Dillon Gym pickup basketball - a saga

A long day of class is over. I’ve toiled through two inane lectures, a precept with that one annoying dude that won’t shut up, and that one class I actually enjoy but didn’t do the reading for. I return to my room, and discard the Sperrys, salmon shorts and white dress shirt for my true outfit — the tank top and basketball shorts. I’m ready to ball.

I walk into Dillon Gym, my strut exuding a combination of carefree-ness and invincibility. I come to the desk, trade in my measly prox for my most sacred object — the basketball. It’s time to enter and conquer my domain — I’m Caesar crossing the Rubicon. My army? The sweetest pull-up jump shot you’ve ever seen.

Every great player knows you need to warm up before you blow up. It’s time to get my free throws in — gotta #dominate in every facet of the game. First one’s an airball? No one saw that. Just keep moving. Few more airballs? No worries — even my man Jordan had his jitters before his best games.

After going 1-8 from the line, I decide it’s time to work on the jumper. The scouting reports describe my game as a prototypical catch-and-shoot type: I can run off screens like Ray Allen, take contact like LeBron and finish like Kobe. Once I get going from the elbow, folks start to clear off the court.

I start at the top of the key, make a hard drive for the elbow and pull up. By hard drive for the elbow, I mean I tripped as I moved about 5 miles per hour over to the elbow, fell belly first and lost the ball out of bounds. There are a few guys on the opposite end of the court — I don’t think any of them saw. This really cute girl saw, though, as she was walking out of the gym. It’s cool though — ball before baes, right?

After my failed attempt at jumpers and missing a few layups (it’s harder than it looks, I swear!), I think I’m ready to ball out in an actual game. This is the hardest part of being in Dillon — awkwardly waiting by yourself until you find an odd number of guys that you can approach to join. It’s like asking a girl at a middle school dance to slow dance with you. It’s simultaneously thrilling and absolutely terrifying.

I struck out more than once before finding a group that would take me on. I thought about approaching this one group of guys until I watched them shoot, quickly realizing they were high-school varsity basketball talent. Yikes. I may be cocky, but I know my limits. There’s a group of total goobers in the back who look like they picked up a basketball for the first time today. Absolutely not about that life. Where’s a man to go?

I finally found the right squad — they have the look of casual basketball enthusiasts who do pickup once a week as cardio exercise. I introduce myself, give a nice, firm handshake and line up to shoot free throws to pick teams. All my practice paid off — I banked in a free throw. Shawn Marion would be so proud of me.

It’s a 3-on-3 game, play to 7, scoring by 1’s and 2’s, win by 2. It’s a perfect chance to practice my pick and roll moves. I run to the top of the key, signal for a pick and do my signature — the hard right drive/pull up jumper. I clang off the back rim, but it’s fine — they know they have to respect me now.

While I’ve talked much about my offensive prowess so far, my lockdown defensive skills are what set me apart. It’s with my footwork and knack for steals that I won the “Most Improved Player” award in 4thgrade summer basketball camp. I square up and get in my man’s grill.

My man drives left as I run right into a screen. He heads in for an easy layup. Brutal communication on the defense, but at least we know what to correct.

Next play, my man runs to the top of the key. I’m on him like chipotle sauce on a late-meal quesadilla, but he pulls up and drains the three. Ugh.

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It’s no more Mr. Softee — I’m turning up the heat. On the next play, after some questionably legal defense (may have dug into his ribs a little bit with an elbow — no harm no foul, right?), my team gets the ball back. It’s time for me to shine — this is what all the effort, the early mornings and late nights have been for.

Here we go. I square up and drop one in from downtown. We’re down 2-3, and I’m just heating up.

And now cooling down. I chuck up an airball from behind the arc, and give it right back. My teammates look at me like I’m crazy. It’s cool — the mere mortals can’t understand what’s in store. I will rise again.

At least, I would’ve risen again if they had given me a chance. Dude, I’m guarding sets a pick. I call for a switch, my teammate doesn’t realize and suddenly we’re looking at a 5-2 deficit.

The next play —they do literally the exact same thing. I call out a switch, but my teammate is still moving like he traded feet with a duck.

The shot goes up. I avert my eyes, unable to watch my winning chances drain away.

Thus goes the game: 7-2. A hero cannot lead an army all by himself, I suppose. After some half-hearted hand slaps, I walk out and turn in the ball, unable to face the defeat I’ve been handed.

My resolve is greater than ever. I’ll skip working on that problem set that’s due atmidnight. I’ll skip my shift for the Daily Princetonian. I need to go to the gym, bulk up and continue working on my game.

Ball, it seems, truly is life.