Geezer Basketball

I had a friend was a big baseball player
back in high school
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool boy
Saw him the other night at this roadside bar
I was walking in, he was walking out
We went back inside sat down had a few drinks
but all he kept talking about was
­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_[Glory Days]__________________________________________
Bruce Springsteen from "Glory Days"

Bruce and his buddy were about to rehash some tales—practice for passing them on to their progeny. What is the point of having memories if we can’t use them to aggravate the youngsters in our lives? They are probably just jealous anyway. Frankly, I was edified by “back in the day” tales from my parents and their peers. They gave me anchor.

Back in the day, I was a pretty decent basketball player. In college, I literally played everyday in pick up games and intramurals, and got to be one of the guys everyone wanted to have on their team. By playing everyday, a guy should get pretty good even if his intrinsic nature is to stink. This is one reason I get irritated at NBA players who play basketball everyday, and still can’t make a damn free throw. Any pro shooting less than 80% from the line should be summarily executed. Okay, maybe docked a million bucks for every percentage point under 80.

My signature abilities included a nifty hesitation move with a cross-over if needed, a sweet turnaround jumper, a gym rat’s quick first step reminiscent of Kiki Vandeweigh, and a no-look reverse layup from either side. It was a Chris Paul drive the baseline and toss it up and see what…whoop, it went in type shot. On defense, I had great anticipation: could lay off and bait a guy into a risky pass, and then pick it off for a breakaway.

Some noteworthy occasions were a couple of intramural games against a team that had Conrad Dobler. He was, at the time, diligently building a reputation as the NFL’s dirtiest player. I assumed Conie was on campus in the off season to take remedial gum chewing. He was there getting PhD for all I really know. There were a couple of Wyo. football players on my team. They were happy to measure their manhoods by getting under the basket and mixing it up with Dobler. I was quick enough and smart enough to stay clear of the whole lot. Let them have at it.
(Note: Since this time, Dobler has become a case study in the costs of a career in the trenches in the NFL--physical disability, and finacial hardship.)

I played a little with the kids a few weeks ago and stunk so badly; I determined to practice enough to get better, or give it up all together. Going down to the outdoor court at the rec center mixes up the workout routine, which has recently been 30 minutes on the elliptical while listening to classic rock on 102.5. (I have not, thank you very much, resorted to Sweatin’ with the Oldies with Richard Simmons). So here is the current state of the geezer game:

The hesitation move—if I hesitated any more, I might be taken for dead. One has to be moving in order to hesitate. The most noticeable hesitation is in getting off the couch. Once I do get moving, any attempt to slow down too fast i.e., “hesitate”, results in the knees buckling and me falling down.

The quick first step—forget about it. Any sudden movement can result in a sprain or pull.

The turnaround jumper is coming back, except there is no jump involved. “Why do you take a hiking stick to the basketball court?” you ask. Okay wise guy, it’s because when the ball gets stuck in the net, I can’t jump high enough to get it out. Poking the ball with a stick is less humiliating and draws fewer chuckles from the shirtless young studs on the next court than repeatedly throwing my hat at it.

The reverse lay up from the left side will get me out of a deficit in a game of H.O.R.S.E. if I’m playing against some kid who is about eight. In a game situation, it just gets swatted, sometimes violently. I have, however, developed a knack for getting my face out of the way, or I’d have to give up the shot once and for all.

The anticipation is still there. I just can’t do anything with it. My defense consists of fouling. Even that is ineffective except against girls.

The good news is that I still have bladder control—a good thing because the latrine at the rec center park is 200 yards (or twelve minutes) away.

I have heard rumors that there are leagues and similar opportunities for geezers to team up and play against each other. I think I saw a reference to such a game in a Celebrex or Ensure commercial. I have never seen an actual geezer game, but I can guess that it must be funnier than wino fighting or tortoise sex.

I’ve seen geezer hockey on television in the run-up to the All Star Game, and it honestly isn’t that different from regular hockey. A lot of NHL guys play until they are geezers anyway, and fouling and falling down are pretty much the game in a nutshell, regardless of the age of the players. Last year Brett Favre gave us a sampling of geezer football. It appears he is likely to give us a full dose this year, for as long as he can hold up.

The only thing that might compete with geezer basketball in degree of silliness is geezer dancing. This last weekend, Kristin and I went to the Meeker Days celebration in downtown Puyallup. It is a big deal with all manner of booths for everything from time shares and insurance, to funnel cakes and glass blowing. There were a couple of bandstands, one right near the beer garden. The rock ‘n’ roll and CW was surprisingly good. During one song I said, “That guy has a really good country voice.” We later learned “that guy” was former Alabama member Jeff Cook. No more surprise, and a confirmation of my keen eye for the obvious.

When we walked up, they were doing a fantastic rendition of Johnny B. Goode, and we commented that it was odd that nobody was dancing. We heard other people say the same thing. Several of us in the crowd were rhythmically moving one leg up and down, and looking nostalgic. We looked like old hound dogs that lie down to sleep on their sides with their legs extended out. Every now and then the legs twitch, and you can tell they are dreaming about back in the day when they could chase cats.

There were bicycle police keeping an eye on the beer garden and crowd, so none of the geezers who identified with Chuck Berry hits got drunk enough to risk the humiliation of dancing in the boogie style where you don’t get to lean on each other. Any geezer attempting to swing or jitterbug on that asphalt would have experienced the “hesitation move knee buckle". I suppose the younger folks just didn’t think the music was that cool. They’ll dig it when they become geezers. Johnny B. Goode has a timeless quality I just don’t see in contemporary whatchamacallit music. And a few of us will always remember Kiki Vandeweigh.
Still chasing cats.