Let me tell you how bad I suck at basketball right now. I suck with the turgid methane-addled gloominess of a thousand Saturns. I am the biggest whiner spastic piece of shit to set foot on the courts of the St. Patrick Youth Center since its inception in 1922.
It’s an embarrassment to myself, it’s an embarrassment to the people I play with, it’s an embarrassment to Tessa, and it’s even an embarrassment to my future family. I will have to play flawlessly for the next month just to get back to “horrible.”
Oh sure, I have a few moves in my arsenal that are effective. But I don’t get back on defense, I get hurt on every other play, and in an effort to get out of my shooting slump, I have ball-hogged my way to infamy.
I’m a constant source of distraction for my own team – nay, I am a legion of barnacles attached to the bottom of their ship, keeping them from moving swiftly through the ocean. In the last three weeks, I have won 2 games and lost eighteen. You don’t need a biostatistics degree from M.I.T. to deduce the common denominator of those losses.
Tonight, I was fouled hard on a breakaway layup, and in my ensuing rage, I toppled the industrial fan that sat on the stage. The blades spun and threatened to chew up the floor – in a CHURCH for AFTERSCHOOL CHILDREN mind you – until some other player yanked out the plug.
Back at Carolina, I was reviled on the court as a guttermouthed shithead. Years later in Carrboro, I was reviled as a guttermouthed shithead. In Los Angeles, I went on Prozac, then went to the West Hollywood courts and acted like a guttermouthed shithead. Now I have been on Celexa for two years, got married, and I’m 37 and STILL a guttermouthed shithead.
When am I going to be free of ego? When am I going to shrug off a bad move as one of life’s little lessons? Perhaps I should just fucking call it a day. I’ve played for 18 years, made everyone miserable since Reagan’s last term, perhaps that’s enough. After next week, I’ll be in LA for two months – perhaps I’ll begin a workout regimen and Buddhist training to increase both my stamina and puncture my bloated sense of importance.
If not, I should just let the game go, leave it to younger players who aren’t so fettered to their own self-love and don’t have some wounded inner brat that lashes out at the first botched layup.
I’m disgusted with myself. I’m going into the yard, finds some worms and shove them into my mouth.