“I think someone should explain to [kids] that it’s OK to make mistakes. That’s how we learn. When we compete, we make mistakes.” —Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, New York City native, Rucker Park participant and historian, and six-time NBA champion
Tuesday night brought second-round tournament games for both Those Five Guys and the Rogues. Again, Pirate’s squad was slotted to play in the contest directly before ours. The Rogues took on a team of athletic giants. Their opposition was a mix of high school all-stars and beefy college-aged ballers.
As I watched the warm-ups, I knew the Rogues would have their hands full. The other team was running a layup line, and nearly every dude rocked the rim with a dunk. The backboard shook, and before it stopped, another of their players flushed one down with authority. It went on that way for several minutes, as if that particular basket were built on a fault line and suffering the aftershocks of an isolated earthquake.
The Rogues weren’t blind to it. The starting lineup of Pirate, Reggie, J-Train, Snake, and Gene the Dream all had their game faces screwed on tight.
“Maybe that girl from the park, my personal stalker, assembled this team,” said Gene. “Maybe this is another way she wants to kick my ass in public.”
That ref from the week before—the ventriloquist’s dummy who’d let Pirate sneak to the foul line—was gone. He’d been replaced by a tall, slender dude who looked like he had ice water in his veins. Some players recognized him from refereeing local high school and college games. So the Rogues were probably going to be forced to play by the rules.
Despite all of that, the Rogues held a 10-to-8 lead early on. Then the other team, which actually had a coach, began to full-court press, pushing the Rogues to play faster and faster.
Pirate’s squad could do a lot of things well. But dribbling the rock under intense defensive pressure wasn’t among them.
Their game fell apart fast after Gene and Snake couldn’t get the ball past half-court on three consecutive possessions facing the opposition’s press. Then Reggie got called for a pair of quick fouls. By Reggie’s overly physical standards, he’d barely grazed anyone.
“Damn, Ref. I can’t even breathe on them?” argued Reggie in frustration. “I used mouthwash this morning.”
In a flash, the Rogues were down by eight points.
Pirate couldn’t shoot the Rogues back into the game because his ball handlers couldn’t get him the rock.
The Rogues tried to roughhouse. Only the other team had real legs. It’s hard to hit what you can’t catch. Despite their determination, Pirate’s crew didn’t have the athletes to compete against an organized herd of gazelles able to play the game at a high level.
By halftime it was a blowout. Pirate stewed all through the break, and the rest of the Rogues argued with each other over their poor play.
“Don’t turn your back while you’re dribbling,” Gene lectured Snake. “That’s when they attack you from the weak side.”
“I don’t turn my back to anything,” snapped Snake. “And I don’t have a weak side.”
The game wasn’t competitive during the second half, and the Rogues’ deficit widened. Proving Ground regulars weren’t good at handling a loss, especially to strangers. But they were even worse at accepting a beat-down.
With just a minute or two left on the clock, the other team’s biggest player blocked Pirate’s shot. That’s when the old man lost it. He fired several punches into the Big Man’s midsection. Only those blows didn’t have the slightest effect.
In response, the Big Man extended a straight arm onto Pirate’s shoulder, keeping him just out of reach, with Pirate now punching the air between them.
It almost looked like a cartoon.
“I’m not fighting somebody the same age as my pops,” said the Big Man, who seemed more amused than angry.
The crowd thought it was hilarious. So did almost everyone on the court, except for Pirate, whose face was beet red with anger.
Gene, Reggie, and the opposing coach led Pirate away. The ref calmly ejected him from the game. And with the Rogues about to be eliminated from the tournament, the commissioner didn’t need to suspend Pirate.
A few minutes later, after the game had ended, Pirate’s anger subsided and he was back on planet Earth. He shook hands with the winners and even laughed at himself.
“It’s nothing personal,” Pirate told the Big Man. “That was just my temper talking. My pride can’t accept that kind of beating at ball.”
I was probably one of the few observers who didn’t find any part of that scrap amusing. Maybe because I’d already been through it with Pirate, for what seemed like no reason. Or maybe because it felt like eventually somebody was going to get really hurt.
The Proving Ground regulars emptied out of Steinway Park in a hurry. They weren’t about to hang around after a crushing defeat. I’d have done exactly the same. I had fantasized about meeting the Rogues in the tournament’s championship game. But that dream was dead. Now it was Those Five Guys’ turn to stay alive.
