There’s Always Next Year

Yep. I kept the score book from the tourney.
It was kind of a big deal.

With less than ten seconds left on the game clock, our team was down by one point. But we had the ball and enough time to get at least one shot off. I ran down the court as fast as my 18-year-old legs could carry me, then turned to look for the ball. Our point guard had dribbled the ball past half court and decided that he would take the final shot from well beyond the three-point line. The ball sailed through the air, we looked up, and held our breath. It fell way short... an air ball... and miraculously dropped right into my hands. I turned, there was the rim, so I tossed the ball up and it went right in. The buzzer sounded, and the game was over, 65-64.

We had just squeaked by Blackfoot Post 254, our first opponent in the Explorer Olympics, a multi-day summer league tournament that featured the best high school and Church players in southeast Idaho. And we were ecstatic. We had just stolen a game from basically the same team that had taken state during that year’s high school basketball season.

At the time I was working a night shift at a potato processing plant. And these “olympic” games ran all day. So I would get home from my shift, change into my basketball clothes, plop into the back of the Weaver’s brown van and drift in and out of sleep as we travelled the 45 miles from Roosevelt Street in American Falls to Blackfoot High School. Often waves of music from the cassette deck would splash in and then retreat from my dreams, usually Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” or Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Starting Something.”

The cycle repeated—trim potatoes, change into gym shorts, sleep in the van—another day, another game. In the semi-final, we played with more consistency and we pulled off a 57-45 win over a Pocatello team (basically the Highland high school squad), qualifying us for the championship.

Potatoes, gym clothes, nap in van. We played Unit 536 (Orofino) in the final game. We led by 6 to 8 points at each break but they made a big push at the end and we only won by 4 points in the end: 79-75. I had 20 points and only 2 fouls. It is rare that I score that many but all of our starters had double figures.

My lucky 80s wristband.

I can still picture the gym in Blackfoot where we celebrated, the weight of the “gold” medal around my neck, and the feeling of playing hard, leaving it all on the floor, and winning a championship. Not having been chosen to play high school ball, it was the closest I ever came to “taking state.” Well there was that one time when I was part of a choral quartet and we were awarded a superior but that was a subjective win… you couldn’t see the points on the scoreboard. Anyway, I digress.

Having won our region, we qualified to go back to the national playoffs. As I recall, that competition fell smack dab in the middle of potato harvest and most of our team could not be spared. As consolation, we played another qualifying team from Idaho and beat them by 10 points. That team went back east, made it to the championship, and lost to a New York team by 10 points… oh, what could have been. But there are worse things than having your season end on  a win… that kind of finish is so rare—63 of 64 teams in the NCAA tourney will be going home on a loss.

I keep looking to recapture that post-season feeling by recruiting a group to play BYU intramurals. But when the median age of our team is 47 and we are playing kids half our age, we usually fall out in round 2 or 3 of the tourney. Last night, it was a second round loss. But there’s always next year and the hope of ending the season on a win.

There’s always kickball this summer or maybe innertube water polo next winter… that BYU intramural championship t-shirt still eludes me. And if that doesn’t work, well, this is the year I will finally be old enough to qualify for the Huntsman World Senior Games. I hear they have some pretty competitive teams down in St. George each October.

If I listen real carefully I think I can hear a ball bouncing and soles squeaking on some hardwood right now... just sayin’.

Boing Boing

This animated loop shows how some of my favorite players react to a shot bouncing on the rim. The free throw shooter gives a little lean, hoping the shot will spin and go in. Three hopeful rebounders jockey for position, readying for the impact of the fight for possession. Another player, well, it seems like a perfect time to adjust his jersey. (I miss you guys.) Have a great Thanksgiving. (And a shout out to Andrew who provided video.)

If you click on this, I think it will expand to a larger image.

“All of this has happened before and it will all happen again.”

I realize that this post sounds a lot like some others from the past. But it never ceases to amaze me how a game so simple can always feel different and how some moments in basketball continually make me grin so big my face hurts. Yeah, that’s right, my face hurts and, I know, it’s killing you. (Ha.)


So Wednesday we are playing ball and, truth be told, we are getting beat up pretty bad because I was attempting to play defense on the other team’s best offensive player. (And I’m a horrible defender.) In the last game—because that’s the only one, historically, that really matters—we are down by three points when it becomes apparent that we are about to be kicked off the court we are playing on; about 60 or more boys attending a BYU basketball camp had filed in and were about to start their drills.

