One-armed men have been the demise of many figures throughout history— Dr. Richard Kimble, anyone who faced Angels Pitcher, Jim Abbott in the 90’s, and unfortunately, yours truly.
This story takes place about 7 years ago inside a Gold’s Gym. I was planning on working out my arms, but decided to stop inside the basketball court first to shoot around. Nothing too intense, just a little warm-up to get the blood flowing.
Upon entering the gym, I noticed one other baller on the court— an overweight Cuban fella, who looked sort of like Fat Joe. I never caught his name and he wasn’t quite as big as Fat Joe, so we’ll just refer to him as Stocky Joe. Stocky Joe was hoisting up 3’s on the far basket. I took the near basket and began working on my mid-range game.
A few minutes later, the door flung open and in walked the man who would soon end my recreational basketball career, and convert me into a guy who uses ellipticals. He was a tall skinny guy with a medium build, bald head, one arm, and handlebar mustache. His name was Daryl. What Daryl lacked in appendages, he made up for in swag. This guy must have been sponsored by Under Armour. He had all the gear. I’m talking, shoes, tank top, headband, leg sleeves, wristbands, etc. He even wore a wristband on his chicken wing arm, which I thought was strange. But I just figured they came in two packs, and he didn’t want to waste one.
Daryl dropped his Under Armour duffel bag on the ground, and shouted in a loud booming voice, “Ya’ll wanna play bucket?”
Bucket, AKA, 21 is a classic playground basketball game. It’s perfect for when you have an odd number of players, as it’s essentially, one on one on one, etc. The objective of the game is to be the first to score 21 points. It’s also known as “Tips” to some people. Although in “Tips” you can tip in a missed shot and subsequently take the shooter’s points back to zero, while gaining two points yourself. But all that does is encourage cherry-picking. Also, only scrubs play Tips.
We all agreed to play a man’s game. First to 21 wins, no tips, and you’ve got to take the ball back on every possession.
“I’ll break” shouted Daryl, before stepping back and effortlessly sinking a thirty-foot 3-pointer.
By the way, this was the very first shot he took. He didn’t warm up at all. He literally entered the gym and immediately challenged every person on the court. Stocky Joe and I exchanged nervous glances. Neither one of us seemed prepared for this level of competition. Who was this guy? Why’s he so confident? What happened to his other arm?
That last question may seem inappropriate, but don’t act like you’ve never wondered the same thing when interacting with a person with a physical deformity Were they born that way? Did they get attacked by a shark? Was it some kind of a freak vending machine accident, and he stuck his arm up there because it wouldn’t dispense his Twix? All those questions would soon take a backseat to the more important question? Who taught this man how to play?
Daryl started the game from the top of the key, and checked me the ball. I checked it back and got in the defensive stance. He then jab-stepped to the left and dribbled once to the right, and then just disappeared. I literally heard the ball swish through the net while still facing the opposite direction. “What the fuck!” I muttered under my breath. “Is this guy The Flash? How’s he so fast?”
On his second possession. He did the same thing. I stayed with him for about half a second before watching him blow by me for an uncontested shot, which he decided would be a completely unnecessary 360 reverse layup.
After that, he hit me with a stutter step which almost caused me to fall down. He then streaked across the paint and hit a floater
Next, almost out of boredom, he heaved up a thirty-foot fade-away which bounced off the back of the rim. I snagged the rebound and took it to the top of the key. I could tell Daryl was toying with us. He thought we were both bums, and while I couldn’t speak for Stocky Joe, I was determined to prove him wrong. Now’s my time to shine, I thought to myself, eager to display my athleticism.
For my first possession, I dribbled down to the right block, stopped on a dime, and pivoted hard to the left. Then I quickly pivoted back to the right and faked a hook shot.
Now, this usually gets the defender to go airborne. Not always, but usually.
Once this happens, I tuck the ball back towards my body, wait for the defender to soar past me, and shoot the easy, uncontested layup. This was a move I had been using since junior high. I have perfected it over the years and it worked like a charm almost every time. It wasn’t something I could do every play, but once or twice a game, I could usually pull it off with a high success rate. Once again, I say usually. Unfortunately for me, this wasn’t one of those times. Daryl must have had the scouting report on me because he didn’t jump on the pump fake. He didn’t even flinch.
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| My move was similar to Hakeem Olajuwon's Dream Shake, with the only exception being his move worked and mine was terrible. |
This put me in a precarious position. I now had my back turned to the basket and had already picked up my dribble. In a game situation, I’d simply pass the ball back out to the wing, but this was different. I had to try to hoist up a shot somehow. I had no other option. So, that’s what I did. I jumped backwards while simultaneously turning to shoot. Much to my dismay, once I turned I was making direct eye contact with Daryl’s crotch. He had also jumped, and he jumped much higher than me.
Now I’ve had my shot blocked before but this was different. This wasn’t so much a block as it was a spike. Daryl slammed the ball into the floor so ferociously, I thought the hardwood was going to open up and create a black hole. My thought process was them temporarily delayed while I crashed to the ground. I’m pretty sure my head slammed on the floor, but the only pain I could feel was to my pride. It had been broken. What I experienced that day was likely the most embarrassing scenario in all of sports. This was like getting tackled by the punter, or giving up a home run to the opposing teams batboy.
I contemplated faking an injury so I could get the hell out of there, but Daryl was quick to lend me a hand and help me up. Of course he exhibits good sportsmanship, I thought to myself. Is this guy determined to be better than me at everything!
As I sprung back up to my feet, my eyes caught Stocky Joe smirking at me with condescension. It was as if he was trying to say “Really, Bruh” with his eyes.
I shrugged and shook it off. It was tough though. Because fuck that guy! It wasn’t like he provided me with any help defense earlier.
The rest of the game went as you’ve likely already predicted. With Daryl dominating every step of the way. He scored on me at will. The final score was 21 to 3 to 0. I put up the goose egg. Again, I scored no points at all. Zero. Even that lazy asshole, Stocky Joe managed to sink a lucky shot at one point.
“Ya’ll wanna run again!” Daryl shouted out.
Stocky Joe passed on the opportunity to continue standing there, not playing defense, and I politely declined. I decided at that moment that I was done with basketball, not only for the day, but for the rest of my life. Unless I wind up with Alzheimer’s later on and forget about that humiliating beat down I had just endured.
On the drive home that day, I considered several new hobbies to replace basketball. Hobbies that don’t require athleticism, as it was clear my best days were behind me. Bowling, darts, scrap-booking... maybe I could get into bird-watching, I thought to myself.
Sometimes, when I look back on the events that transpired that day, I kick myself for not accepting Daryl’s offer for a rematch. Did I give up too easily? Was there a chance I could’ve redeemed myself? Why didn’t I try to force him to his weak side? He had no left hand.
Ultimately, I feel like I made the correct call. I was clearly outmatched, and leaving when I did certainly spared me additional embarrassment. Maybe one day in the future, I’ll get my confidence back and enter a pickup game, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just saw a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird out my window, and I need to log it in my journal.
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