March Madness

While much of the country is enraptured with March Madness (the annual NCAA basketball tournament, for those recently arrived from Venus), I blithely go about my business with nary a thought about this national extravaganza.

Well, maybe a thought or two. But they are decidedly negative thoughts. I hate basketball. Basketball has contributed to some of my worst memories. Basketball reveals my inadequacies. Basketball torments my life.

I’ve broken bones playing basketball. I’ve had to undergo knee surgery because of basketball. But far worse than the physical pain basketball has heaped on my body are the emotional scars I have been forced to live with.

In elementary school, the coach picked Michael Shmidman before me. It was my first lesson in the corollary to the maxim, “Size Matters.” I was a good six inches taller than Michael, but he was chosen before me (in truth, our graduation yearbook did say of Michael, “Although he measures a mere 5 feet, he’s proved himself a great athlete.” I did get some revenge on an undeserving Michael during a spring softball game. I batted a ball into his stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He recovered, but not before we had to end the game. Sometimes, revenge has unintended consequences).

Back to basketball—this being elementary school, the coach had pity on me and the other also-rans and handed out yellow uniform shirts to all of us. My first and only playing time came late in a game we were losing badly. Quickly I used my height to secure a defensive rebound. Like Bill Russell of the Boston Celtics who I watched with my brother, a Celtics fan, I spun around and made a sharp outlet pass to a player calling for the ball. Too bad he was wearing a blue uniform. He didn’t dunk the gift I just gave him. Remember, this was elementary school. But he scored the two easiest points of the game with a lay-up

The lay-up. To drive to the basket for a lay-up you have to be able to dribble. I couldn’t. Still can’t, at least in mixed company—me and anyone else on the court. Even if standing beneath the basket I find it hard to bank the ball off the backboard for an easy two-pointer. My idea of a lay-up is a 10-foot jump shot. Swish (if I’m lucky, klunk if not).

To camouflage my inadequacies on the court, I gravitated to sometimes reffing games as an adult. That’s how I found myself officiating a game between elementary schools when the paid ref failed to show. All went well until the closing moments of a tight game. My son Dan’s team was leading by a point with seconds to go. All I had to do was let the clock run out, but noooooo, I had to call a shooting foul on Dan’s team on a controversial play. I could easily have let the play continue on with little argument from the other team. You probably already know the outcome—the shooter made both foul shots and Dan’s team lost by one point. It was a loooong and silent ride home that night.

Sitting in the stands at another game I was anything but silent. I noticed Dan’s team was not lined up properly for a free throw by their opponent. I yelled out for someone to move to cover a vacant spot. He did. The shooter missed, we got the rebound, but the whistle blew. The ref called a technical foul on our team for moving after he had given the ball to the foul shooter. He awarded him another shot, which he now calmly made, and control of the ball. The only reason I am still alive to tell this tale is that our boys had my back and wound up winning the game. But I was banished from watching the next few games and allowed to return to the bleachers only if I promised to keep my mouth shut.

I blame basketball, specifically Madison Square Garden and Knicks management, for depriving Rangers hockey fans of a chance at another Stanley Cup. After the Rangers won the championship in 1994, MSG would not renew captain Mark Messier’s contract the following year. Without their leader, the Rangers languished, and have continued to do so for now 16 years. Instead of rewarding Messier for delivering on his guarantee of a Stanley Cup, MSG executives, I believe, chose to spend their money trying to secure a championship for the Knicks. They gave Patrick Ewing a big contract. Ewing did not deliver.

I hate basketball.