8/7/5: You Like It, The Juice

When I was eight years old, I had exactly one fantasy in life, and I played it out almost every single day. It covered pretty much everything: sports and girls and personal validation and professional triumph.

It went like this: it's the year 1996 or something. I'm the starting shortstop for the New York Yankees. We've reached the World Series and we're squaring off against our fiercest rivals, the Los Angeles Dodgers. 7th game, 9th inning, two outs, we're holding onto a one run lead, but the Dodgers have loaded the bases against our ace reliever, Goose Gossage.* Steve Garvey steps to the plate, a 5 foot ten inch block of Pure Southern California Evil. Tan, square jawed, huge hairy forearms. The fans are suitably terrified. He works the count in his favor, then sends a foul pop off of third base, drifting towards the seats.

At this point in the fantasy I would toss a rubber hardball into the air over my parents bed, which represented the first few rows of seats along the third base side. I'd leap over the bed/into the seats and snag the ball, rolling onto my back, then I'd freeze as if I'd been knocked cold. Slowly I would pretend to gain consciousness. There was the umpire, peeling back fans to see if I'd held on. Next to him, right in the first row, was my 3rd grade crush Polly S., attending the game with her Billy Zane-like husband who she obviously couldn't love.

Polly was a cute little redhead, probably the only kid in the class who was smarter than me.** Sure she had little snot balls that sometimes poked out of her nostrils, but in 3rd grade you overlook such minor eccentricities. We used to walk home from school together, me dropping her off at her apartment at 30 Fifth Avenue every day, wanting so much to kiss her but never even coming close to doing so. It was part lack of nerve and part not wanting to spoil the fantasy of what it would be like. What girls would be like.***

Somehow, even in the fantasy, it had never quite worked out between Polly and me. After 3rd grade, we'd gone our separate ways, I guess, the way two people who both know they're absolutely right for each other sometimes do. In real life, you never end up getting a second chance. No reason, no point in thinking about it, you'll just wind up fifty years old, sitting at the kitchen table drinking Budweiser and cursing out loud.

But not in this fantasy. Here there was a second chance. Here she was in the first row, watching me, wanting me. Surely she hadn't told Zane that her newfound interest in baseball had more to do with following the daily heroics of the Boy Who Used To Walk Her Home than it did with the game itself. He was probably just happy that he and his wife had something to do together. They'd grown increasingly detached in recent months, the sex had dried up, and Polly seemed so distant when they sat down at dinner and talked about the day's events. Watching baseball was the one time when she came alive, especially when Hans Bungle made a great play in the hole and nailed the runner at first by a half step.

As I begin to gain consciousness and I see Polly there, my heart starts to beat a little bit faster. Our eyes lock, and she mouths the words "I love you" just before I reach into my glove and produce the ball. I'm still laying on my back, splayed across about five seats. Finally, when the moment is exactly fucking right, I pull the ball out, squeeze it tight and raise it high above my chest. The umpire gives a dramatic "out" signal, and the World Series is over. Yankee Stadium erupts. Bedlam. Everyone's on their feet. Dads are hugging kids, people are jumping up and down, you can almost hear the concrete that supports the upper deck begin to crack apart. My teammates are wading through the fans trying to pull me out. The fans are pawing me and congratulating me and basically molesting me as if I'm Courtney Love surfing atop the crowd. I lose sight of Polly. I pull myself to my feet and begin forcing my way forward, towards the field and, hopefully, towards Polly.

As I get to the first row I catch a glimpse of her again. But she seems further away than ever. Zane is holding her tight and he's jumping up and down and sort of pulling her with him. She's still staring at me, over his shoulder.  She doesn't even blink as my teammates mob me and pull me onto the field. As they carry me towards the locker room all I can think about is Polly. I twist my neck and pick her out of the crowd again, and she's still locked on me, fulfilling her end of the bargain. "I love you, too," I mouth.

And she gets smaller and smaller in the distance and I realize that's all it will ever be, two third graders hopelessly in love and doomed to live the wrong lives. And to keep it all their little secret forever. I cry a little bit as she disappears, but somehow the knowing is enough.

My actual athletic career fell a little short of that. Perhaps its peak came in that same year I'd fantasized about, 1996. I was playing a pickup basketball game at Houston Street, and my new girlfriend/future wife had stopped by to watch me. My team was me, D. Lee, Leroy, Harold and some other dude, and we usually played well together. But this wasn't my day. I was clanging up jumpers and throwing the ball away and we were quickly down like 10-2 in a game to 16. The future Mrs. Bungle told me she had to leave, and so I waved goodbye and went back to the game. I was embarrassed for how badly I'd played. It was frustrating, as pickup basketball sometimes is. There were a bunch of dudes waiting and I sort of knew that if we lost this game the day would be over before it began.