As we were losing, and time was limited, I did what I had to. I hollered out, “Next point wins,” called for the ball as I drifted to the left side of the three-point line, tossed up a shot, and buried it. The reaction from the boys on the sidelines was audible, almost palpable. I just turned away from the line and walked away like Jimmer after he made his half court shot against Utah. No big deal. :)

A Wurpee at the 10-11

So spring has arrived here in Provo. The bulk of student activity on campus and the roads I travel most is at its annual minimum (at least until the terrifying, thunderous herds of minivans descend on campus for women’s conference tomorrow). I won’t even mention that the ladies are using my basketball court for a service project. (What are they thinking?) I had my first Slurpee of the season this week and am now addicted to the sugar rush and obsessed with the purple specialty cups in all of their rolled aluminum purple glory. When our boys were little we used to take them to 7-11 often but I guess not often enough. One day Alex asked in his little boy soprano voice, “Can we go get a wurpee at the 10-11?”

So for the first time in weeks (months?) I feel like I can write something positive. If I had blogged before this today, you would have heard a lot about our cat dying unexpectedly, my back going out painfully, and a lengthy and gloomy laundry list of why life was pretty sucky. So you and I have both avoided that bit of unpleasantness.

All of the gloom of late winter reminds me of a story of another dark day a couple of decades ago. I was driving our gray Toyota Camry on the road that circles around the south end of campus. I was feeling pretty low and actually had the thought in my head, “Can it get any worse than this?” At that precise instant, a fist-sized blob of bird poop hit the car’s windshield right in front of my face, obscuring my vision and answering my rhetorical question to the heavens. Yes, yes it can. This particular answer lightened my mood and I actually began to smile, then laugh, then count my blessings. In place of self-pity, suddenly there was gratitude, especially the thought that I come from a family with a history of depression coupled with a healthy sense of humor. Despair can be covered with poop but poop can be erased with laughter.

With leaves on the tree and a fresh blue sky (sans poop), I feel a little more optimistic and am really trying to enumerate life’s positives. We have a new cat named S.C. (slender cat) and/or Rescue Panther. While this strange auburn-black creature does not replace the eight years we had with our gray puddle of cat, Ixi, this new one is another feline source of amusement. Today my back is well enough that my opponent in noon basketball remarked that I was trash talking during a play (not just before and after, as is usual). My Celtics made the finals when, at the beginning of the season, they were really playing poorly. And a few hours ago, I got a text with four of my favorite words in the English language, “Clair box on porch.” I highly recommend liking the same sport, same teams, and growing to be approximately the same size as my big brother. Such stature and predilections have some truly cool benefits. I did have some trouble deciding to go with classic Jordan Bulls red or modern Celtics green for our trip to the 10-11 tonight. Decisions, decisions.

And, biggest blessing of all, in just one week, I will have been married to the love of my life for 25 years. And I can tell you right now, the first 25 years are the hardest. (And if you get that joke, you understand that it can extend to 40 and beyond.) Here she is in the place I found her, somewhere near 5th North, just a few years back. A tall drink of water, not a wurpee, . . . but cool and wearing purple.

It's Not How Big You Are . . .

Today I played some mediocre basketball. But it was still great fun. And as I went down to play and as I returned back to work, I thought once and again of the games of one-on-one I used to play with my big brother Justin. (Bigger in spirit, it turns out; I grew a little bigger in stature). He would have been 51 today but he gave up this earth more than 16 years ago. I wish he had been there today, to play on my team, to help me be better. Like I've said countless times, brothers and basketball are synonyms in my mind.

In April 1995 my wife, oldest boy, and I went up to visit with Justin and my folks. At one point Dusty and I played basketball out in front of the house in Mountain Home, and for a while, it was just like old times. Vestiges of his former personality came out while we were playing—as we dribbled and hustled and took one-handed “horse” shots from the old green Chevy pickup. He even laughed a little as we talked, but then, the shadows of his illness would obscure his smile and he would disappear again. It was the last time I would see him, and I am so grateful for those brief, beautiful moments.

When short guys complain about tall guys having the advantage in basketball, I always tell them that I would gladly trade in a few inches for some skills. And occasionally I will mention my brother who would consistently beat me because he was a step quicker off the dribble and had an underhanded “scoop” layup that he undoubtedly saw and borrowed from another even older brother. The scoop can only be stopped with a hard over-the-shoulder clobber foul or a good hard flagrant shove; and I often did what I had to. In the end, he taught me that it’s not how big you are, it’s how good. I learned to foul hard and to keep a defender in front of you lest you be pressed to clobber his head.

So speaking of "a ringing in both ears," Dusty Dan sent me a few audiotapes while I was down in Ecuador (in the 80s) and, regrettably, I recorded over most of them … but on one of the last ones, he is talking (and laughing) with his wife Janet, explaining the wonders of stereo recording on his fancy Sony Walkman . . . a device which he later let me borrow anytime I wanted.

