Let me start by saying that I’ve had a less-than-illustrious basketball career. I reached my peak in the sport at the ripe age of 7, when I was arguably the best player in a Jewish Community Center basketball camp. Unfortunately, as the competition rose, I did not.
In seventh grade, I was cut from my middle school’s basketball team, an event that, for all intents and purposes, destroyed the little self-confidence I had in my ability to play the game. I stubbornly stuck around, playing the occasional pick-up game in high school — a move that paid off when I scored two points in my high school’s senior-faculty basketball game. This was arguably my greatest achievement on the hardwood since elementary school.
After arriving at Princeton this fall, my involvement in the sport had a major resurgence when my friend and I decided to coach a team of local sixth and seventh graders in the winter. Despite finishing the regular season in last place with an 0-9 record, the experience reinvigorated my competitive juices.
In January, I started playing pick-up games at Dillon Gym. Despite my lack of skill in handling the ball, I generally made a positive contribution by sinking a few three-pointers, playing tough defense and grabbing the occasional rebound. After a few games, I began to think of myself as a poor man’s version of Bruce Bowen — though my friends would tell you even that comparison is overly generous.
Perhaps my renewed self-esteem was the reason that, when I was presented with the chance to play a game of HORSE with one of the players on the women’s basketball team, I eagerly jumped at the opportunity. After all, how bad could it be? I figured I would make a few threes, hopefully jump out to an early lead and — if all the cards fell into place — maybe even win a game.
Boy, was I wrong.
My opponent was freshman guard Shelbie Pool, a five-foot, 10-inch Georgia resident who at some point over the past 18 years has developed the ability to make every shot she takes without even hitting the rim.
In the warmup, I put on one of my better shooting performances, hitting the majority of the shots I took. At one point, I even thought I sensed a little fear in Pool’s voice when she said, “You’re not as bad as you said you were.”
This gave me a momentary sense of additional confidence and, when given the option to shoot first in our game, I politely declined. Pool and I proceeded to exchange made shots before I came up short on a mid-range jumper.
“H,” Pool said.
I received my opening when Pool missed her next shot, and I proceeded to drain a three-pointer from the left corner. After Pool missed again, I felt a jolt of excitement. The score was tied, H-H.
Given an opening to take the lead, I wilted under the pressure. My next shot banked off the backboard and somehow managed to completely miss the rim; it was my worst shot of the night.
“I guess I got a little too excited,” I said.
From there, Pool did not look back, making a string of mid-range jumpers that I could only watch in awe. First from the left corner, then the right elbow, followed by a 15-footer — all nothing but net. Before I could blink, I had lost the first game, HORSE-H. Not willing to go away easily, I asked for a rematch.
Between games, I asked Pool if there was anything I could do to shoot more like her. Expecting a laundry list of potential improvements, I was surprised to hear Pool instead reply, “Actually, your form is pretty good.”
Beaming, I began the next game with a three from the top of the key. It clanked off the back of the rim.
“Except on that shot,” she whispered.
The shooting clinic recommenced, as Pool continued to hit shot after shot in the second game. I managed to keep it close for a while, at one point making a personal record — four mid-range shots in a row — before receiving my first letter.
There was little I could do, however, to change my predetermined fate. After five minutes I found myself in a familiar position, down HORS-H, the game resting on my next shot. Much like the rest of my basketball career, this shot rimmed out and I lost HORSE-H for the second time in a row. I shrugged my shoulders, feeling fortunate that I hadn’t been shut out during either game.
As we were leaving Dillon Gym, Pool remarked, “You looked good in the warmup.”
I smiled.
“I guess I’ll just have to try again next year,” I responded. And with that, my pursuit of basketball glory was once again put on hold.
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