* * *
We’d drawn the team that captured last year’s championship. Surprisingly, they weren’t any bigger or stronger than our players. We were mostly forced to battle squads with huge height advantages over us. So looking at them gave us an extra spark of confidence.
“You know they play like a team,” said Jumbo, just before the tip-off. “They don’t have enough of a physical edge to be selfish out there.”
“And they’ve been playing together longer than we have,” said Monk, as we walked onto the court.
Angelo and Hot Rod both glared at Monk.
“Are you a member of their fan club or ours?” questioned Hot Rod.
“Ours,” replied Monk instantly. “Definitely ours.”
Throughout most of the first half, our shooting touch was frigid. As a team, we hadn’t endured a collective ice age like that in a long time. Maybe it had something to do with nerves, going up against the defending champs. But the rest of our game fell perfectly into place. We rebounded, played D, and swung the ball to the open man like clockwork. We looked and felt like the better team. Only our shots refused to drop.
Angelo pulled the trigger on a corner jumper. The rock rolled around the rim three times before it spun out.
“There’s an invisible lid on that basket,” grumbled Angelo.
Jumbo missed a short shot. I’d boxed my man out and grabbed the bound. I had an easy put-back from beneath the basket at point-blank range. But that rock rattled inside the rim and wouldn’t fall. It came right back to me for a second try. The odds of me missing two of those in a row were probably 100–1 against. Only that’s just what happened.
On our next possession, Monk released an open jumper. Fighting for position, I buried a hip into my defender. I listened for the sound of either the ball swishing through the net or clanking off the rim. Neither occurred. Instead, I heard a dull thud. That’s when I looked up and saw the rock wedged between the backboard and the basket.
“You couldn’t do that again if you tried for a week straight,” Jumbo barked at Monk, as the ref awarded the opposition the ball.
Despite those glaciers rolling off our fingertips, we went to the half trailing by just six points.
“We should be trouncing these guys,” said Hot Rod. “We make a third of those shots and we’re way out in front.”
Then Jumbo put his arm around Angelo and said, “Clear your mind of all the outside noise. Just concentrate on your mom’s pork chops and french fries. How if you don’t start making shots, the other squad’s going to show up at your house to eat your dinner.”
That threat must have made an impact. Because a few minutes into the second half, Angelo swished a shot from twenty feet, with a defender draped all over him. He buried his next two jumpers as well.
Nobody’s exactly sure what causes momentum to swing in a basketball game. Or when an ice age will begin to thaw. But Angelo’s sudden hot hand seemed infectious, and the rest of us began sinking baskets too.
Inside two minutes left to play, we surged to the lead. Then Hot Rod fouled out of the game. J. K. wasn’t there. He’d gone on vacation with his parents to Greece. So Bass came off the bench to take Hot Rod’s place.
“Just hold onto the ball. Don’t try to be a hero,” Jumbo instructed him. “We’re setting Angelo up to shoot. He’s in rhythm right now.”
“I hear you,” said Bass, before his girlfriend on the sideline gave him a kiss for good luck.
The opposition’s defense backed way off Bass, who was standing ten feet past the top of the circle. They figured he wasn’t coming in cold from the bench to hoist shots. And they should have been correct.
With less than thirty seconds to go, Angelo was being hounded by a double team, as we protected the rock and a one-point advantage.
Monk passed the ball to Bass, alone at the top of the key.
“Shoot it,” screamed somebody on the other team.
I could see Bass’s face go blank in confusion, an instant before he released the shot.
The rock hit nothing—not the rim or the backboard. It just sailed out of bounds, and the opposition took possession.
We didn’t need to waste time being mad at him, especially with a lead still to protect. But in the waning seconds, one of their players threw up an off-balance prayer in heavy traffic. The shot laid on the rim and then trickled through the basket, booting us from the tournament.
Angelo was about to unload on Bass. His mouth opened wide. But before his first fiery word escaped, Bass’s girlfriend spit some venom of her own.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she screamed at Bass. “If you’re ever walking over a bridge, remind me not to yell ‘Jump!’ Because you just might do it!”
In the face of that kind of embarrassment, the rest of us just bit our tongues and left Bass alone. We disappointedly slapped hands with the other squad and quickly found the exit.