But all of a sudden the tide turned. We started scoring, and getting stops on the other end. I played with precision and passion, grabbing every rebound and squeezing it demonically afterwards. I couldn't miss. Sweat was flying off my face as I buried my soul into the game.  It was just an unbelievable feeling. I was lost in the moment. I doubt I could have even told you my name if you had asked me right then. Finally, Leroy put in an offensive rebound to win the game, 16-14. I pumped my fist and only wished that the girlfriend had been there to see the finish.

Then I turned around and noticed that she WAS there. She had stayed and seen the whole thing, and she even took pictures. That was a good feeling. As more and more of your fantasies go by the boards, you find it easier to take delight in the small triumphs that sometimes come your way in reality.

Even today, I had one of those triumphs. There is a supernice guy I'm working with now. He's 27 and he loves basketball, and we spent part of the day Friday sharing hoops stories. It reminded me how much I love the game, and I decided I had to play this weekend. I gave him a call today to see if he wanted to join me, but he wasn't around, so I headed out by myself to the 20th street courts.

The thing that makes playing sports interesting to me is the unpredictabililty of it all. You go play and you have no idea what to expect. When you show up, how many guys will be waiting? Will you get in a game at all? Will the guys who pick you up be nice, or will they be dicks? If you lose, will the wait be too long for you to play again?  Will you have a good day shooting, or will you go home all grouchy because you stunk up the joint? 

Today I arrived and it all seemed new to me. I haven't played in a couple of months and when I started watching the games all the players looked so big and quick and strong and skilled, as if the game itself had evolved in my absence. I felt a few butterflies, as stupid as that may seem. Then I saw Bruce and Vern and a bunch of other faces that looked familiar, many of them faces without names who I know only through playing basketball on various downtown courts. That made me feel a little more comfortable, so I went up to some dudes and asked them who had last game.

"We're next, and then he's after us," one guy said, nodding towards another guy. The games were three on three, and I only counted three guys waiting, so I figured that I could maybe get in on the second guy's team. This is one of the most awkward parts of pickup games. Going up to complete strangers and trying to sell yourself to them. 

"Can I run with you?" I asked the dude who had second game. He didn't really make eye contact with me. I could tell he was trying to think of a way to say that he already had his team, that there was no room. I hadn't impressed him, I guess, with my doughy physique and my Hub's Carryouts T-shirt with "You Like It The Juice" written on the back.**** But he wasn't quite enough of a scumbag to lie to my face and tell me he had his three.

"Sure," he said without any enthusiasm at all.

Then we played, and it was beautiful. I was doing it all. We beat a team that was much better than us, and I was the main reason why. We won three straight games, and after the third one my new buddy told me that I had "carried us." I was tired as hell but it felt great to be out there again, moving, shooting, passing, scoring. Everything but defending. I decided not to push my luck and left after the third game. Another small achievement to feel good about.

The other day, I was on the Upper East Side and I was thirsty, so I stopped into some gourmet deli place and grabbed a 20 oz. Gatorade. They rang it up as $3.59.

"3.59?!?!?" I asked. "For real?"

"Yes, $3.59," the lady said.

"Um, can I not buy that then?" I said. She voided the sale, and I walked out onto Madison Avenue shaken. $3.59 for a Gatorade, and not even the big boy, just the 20 ouncer? Yikes. It made me realize how fragile our relationship with Gatorade is. I mean, what if Gatorade started acting like the pharmaceutical companies do, gouging prices because they know we can't live without their wonderful product. Imagine if a 20 oz. Gatorade was always $3.59? It's too scary to think about.

Maybe out of protest, maybe out of plain thirst, today during and after basketball I consumed FIVE 32 oz. Gatorades of varying flavors. I paid only $1.50 for each. What a country.

Props to the rescuers of the Russian sub crew. Nice job.

Wheredat (6 points)?

By the way, in yesterday's picture I was simply all rocked out, not injured.

* Note that all other players in the fantasy besides me are of mid-70's vintage. That didn't seem weird to me at all at the time, nor does it really seem weird now.
** Well, I guess eventually Kissel would end up proving to me smarter than me, but at that point he had not yet developed his academic focus. 
*** It was only in the last 6 months or so that I learned that D. Lee actually made out with Polly at one of the debauched orgies he held at his apartment in 5th grade. And he wasn't really even into her. She was like on his C list. This revelation has forever tainted my 3rd grade fantasy.
**** A shirt I stole from Brady P. in Chicago. Hub's is a gyro place out there and the inspiration for that SNL skit about "You like it, the juice." I think that from now on when I play ball, I will yell "You like it, the juice" after every made shot. It will be my version of "Say cheese, motherfucker," the battle cry of an annoying, scrubby dude we once played against and whose team kept winning despite his own horrendous play. Every time he shot, even though he was like 3 for 24, he'd yell, "Say cheese, motherfucker!" It would have been hilarious if his team hadn't been beating ours. I still remember him winning one game by hitting an accidental bank shot, complete with catchphrase. It stung like a bitch.