Here is the short clip I listen to when I need to hear some “straight” talk. It's not a lot but sometimes you hang on to whatever you've got left.

P.S. Dusty also let me consume nearly all of his Sour Cream and Onion Lays potato chips purchased with his paper route money; I consider this to be one of the great examples of sacrifice observed in my youth.

He Shoots He Scores

I miss my Dad’s voice . . . a distinctive baritone. But I have been able to listen to him as I am getting some recordings together to share with my sister Charlotte (who requested them this past week) and the rest of my siblings as soon as I am able. On Friday as I hit a nice three-point shot from the wing on the court in the Smith Fieldhouse, I thought of this story, in his own words, that I had come across the day before.

“I played Church basketball and softball until I was 57 years old. I never quit until I was in American Falls. We went to All-Church which was the big thing in those days. If you beat everybody in your end of the state, you would go down to All-Church and they put you up in a hotel for a couple of nights, then they had a big All-Church Tournament. They don’t do that now but in those days it was a big thing. I was 27 years old and I remember they had the Smith Fieldhouse that had a floating floor in it. It was one of the first elevated floors with some kind of a support system set in there separate, anyway it was fancy. We went down to All-Church and I was the oldest person on our team from Oakley. And I remember going down and shooting that jumpshot out of the corner, the first shot, and I gave a big jump and kicked that up out of the corner, and it went swoosh. And the great feeling that was to go to BYU and play in All-Church. I’ve got a little trophy about yay big with him shooting a basketball. That was a big deal.”

I love being able to play in the same building where my old man played back in the day. I think he was a big deal.

I'm Getting Paid for This?

This has been a week of interviewing intern applicants and reviewing student essay contest submissions and restarting servers and writing captions and looking through photos for something that will look good on two pages. Admittedly none of this is backbreaking work but it can be tedious if heaped on all at once. Then, the other night, my job was to go to the BYU/CSU basketball game and look at the signs that fans make and hold up during the basketball game. We've been following fan signs all season so there were a few new ones but mostly they were repeats: What Would Jimmer Do?; Emery, Thou Shalt Steal; Jimmer, Will You Marry Me?; and Fredette About It, to name a few.

Anyway, while I was standing next to the security officer and other event staff maybe 10 feet from the BYU bench (pictured), I had one of those moments that occasionally accompanies this job; where I look around and think, "Am I really getting paid for this?" This usually happens when I am on assignment. Like when I had to interview Danny Ainge in Boston or Andy Reid in Philadelphia for magazine stories I was writing. Or when I was standing next to a dinosaur dig with Walter Cronkite, having lunch a few tables over from Gordon B. Hinckley, or shaking hands with Fred Rogers (that's Mr. Rogers to you). Or when I was hiking Sicilian volcanoes and Swiss alps with geology students, observing falcon nests in Alaska, or collecting algae samples on Monterey Bay with biology students (and harbor seals). Anyway, you get the idea. There's plenty of unglamorous work but then there are some unbelievable moments. And I have been truly blessed with cool opportunities, big and small.

Julie and I pose with Walter.

My brother had a similar angle on the All-Star game so even when I'm feeling special, he's always there to one-up me. He had a great view of Ray Allen wearing some Air Jordan 2011s in LA and I had to settle for Jimmer hitting threes in Provo. Oh well. It's all good as long as you can see the ball hit the net.

I can't wait until high noon tomorrow when BYU and San Diego meet again on their home court. I'll have to settle for a high-definition signal from CBS and a view from my couch for that one. I'll enjoy it even though it will be harder to justify watching this game as "work."

Getting Jimmered

In honor of Jimmer “Got Range” Fredette who blew it up (43 points) in the only Top 10 NCAA matchup ever staged here across the street in the Marriott Center, I have been hoisting some beyond-NBA-range threes all this week. So far so good as I have hit three of the six that were actually “Jimmers.” (Don’t worry I missed all kinds of shots closer in to compensate.) He’s two inches shorter but I hear his feet are 2 sizes bigger than mine . . . a solid foundation for establishing position and making moves. Picture a hobbit making his way through Mordor. Actually, please don't. Okay, back to the story.

I had a feeling that this would be a special year when junior Jimmer said he was pulling out of the NBA draft and returning to play for BYU his senior year. He had talked to Danny Ainge after a workout for the Celtics, according to USA Today: "I didn't know where I was going to be picked," Fredette says. "That was concerning to me. I knew if I came back, I'd have a great year. Danny Ainge told me he had one of his best seasons his senior year." So before the season started, when my buddy asked if I wanted to share a set of season tickets, I jumped at the chance.

