Sleepwalk With Me_ And Other Painfully True Stories - Mike Birbiglia [8]
So I set my mind to it.
I asked my parents to put a basketball hoop in the driveway. So they did. It was on the garage. And since the cars needed to get under it, they placed the hoop eleven and a half feet high, a foot and a half above regulation. The legend claimed that Larry was the first guy to practice and the last guy to leave, hitting free throws until he was nearly blind. So that’s what I did. I’d hit free throw after eleven-and-a-half-foot free throw until I was blind. Or I should say, until it was dark. I was really good at playing basketball alone: baskurbation. Surely my solo basketball skills would blow the other kids’ minds when I showed them off.
Pat Salazar’s dad was a cop. He was a terse, solid man who looked like he might have played college basketball himself. And when I was in fifth grade, he invited a herd of Pat’s friends to play basketball at Dean Park. It was the first time I’d be able to strut my stuff. Let the mind blowing begin.
Warming up, I knock down a few jump shots. I throw up some free throws. Looking good. Then we pick teams and the game begins. Right away, a new teammate passes me the ball and I attempt a shot, but Nick Spinelli immediately stuffs me. I turn to Mr. Salazar, “Foul?”
“No way. Nothing but ball.”
That must be a fluke. That guy’s a great defender. Nick may just be the Magic to my Larry.
Moments later the ball comes to me again on the perimeter and I throw up another jumper. Stuffed. Turnover. I’m beginning to lose the support of my team. I’m sure Larry dealt with this all the time. After two more of these getting stuffed moments, Mr. Salazar pulls me aside and explains that the problem is my stance. “Look, Mike—you’re about five feet tall and these other guys are about five six, and you’re shooting the ball from just below your chest.” He shows me how to stand and launch the ball from just above my head. “Like Bird,” he says. Now he’s speaking my language. I’ll shoot my jumpers like Bird. Soon I’ll be in the NBA and then the Hall of Fame, and on the side I’ll be a professional break-dancer. All thanks to you, Mr. Salazar!
When the game resumes, I’m passed the ball and I attempt another shot, this time with this new “Larry Bird” style. And this time I’m not stuffed. But a very unusual thing happens. My shot does not reach the height of the hoop nor travel the distance between me and the hoop. It looks like I’m playing a different sport altogether, like volleyball. Or shot put. Or some kind of British sport I’m not familiar with. That’s when everyone starts laughing and I start crying. I find that you really lose the confidence of your fellow basketball players when you cry in the middle of a game. They will not throw you the rock when they see tears streaming down your face.
The next time I call for the ball, shouting, “I’m open!” they give me this look like, We know. We’re well aware of your openness.
“There’s nobody covering me!”
We wouldn’t either if we were on the other team, which we wish we were.
At the next water break, Pat Salazar asks if I’m hurt. I play it off like I am. “Yeah. Yeah. I think it’s my elbow.” But the truth is I’m not hurt. No one fouled me. No one even came close to fouling me. I wish they did. I could have shown off my free throw.
My professional basketball plans may have been cut short by the reality of opposing players, but as long as sharks still rhymed with parks, no one could convince me that I couldn’t be a professional poet or rapper. And when the Shrewsbury police department visited St. Mary’s School to conduct their “DARE to Keep Kids Off Drugs” program, I saw the opportunity to launch my career as a rap star who also happened to hate drugs.
Looking back on it, could there possibly have been a more confusing acronym for trying to keep kids from experimenting with drugs than DARE?
“Kids, we’re here today to DARE you not to do drugs! We DARE you to accept our DARE!”
“Officer, does