Quitting while you're still ahead

For my birthday (May 30th), Saeeda gave me gift membership to the Lakeshore Athletic Club near our place. Because this gym has a really nice basketball court, Saeeda figured I'd be able to start playing hoops again, which is something I've been unable to do regularly because of b-school. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that she also wanted to make sure that all that lounging around I'm doing right now doesn't make me fat.

In any case, I had played on a Tuesday and Thursday around lunchtime, and found the competition to consist of players that ran intense full court games for 90 minutes. I didn't get the ball passed to me much, and that was ok with me, because half the time I was trying not to make an ass of myself with these obviously better players. From the two times that I played, I estimated that no one was younger than 25, and that almost everyone had some sort of prior organized basketball experience, most probably high-school.

This week I decided to go play on a Monday. The first sign that things were different was that I couldn't pick out any of the guys from the Tues/Thurs lineup among the people shooting around. Not realizing the relevance of this, I picked up a spare ball and began shooting around myself. It wasn't long before a guy yelled over to me from a table at half-court and asked if I wanted to play. I said yes, and he asked me to sign in. Hint #2 that something was up - Tue/Thurs. games required no sign-ups. Still, I signed my name and went back to shooting around, making friends by chatting with a 5' 9'' guy named "Moo" who, as it turned out, had also just recently joined the gym.

Soon after the guy sitting at the table yelled out the names of the people who were going to be playing. My name was included in the list (appropriately butchered of course). The buzzer sounded, the scoreboard on the side of the court lit up, 8 minutes went on, and the shot-clock was set to 24 seconds. Uh oh.

It was about this time that I realized I was in over my head. Looking around at my teammates, I suddenly felt ... short. 20 seconds later, any doubts I had that this was going to be a slightly more organized pick-up game vanished - about the time it took for my team to score on an alley-oop dunk. I was playing a timed and scored game with proper shot-clocks with a group of individuals who were either already playing in college, or had at some point done so in the past. Maybe not Division I ball, but enough to put my meager skills to shame.

I spent the rest of the game praying to God that I wouldn't embarrass my teammates. It was hard enough to keep up with everyone athletically, let alone work out the strategies my teammates were using on each play - something which the other four guys on my team were able to do effortlessly. We won our first game, despite my presence on the team, and also went on to win the second game.

By the third game I was feeling a little better. I had taken about one shot a game, and missed one, so I was shooting 50%. I had only been yelled at a few times by our pointguard. Not much trash talking had been directed my way by the guys I was forced to guard. The players on the sidelines hadn't made too much fun of me - in fact, I'd even gotten some words of praise for a block in the game. Still, I knew my place. Especially when regulation ended with the score tied. Overtime was going to be 2 more minutes.

It was obvious who was going to handle the ball on our side. Moo. This dude, who came up to my shoulder, was a beast. Fast, furious, and with an amazingly aggressive first step, he had fearlessly penetrated over and over throughout the three games we had played previously. I would later find out that Moo had just finished working out with Team USA in Colorado and had moved to Chicago to be closer to family. So obviously his game was good. This was made clear as he dribbled down the court with an intense look on his face, searching out me and my teammates to see where we were positioned to help him with his drive.

I decided to get the hell out of Moo's way, and hang out by the three point line. My other teammates positioned themselves in various spots, and Moo began his penetration with 10 or so seconds left on the shot clock. Dribbling to his left, he darted towards the basket, but was cut off by the other team's defenders, forcing him in a wider arc towards me. Still aggressive, Moo kept angling towards the basket, but by this time a second defender had come over to help. When the third defender started moving over, Moo realized he was in trouble - too many defenders, and no outlets left except one. Me.

I felt the ball hit my hands, and I remember glancing at the shot clock, which was down to 3 seconds. I remember thinking how cruel fate was that I was being forced into taking the last shot - I did not appreciate the pressure. I felt myself rise, go through shooting motions, and come back down as a defender bull rushed me. My view of the bucket was blocked as we collided, and I heard the buzzer sound the end of overtime. I quickly darted a look around the defender who had run into me, and realized that the ball had not rebounded off the rim. It had gone in. I had scored. In overtime. On the last shot, with time expiring.

The next few minutes were taken up with high fives from all of my teammates, and with my dazed self trying to regain composure. I do remember my first conscious thought once I settled down a little. It was to immediately walk to where my stuff was sitting on the sideline, collect my belongings, wave to my teammates, and walk off the court. If there ever was a situation where I needed to quit while I was ahead, this was it. Things just could not possibly get any better.

But I did have a huge smile on my face the whole way home.