Wednesday night BYU played San Diego State to determine which team would lead the Mountain West Conference (may it rest in peace, we’ll be playing teams like St. Mary’s, Gonzaga, and Portland next year). More than two dozen NBA scouts descended on Provo, students stood in a snow storm to get better seats to the game, then a total of 22,700 fans found their seats well before tipoff. In my almost three decades at BYU I have seen some fierce games (against Utah, UNLV, etc.) but this was in another realm entirely. Sold out.

And intense. And loud. Especially during the last five minutes when the Cougars played some of the best defense of the year, forcing SDSU to a standstill twice; absolutely stymied and forced to squander time-outs. Then Jimmer dropped foul shot after foul shot and put the game out of reach. I have some inkling of how hard those athletes work to become proficient. So when they win at a high level and are rewarded it is really satisfying for the athlete and for those that witness the performance. At the end of the game the student section stormed the floor of the Marriott Center and Jimmer was escorted to a safe spot behind the scorer’s table.

Like everybody else at BYU (and in the national media), our staff has Jimmer fever. We will be publishing a feature on Jimmer in our April magazine; we’ve been working on it for a while now. So we get to follow the news, look at all of the pictures, watch the games, and call it work. It’s not my primary responsibility but I am doing my part to stay current and knowledgable.

One thing we are following is the creative fan signs. Favorites so far: “Chuck Norris wears Jimmer pajamas,” “Urban dictionary, Jimmer (noun) One who is in range as soon as he steps off the bus,” and finally, “We’ve got Jimmer, your chances just got slimmer.” We also have another player named Jackson Emery who just broke Danny Ainge’s steal record. A sign for him reads: “I had another sign but Emery stole it.” We’re having a blast.

We're saying Jimmer a lot . . . the player, the noun, and the verb. Being “jimmered” is something else entirely. That’s just playing your hardest and still getting beat; running out to defend a guy shooting from well beyond the arc, arriving too late, turning, and watching the ball barely touch net as it swishes. Wondrous.

I wore my Boston Celtics hat to the game, backwards like a dirtbag of course; is there any other way? I should have made a sign like the kid in the picture below. I would love to see Jimmer represent BYU on my favorite NBA team. But I’ll root for him wherever he ends up; he’s so fun to watch. For now, I am content to go to every home game from now until tournament time. It’s a special year and a special team and I am thrilled to be along for the ride.

A Band of Brothers and Basketball

A wise man once said, “My skill level is only outdone by my modesty.” I find this to be my occasional mantra on the basketball court when I hit two shots in a row. Then my legs go and my jump shot goes somewhere with them. Sometimes I envy my teenage boys their youth. Not sure if the killer instinct you develop with age would be a fair trade or not. But all of this is just prelude.

In this week where two of my brothers had birthdays, I wrote a completely different blog post. It was too deeply personal, however, and I decided to keep it to myself. Another day and another edit and maybe I can throw it out here for y’all to read. In lieu, this is all I’ve got.

For me brothers and basketball are synonyms. Ever since I can remember we have hooped it up. And, even now, with time and space separating me from my kin, I still feel their presence during a particularly good string of basketball games. Like this week. No clock, no refs, just running (walking)the court with guys who love the game. I am truly blessed to have a dependable group of guys who put up with my ridiculous behavior and inconsistent style of play.

So, in related news, we are gearing up for another year of intramural basketball. Every year (almost against my will) a coworker makes me captain of our team (named Full Bleed because of its publishing origins) and, while I enjoy playing a “real” game with bad refs against kids half my age, I am at a point in my basketball career where I enjoy my noon ball more, and the noon ball guys I play with, more than that. So I am hoping to run the scoreboard and watch my team win.

Last year I decided to infuse some noon ball into my annual captaining of this intramural ball team. I had ventured the thought of putting a team together of just “noon guys” but decided to try this integrated approach first. I liked the results. The real advantage here is my work guys are gifted  designers and create custom designed t-shirts each year. (And you all know how I am a slave to hoops fashion.) But by adding noon players John, Larry, Paul B,. and Joel into the mix, we had some fun last year, scored a lot of points, and progressed further in the tournament than ever before. The game that will live in infamy was played on our “home court” last February. We were on fire, as they say, and the final score was 89-31. Unforgettable.

So this year I am adding a few more hand-picked role players. We are using a retro logo in white on the shirts and I’m hoping for red numbers “bleeding” down the front and back. The only person more excited than me is Larry but that could be said about anything in life. First game is Jan. 21st. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Problem with Puppies

A gajillion years ago, it seems, I bought my oldest son his first pair of Air Jordans. I picked up my first pair of Air Jordan Xs at the same time (circa 1995) and when they started wearing thin, my brother, gave me a pair of the same shoe, same color, with the straps cut off the back. I still have them all, though the Toddler size 7s (pictured above) are being worn by a foot-high abominable snowman in my office.

