So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this previously, but I’ve done some basketballing in my day. This time of year really gets my basketball loins flowing with the blood of game winners and a dramatically increased number of offensive fouls. Talking b-ball boners, folks. I like to picture myself contributing to the Madness of March with a photogenic dive past an opponent for a loose ball (securing a moment in the One Shining Moment montage) before passing it off, recovering to the three point line and sinking a buzzer beating dagger in a 3 seed’s belly thus projecting myself to immediate internet fame via witty postgame interviews and a healthy dose of charm/abs only seen before from Ryan Gosling in Crazy Stupid Love.
Alas, my eligibility is out, and I am not hitting game winning three’s and having group sleepover’s with entire sororities anymore. Instead, I am sitting in what can only be described as the chair Satan gave Hitler when he finally got to his dorm in Hell. A pathetic, limp, backless office chair. A stool on wheels. I haven’t worked out in months, there is an empty box of crumb donuts in my overstuffed garbage and a sleeve of cinnamon rolls in the oven, but I have zero complaints about my situation because I am safe from the soul shattering, GIF-creating, emasculating event that is getting dunked on.
I spent a majority of my time in college playing power forward in small ball lineups. At 6’6″ 200 lbs, every man I guarded had at least 3 inches of height or 30-40 lbs of muscle on me, often both. My jumping ability was, and still is, virtually nonexistent. When you’re white, every mistake on defense is magnified as it’s assumed you already supremely stink at defense. So in order to make up for my ancestral deficiencies and stay on the court, I did stuff like slide in under every dunk attempt to take a charge. I had to calculate the perfect angle to take to keep every guy I ever guarded in front of me like RainMan Alan.
What I’m laying out for you, is I know the in’s and out’s of getting dunked on more than anyone on Earth not named Timofey Mozgov.
We’re sure to see plenty of the NCAA’s Indentured Servants in the next week become victims of some outrageous posters. Which sucks for them and me. I’ll likely suffer some mild form of Triple D PTSD(Dipsy-Do Dunkaroo).
Here’s the three worst ways to get dunked on, from experience.
#3 One on One in the Open Court
Very rarely does basketball become a one on one event, especially with the intricacies of team defense in today’s game. However, every once in awhile, a telegraphed pass is stolen in stride and a defender catches up.
Michael Cooper had an impressive career. Reeeal shame it died due to an overdose of funk administered by Dr. J.
Anyway, going into my junior year of high school, my team played eventual State Champion Monsignor Pace from Carol City in Miami in a Summer League. We were on center court, they had a very large and very rowdy crowd, and we were heavily outmatched. With about a minute left in the first half, one of their little guards (5’11”), Virgil Philistine, stole the ball and took off down the court. I had at least 7 inches on him, so I timed my steps, jumped, and looked for the layup in the air. At this point in my life I had been injury free, and I could actually jump very well. So I’m thinking I’m gonna smash this shit through the glass and get the crowd on my side.
The problem was, I had no clue little Virgil here would eventually win the Florida High School Dunk Contest. While I looked for the ball to pin against the glass, he cocked it so far back he may have wiped his ass with the ball before he threw it down, making contact with my arms and face in the process. And1. People lost their fucking minds. I had 30 in the first half and not a soul in the gym remembered.
#2 If the Dunker is a White
The dunk described above really hurt. I knew immediately I would be the punchline of many jokes. For the rest of the weekend, whenever I walked in the gym, whether it be to watch another game or play in one myself, I could see people pointing fingers at me. I would walk past a group of players and hear “That’s the white boy…” followed by a dramatic retelling of my demise. The thing was, some wrote it off as a nonevent because I was white. I had a built in excuse! White Men Cant Jump, right? Of course I got dunked on, I get sunburnt!
Now, when the Sunburnable’s are the dunker and not dunkee, it’s a whole different story. Me? Mostly the Dunkee. I have an older brother. A taller, stronger, more athletic version of myself that partakes in doing Slam Dunks quite often. For the most part, going to open gyms and men’s league games was great. Every team wants a basketball version of the Winklevoss Twins.
Then we play together, he scores literally every point, and people realize between games I’m here for defense, comic relief, and I’m a much safer driver. Sometimes, we end up on opposite teams, and inevitably, my Genetic Makeup sees it’s enhanced counterpart get an angle to the hoop and it convinces me I’m able to catch up and block the dunk attempt from behind, resulting in a chest to chest dunk every single time.
My brother’s a transparent guy, I can see it written all over his face. It pains him to do me like this Nooo why are you doing this yourself. This doesn’t involve you. This is between me and the guy everybody else thinks is good. That’s why I left you in the dirt at the three point line OH WELL and then he dunks it on anyone in the area and I run back on defense reminding myself I had a better GPA in college.
When a White does the dunking, the crowd makes an unusual sound, a splendid mix of shock, horror, and delight. The type of thing people see and remember for the rest of their lives. Where they were, when they saw it, what they were wearing. I’ve been on the receiving end many a time, and you guessed it, it stinks really badly.
#1 Dick in the Face Dunk
Friends. You’re in for a real treat here. A gem pulled from the extensive depths of my exquisite memory.
My freshman year of college, we played Jacksonville State at home. Due to a couple NCAA Academic Allegations and two ACL tears, our team was down to 9 active players. For all of Jan & Feb we couldn’t play live 5 on 5 in practice. Anyway, with 5 minutes left in the game, I was playing very small ball 5 with four fouls. A three pointer clanged hard off the rim for a long rebound that went directly to my matchup, a 6’11” man named Amadou, who looked up and gave me the exact smile from his Team Picture.
I was dead in the water. Standing underneath the rim with no fouls to give, he took a gather step and launched himself at the rim. He wrapped his legs around me and I felt penis on my forehead, ear, cheek, neck, and a little on the clavicle too. Shocking stuff, scarring, some would argue. I certainly didn’t lace up my Chuck Taylors for a game of roundball that day and expect to get slapped with an errant Kielbasa. In Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort had his pet 20 foot python named Nagini with him at all times to contribute to his evil doings. In real life, Amadou Mbodji kept his version of Nagini in his shorts while he played basketball and clubbed defenders in the head with it as he joyously hung on the rim.
Also, if you thought to yourself, that looks like a guy that wears boxers instead of tights when he plays basketball when you saw the picture from his Bio, then you were absolutely correct. It’s no coincidence Amadou went to a school whose mascot is the Gamecocks. See the hidden word in there? Allow me to help. Gamecocks. See it now?
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times. Getting dunked on stinks to high hell. That being said, nothing is worse than getting crossed up. That shit is downright humiliating.
I watch this and automatically assume this guy is locked in a padded room now suffering from visions of homicidal hesi’s.
Good day to all.
wakeandtake.blog 