gotten ready to box out for the rebound. But I was hot, I was annoyed and I was playing my heart out. I was tired of being the good sport. I started walking toward her. “YOU WANNA COME DOWN HERE AND PLAY?” Now I was screaming and waving my arms. “YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?” I started mounting the bleachers. She stood up and moved toward the aisle.
Luckily, the ref jumped in before something disastrous happened. He reprimanded both of us and I took my place under the basket amongst my horrified teammates. We won the game in overtime.
When Ron Artest went into the stands and knocked out a fan during the Pacers-Pistons game, I was horrified. But I also laughed to myself, because for a brief moment when I was 14, I was Ron Artest. That grandma was lucky, because my mean right-cross would have shot her Medicaid through the roof.