Back in the day we decided to have my son put on my size 13 shoes and take shots on the short hoop out on the driveway of the rental we were living in. Then this past week I had him make the same moves on our hoop out in the woods by our house . . . to celebrate a brand new pair of Jordan Icons in Idaho Vandals colors (the Cougar Blues were not on sale). Anyway, I thought y’all would enjoy the comparison. Now he just needs to wear those out on a hardwood court so we can get another pair!

You May Find This Surprising

This story may sound familiar. (Here is last April's account). Or it may make your eyes pop wide with surprise. (Arthur and Chris, playing ball?!)

In my family we often use the "sister-vine," a reliable form of communication that allows one to talk to any one of my sisters and have the information disseminate quickly to nearly all of my family members. This is the efficient evolution that sprang from "telegraph, telephone, or tell-a-woman." Sometimes the details are repeated and eyes are appropriately rolled in the umpteenth telling but they are always shared at least once. This is a good thing. Most families suffer from a failure to communicate because they can't handle the truth.

Coordinating a pickup game with my brother and nephews this past weekend was a little more difficult than just telling a sister but it was definitely worth it. My nephew Chris was about to be deployed (again) as part of our military and I wanted him to have a chance to break in his latest Iconic footwear. When I asked him about joining our traditional game, he said, "I haven't played ball in a really long time, probably years." When pressed to participate, another of my favorite nephews, Arthur, had a similar response, "I used to be good at basketball. Long ago."

I thought these two would add a new, fun element to our standard Walker/Drake smackdowns. And they did. I knew they were in decent shape but truthfully I thought I would be amused… I ended up being impressed. Both of them attacked the rim without fear and provided formidable defense. I truly enjoyed playing with them and would be glad to add them to my team any time. I had told them to bring some $20s and that we could set up a role-playing game after so they could back their money. They were good sports and put up with my nonsense/lies.

Gus and Sam scouted out the church gym at Bogus Basin to make sure there were no events to trump our hope for a game. Soon a text hit my phone: "At church. Looks like there might be a funeral...YOURS! Gus" And so it began. Though the severity of the trash talk was somewhat subdued this time, there were still some good hard fouls and good-natured banter among players.

We divided up and were determined to play until it hurt. Then we played some more. To save on words, here's a short video that Drew shot on his camera and then I grabbed with my phone off of an old TV set (that should explain the old-school quality). It will at least give you the flavor. (And the music may drive you bonkers after the first 20 seconds . . . prepare to mute the sound.)



Truthfully, we made a lot more shots than this video shows (or we would have played for six hours). I will try to get some other clips from Drew that better demonstrate the state of our hardwood skills.

The nearly three-hour sporting contest was once again wrapped up with a trip to Fancy Freeze where a record nine jumbo Boston Shakes (tasty shake on the bottom, sweet sundae on the top) were purchased by Uncle Clair, who demonstrated where he had hair by stepping up to the foul line and representing. Big thanks for the thick shakes, man! This stomach-stretching tradition once again tested Sam whose shake level was inspected several times. While it's never a contest—whoever finishes is a winner!—the seasoned veterans finished first followed promptly by the teenagers. :)

The rest of the evening was spent jawing with family members. There was a steady stream of humanity through Mom slash G-Ma's house . . . she was an awesome hostess slash dishwasher. The Walker Bed and Breakfast (and airport shuttle service) was really popular and let's face it, you can't beat the company or the price!

World’s Biggest Cherry-Picker

So, for the latest health challenge at work, I tried lifting weights. After the third time in the weight room, my body parts told me I should start looking for something less painful. Now, not all body parts are trustworthy decision-makers, believe you me; but triceps know their stuff . . . they are the next best things to having eyes in the back of your head.

Luckily, today, there was a game of hoops and they needed another guy. (Pick me!) It’s not my regular MWF group, these are Tues./Thurs. guys. They play games to 11 points, counting regular shots as one point and three-point shots as two. This works for me as I love to shot outside and those shots are worth more in this style of game.

We got beat down pretty hard in one game, I think it ended 11–1. So we rallied in the next one, played some defense, got rebounds, and our shots started falling in. We were ahead 9-8 and could win it with a three (two). I was getting pretty tired (these guys are quite a bit younger) so I thought “hero or goat” and launched a shot well outside the NBA arc. It swished, the game was over, and we lined up at the drinking fountain. Truthfully? I was just too tired to work the ball inside so I threw it up there and hoped for the best.

