That Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

And no, I'm not referring to the Holiday Season although even as I write this, some fool in a Santa Claus suit is riding a Harley up Van Buren.

And it's not even the 15th of November yet. Strength. Give me strength.

But I digress. I am referring is the basketball season which cranks up in earnest for the college and high school kids next week. The NBA started about 3 weeks ago but I don't watch those guys until the playoffs or unless the Indiana Pacers are on. But that's only to see if Ron Artest will go off on a ref. Or on an opposing center. Or on an entire section of fans in the bleachers.

Talk about entertainment!

Unlike my buddy at the newspaper (and you know who you are) I was but a modestly talented player. I got by only because my devotion to line drills and for diving for loose balls endeared me to the-mostly-redneck coaches I labored under as I came up. I was treated for the most part with disdain by the white guys who could actually play a little and by virtually all of the black guys. No matter. I made the team. Got to ride on the bus to the games and got to watch some good players up close and personal. And I do mean watch as I was rarely put in the actual game unless and until the outcome was well nigh determined. If you think this experience scarred me, a la Janis Ian and that stupid song in which she laments never being picked for the basketball team, you would be wrong. I was scarred aplenty by the practices sustaining, as I did, 2 broken noses in 5 years. But the games, no.

I am not nearly the avid fan of years gone by. Due to cable television and the Internet there is just too much basketball out there to follow it all. Still, most nights, I will have a game on, if only for background noise. Unless of course the Pacers are on. Then, being the mature sort that I am, I watch to see how quick Artest gets ejected. Little things amuse little minds.

On a less sordid note, it is not unheard of for me to take in a couple of high school games a week, especially if one of the schools in the neighborhood are playing. I go watch Hall, Catholic and the Belles up the hill at St. Mary's. It's therapy for me. I can just go, turn my brain off and watch kids play ball. I love it. Last year I took a 5 year old to his first high school basketball game. If you can't have fun at a sporting event with a little kid, you need your pulse checked.

However, honesty compels me at this point in the narrative to point something out. If NCAA Division I men's sports is a cesspool, and more than one person has suggested that it is, then basketball is the drainplug of the cesspool, the lowest of the low. Recruiting in basketball is nothing but a dirty arms race. And in every arm's race there are suppliers. To illustrate my point, let me tell you what happened to me about this time last year at a preseason tournament that was being played at Hall High down the street.

I had gone to see Catholic and Hall play each other. One of my old Little Leaguers was in his senior year at Catholic and he wanted me to come see him. This kid-let's call him Bobby- was big stuff in AAU ball but had tailed off considerably in high school as the other kids matured. (The last I heard is that Bobby had decided to walk on at Ole Miss. Bobby, I love ya, but rots of ruck.) Anyway, the new gym at Hall is built like unto a miniature version of "The Pit" at New Mexico with the actual court down about 3 stories below a promenade where one can stand and watch the game if you don't want to sit in the bleachers below.

As I stood there watching the game and admiring the handsome new building I was suddenly conscious of a presence next to me at the rail.

" Who you on, man?" There at my side stood a gentleman who was resplendent in a brown veloury sort of sweatsuit. This tasteful garment was accentuated by an equally immodest display of bling.

" Come again?" I said.

"Who you looking at, man? Who you got?"

It suddenly dawned on me. I had come to the game straight from the office. I was wearing what my aforementioned buddy at the paper derisively refers to as my "black ensemble" the latter word pronounced the correct French way. Nothing exudes scorn better than correct French diction.

Anyway, there I was in a black turtleneck slacks and trousers. I was wearing black Cole-Haan loafers. In my arms I held a black cashmere overcoat. And thus attired, I looked to this man to be a white basketball pimp: A John Calipari wannabee hanging around high school hoops trying to steer kids to schools in exchange for money.

Once I figured out what was going on, I decided to have some fun.

"You want to know who I'm on?" I whispered, leaning into him conspiratorially.

" Yeah." said Bling, leaning into me as well.

" Bobby." I said. "That's who I'm on."

The man recoiled. His jewelry made a clanking sound. "Bobby? For real?"

"Yep." I said, putting my index finger to my lips as if to say "Shhhhh." "I'm here to see Bobby. Now if you'll excuse me."

Bling returned to a group of similarly attired guys. Every now and again I noticed him pointing at me and shaking his head as he explained what he had heard from the White Basketball Pimp.

I tell this story mainly because it is amusing. But the underlying reality of it is not. Basketball is full up to the brim with scumbags, pimps, pseudo-experts and touts. Unlike football, you can turn things around with only one guy in hoops. Look at Carmelo Anthony and Syracuse. They win the NCAA tournament with him his freshman year and poof! he's outta there. And so the recruiting of these guys and their parents and their buddies is nothing if not intense. And money gets paid to guys sometime to make sure a kid gets delivered to State U. Business is business. It's a dirty arms race.

And yet I love it so. Sometimes, I dream that I am 16 again. I am standing on the free throw line with the ball in my hands. I can hear the cheerleaders. I can see my father in the stands. I can even smell the popcorn. I never actually shoot the ball in those dreams. Which is good because I would probably miss as I generally did in real life.

In my dream I am content to just be there in that old gym a lifetime away. Just me and a bunch of kids playing ball.

So don't be surprised if you see me in some gym in the People's Republic of Hillcrest on any given night. I still like to be around kids playing ball. I just try to ignore the pimps out on the periphery.