Winners stay on for the next game but I should have known better and subbed out. I was lagging and let my team go down and defend four guys on five. Luckily our guy got the rebound off a missed shot, hurled it downcourt to me, and I got an easy lay-in. I joked about being “the world’s biggest cherry-picker” and how the fruit was definitely in season. A couple of minutes later, the same thing happened, almost an exact replay. One guy on the other team cried foul, saying, “I don’t think we should count that point.” “Really?!” I said, “I didn’t hear any complaints when you had a number advantage on the other end.”

He continued to fume and his team seriously considered the legality of a player not running down to play defense and then getting easy layups. After letting them know I was not, at any time, in the key for three seconds, I decided to sub out and let a younger player finish up the game (which I’m sure my team won).

I hit the showers where the whole situation struck me as truly funny and I began to laugh out loud. I had never been faced with anyone who wanted to win so badly that he was willing to discount points made by a cherry-picker. I began to think of different scenarios where you could try to trim points. Anybody up for “He didn’t say ‘bank!’” This was not a game of horse. Count the basket, baby.

Changing of the Guard

Truth be told, I think of a great pair of well-worn Jordans the same way I feel about my brothers in the military and officers of the peace. They have protected me so well for so long during the worst and best of times, there’s really no way to express the sentiment in words. (Admittedly, these are just shoes and not people in uniform so, obviously, it's not an equal comparison.)

Anyway, today I played in a brand new pair of Jordan Icons, the same shoe Ray Allen (Boston Celtics) is wearing this year (see 'em tonight in the playoffs). My brother raved about their court performance, so I picked up a pair the second they went on sale. They are keepers. So I will take the old guard home and wear them on the church court for a while, then it’s out to the blacktop in the woods by my house. Welcome home, old friends.

A Challenge, A Contusion, A Little Brain Confusion

So I was going up for a shot last week and a guy raked me across the right side of my head (and eye). A little bit later in the game, I was defending him on a breakaway at the other end of the court. As he dribbled toward me I could tell he had decided not to take a jump shot but to approach the basket and try to get a lay-in. Over the top of me. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t really set on revenge but I was determined that he would not score on me, especially after the physical play earlier.

So he jumped and I jumped. I was going for the ball, and think I got some, but unfortunately his head and my elbow also met with some force (as evidenced by the nasty contusion pictured here). I guess I should have gone for something softer. I just didn't really have time to aim.

This exchange reminds me of a time when I was goofing with friends at the church in American Falls. So after a lot of running around, I had one hand on the doorknob that led from the kitchen to outside and the other hand held a squirt gun aimed at my buddy Brad’s face. He gave me fair warning, at least, ”Walker, if you squirt me with that, I am going to break your head,” but you know what you have to do if someone puts up that kind of challenge, especially if you are a a male teenager. I got two squirts off before he started his charge across the room.

As I twisted to get the door open, I realized, too late, that it was locked. I got it unlocked and was halfway out before I felt his fist smack into the back of my head. I staggered, then turned. Brad was holding his wrist and grimacing. It seemed he was hurting at least as much as I was, and maybe more. In the end, my head hurt for a few days. But he was wearing a cast for a long while, having broken several bones in his forearm.

Not sure what kind of macho madness causes us to stop thinking when a peer throws up a physical challenge. There’s a lesson somewhere in these events; somehow I think I am yet to learn from it in a practical way.

Full Bleed: Winning and Losing

I play on a BYU intramural team comprised of university employees—accountants, graphic designers, and other administrators. I recruited a handful of guys from the group I play with three times a week: a strong inside player, a mid-range shooter, a three-point sharpshooter, a defensive force . . . all willing to pass the ball to a teammate with a better shot. While older than the students on other teams, these guys can really play. I had a few shots go in, but my guys are the ones that really wreaked havoc, averaging 3.7 points per minute (89 points in two 12-minute periods . . . this is with a running clock).

The previous game we had a similar fast start but then had a letdown after halftime, only winning by 3 or 4 points in the end.We were determined to not repeat that mistake and played hard the entire game. The obvious question, I suppose, is, at what point should a team “take it easy,” and not run up the score? One of my teammates shared this quote after the game.

“We do not train to be merciful here. Mercy is for the weak. Here, in the streets, in competition: A man confronts you, he is the enemy. An enemy deserves no mercy.”


 —John Kreese (Cobra Kai sensei), Karate Kid, Part I

I’ve been on the losing end of athletic contests before. In two years of high school football, our team won only one game (to the Shelley Russets . . . that’s a potato, if you don’t know . . . the only mascot our Mighty Beavers could dominate. I have a warm spot in my heart for Shelley, and potatoes, even now.)

We lost our Homecoming game to the Preston Indians 76–0. It is still vivid as I played the whole game and never stopped trying to get to the quarterback. In the end, there’s nothing I hate more than a team that gets a big lead and then stops playing. Win or lose, I want to fight until the buzzer sounds, and leave feeling I did my best and so did my opponent.



If you show up to play, there is no expectation that the other team should “take it easy” so you can feel good about yourself. True players want to earn respect through their efforts. So when a game is out of reach, and you see that one guy who looks a little foolish because he continues to play as hard as he can? He’s the one who loves the game the most.


TANGENT 1: My pathetic football career had a bright side. It helped me to build character. (I’m a character . . . ask anybody.) And, thankfully, my parents were in England at the time and did not have to witness it. My sweet big sister, however, would faithfully show up to the games. I think losing is always harder on the spectators than the athletes. For her support then and myriad other reasons, I love her even more than potatoes.

TANGENT 2: The team name is Full Bleed, which means “to be printed so as to run off one or more edges of the page after trimming.” Seems appropriate.

Parting Shots

Last Saturday I showed up at our stake center ready for some rousing Church ball. I had awakened early, cooked one slice of french toast, ate a banana, and chilled some Gatorade to go. Soon, I went through the glass doors of the building and, while there were quite a few cars in the parking lot, things felt a little quiet inside. Finally, I heard a ball bounce in the gym. There were six guys shooting around but nobody from my team yet. They informed me that the games had been canceled due to a funeral later that morning but invited me to play in a pickup game if I wanted.

I waited to see if any more guys would show so maybe our team could still play together against these six. We had a few appear but most opted out, not wanting to play, I guess, unless it was an organized game . . . with officials, a scoreboard, compressed competition. Me? If there’s a ball bouncing, I just want to play . . . I prefer to call my own . . . no refs to mess with the flow.

A couple more willing guys showed and we ran the court. I got to play the whole time and nobody criticized anyone else. No yelling. Very little fouling. It was really fun. When an older gentleman appeared and asked us to wrap it up, someone said, “Next point wins!” I threw a pass inside but the big guy’s inside shot attempt went long. But the other team also missed at the other end. Back on offense, someone threw a nice pass to me on the left side of the arc and I popped a three to end it. Game winner . . . but nobody carried me off the court on their shoulders. No cameras were rolling. The only accolade was the satisfaction of putting in the last shot in before going home.

That done, we helped set up chairs so they would have overflow seating for the funeral. As I was exiting the building, I noticed the open casket and the white-haired gentleman whose time had come, there in a side room, readied for the viewing. Such a contrast from the flurry of activity I had just been a part of. This made me appreciate even more the amazing nature and potential of our human bodies. Also, that we should take advantage of what time we have because none of us get out of here alive.

Finally, I am hopeful that when I die, no basketball games will be canceled or postponed on my behalf. Or maybe there should be a pickup game. Or perhaps just free throws. And while I’m sure there is some convention (or even law) that will prohibit this, I really wouldn’t even mind if you wheel my casket out to the gym and put it right under the rim. And everyone can take a turn and shoot a free throw and it can bounce unceremoniously right off the lid over my head. (Lid closed, please.)

TANGENT 1: When I was young, sleeping on the bottom bunk, my siblings used to drop toys and other items off the top bunk onto my head. They were usually unsuccessful in their attempts to wake me and would have to find heavier items to drop.

TANGENT 2: My cute little niece who, in my mind, will always be a toddler, could always be convinced to sit directly under the net of the mini basketball backboard while her dad and I practiced shots in their living room. Thankfully that ball was softer than the toys of my youth and she only experienced slight brain damage.

TANGENT 3: My wife already thinks I spend too much time playing, watching, shopping for, thinking about basketball. She may not allow any shenanigans at my funeral. She’s probably right but I love the idea of casket free throws. (Shoot! Casketball . . .  just think of the dead-on potential for puns!)

A Thing of Beauty . . .

Last October another package arrived from my brother. It was the infamous Air Jordan XIs. Now these black patent leather shoes are the pinnacle of shoe design and the “holy grail” of many shoe collectors. My big brother Clair first gave me the pair back in 2001 when I changed jobs. You can see the letter from all those years ago --->

A few years ago I had given the “Space Jams” back to him but now, like a shiny black penny, they had returned. These shoes are a curious thing. They are cool to have, fun to look at and maybe try on every year or two, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to wear them. My Dad used to enjoy quoting Keats: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” That comes to mind every time I pull these out of the box. I can’t imagine an occasion that would merit my wearing these—perhaps a championship game or my son’s weddings? We’ll see. For now they sit in my closet and wait. The shoes, unworn, would have sold last year for between $300-500. The Jams were re-released in December, and the new shoes are selling for at least $225.  I would never sell them so it doesn’t really matter. They are just fun to have even though they are just “stuff”—the bond with my brother is so much more important to me.

When the new Jams came out in December, he and I hopped on our computers and tried all of the online retailers with little success. Eastbay crashed and Finish Line’s site was slow and quirky; in the end, I was able to get two pair from Champs. While the hunt for rare kicks was fun, the hour and a half that I got to talk to my brother on the phone was better than scoring a pair. From football on the lawn to basketball in the gym, sports and the requisite accessories have given us reasons to spend time together. And if you boil it all down, spending time is really the most important thing in relationships.

I wore the new pair of Air Jordans on Clair’s birthday. They look better at the free throw line than running down court. So go ahead and foul me.

TANGENT 1: Space Jam was the first movie my oldest son and I ever saw together in a theater. For that reason, the song “I Believe I Can Fly” is still one of my faves.

TANGENT 2: After my wedding, before the evening reception, I was at the mall with my new bride and Clair. He bought us each a pair of white high-tops to celebrate the occasion—they looked mighty fine with my Miami Vice tuxedo.

A Shorts Story

Admittedly, I am an inconsistent performer when playing basketball. I miss far more shots than I make. Often I have said, “My shots may brick off the rim, but, man, do I look good doing it.” This is mostly due to the many shoes, shirts, and shorts bequeathed to me by my generous brother. He has always been willing to give me the shirt off his back, literally, more times than I can count.

Every six to eight months, more often if I’m lucky, I catch fire on the court. Today was one of those days where my skill level was only outdone by my modesty. I got some assists and rebounds, a lovely tip-in; and, in the end, I popped two game winning three-pointers. One of these was right after I inbounded the ball to the other team (oops) and they scored, going up by 1 point. I was already feeling foolish, so at the other end, I thought “hero or goat” and hoisted an NBA-distance three from the right side. It fell in, we won by two, and we got to stay on the court and play again.

The next game, our team dominated. Again I shot a three at the end, this time from the left baseline, adding a little extra arch to clear a jumping defender, and the ball snapped the net. I should have gone home right then . . . it could not get any better.

I attribute today’s success to wearing a new (lucky) pair of shorts. I also think eating a banana, getting a short haircut, and eating a blueberry scone (in that order) before the game also helped my energy level and aerodynamics. I will surely attempt to recreate some of that magic by combining all of those elements again (minus the haircut . . . maybe I’ll shave instead). I’ll let you know how it goes.

TANGENT 1: In high school, my parents really splurged, buying me a pair of Adidas Top Ten basketball shoes, bright white with silver stripes. These were some of the first high performance shoes, with a nice lacing system, and a pivot point placed in the perfect spot in the sole. I really think they helped bolster my confidence and my ability to move on the court. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

TANGENT 2: One of the coolest parts of the place where we live is a little meadow down in front. It has a rough basketball court and one of the hoops is backed by a tree that serves as a natural ball return. The tree is a hackberry, aptly named, I think.

TANGENT 3: When all is said and done, I have learned this about playing any team sport. If you are playing just for yourself or only to win, you will always come away disappointed. If you are playing for your team and only for fun, you will never leave disappointed. (But it’s always more fun if you win.)

Why Wondrous Swish?

Pressed to make a collage defining “me,” a school-aged me cut pieces from an awesome photo essay printed in a 1972 issue of Sports Illustrated. The prose that accompanied the images imprinted in my mind as deeply as any lines of poetry learned in my English classes.

“It is enough to gaze on the wondrous sight of a swish, or to dribble down a sidewalk . . . or just to rest after some two-on-two. . . . just lunging for a loose ball can be a marvelous act of desire, done over fallen leaves or on a court cleared of snow or in the summer when the city sizzles. A fast break is a boy's passion, and it is his training for the years ahead.”

Every time I am around my brothers and nephews, we are either playing in or planning the next pickup game. And while I didn’t play high school ball, I have always loved the game. Three times a week, I go down to BYU’s Smith Fieldhouse, lace up some Jordans, and shoot some hoops with accountants, teachers, and other BYU professionals. It keeps me sane. And it’s way cheaper than therapy, even after you figure in the cost of nice kicks. I am a happier human when I can play.

And once upon a time, I even got to justify those hours by writing about it for the magazine. Here’s the link if you’re interested.

LINK

Come to Provo anytime. We’ll work you into the game.

TANGENT 1: Hummingbirds also make a wondrous swish as they swoop and whir around our front yard.

TANGENT 2: A wondrous swish and a wondrous wish are two different things, just barely.