RETIREMENT

Yes folks, last night was my last night on the floor as a participating member of Saturday Night Basketball at Lakeside Church. While I will still continue to participate in tournaments and other tomfoolery that takes place in the hallowed halls of the Family Life Center, I am stepping down from being a contributor to the banality that we all know as “streetball.”

Streetball is basketball in its most degraded form. Kinda like rap is to music. Let’s take a look at this Wikipedia entry on streetball:

Streetball is an urban form of basketball, played in playgrounds and imitated in gymnasiums across the world.

Imitated is correct. On Saturday nights we see a bunch of headstrong, selfish, and sometimes just plain rude people walk through the doors, step foot onto the court and try to prove to the world that somehow, someway they are the next Michael Jordan…even though they probably couldn’t even crack the varsity roster at their local high school. Games ensue and more often than not, they become exhibitions where one person will make two shots in a row and subsequently try to do whatever they can to score the remaining points necessary for victory, many times forgetting teammates who are working hard on offense and defense to create opportunities to win the game.

God forbid someone gets fouled or turns the ball over. I don’t know if it’s a prerequisite for streetball or not, but usually the shouting matches that ensue between two players on opposing teams due to disagreements over a turnover or foul are more interesting than the game action itself. Here’s a sample:

Player 1: “Dawg, you just straight dribblt that bawl out, yo.”
Player 2: “($)#)@#!!! I don’kno whatchew talkin’bout nigga!”
Player 1: “You crost dat black line mah, dat’s out! Gimme datball!”
Player 2: “Mah this some #()%)@ up sh#(%*, mah. I getchew nextime bruh.”

Then a third party has to come in and separate the two because the echo of poorly constructed sentences, words jamming together and expletives peppered in are reverberating through the sheet metal walls. God bless the third party, because usually it’s Tyler, Chris Brooks, or some other wise sage walking over to separate two goats who have locked horns.

God also forbid someone actually play defense. I average a few blocks and steals per game, and it turns out that when I or someone else create a turnover, the offense isn’t setting up because they’re too stunned the other team didn’t score. So then we end up turning the ball back over when I give it up to the point guard who is busy drooling over the fact that WE ACTUALLY STOLE THE BALL.

Wipe your spit off the floor man, we don’t need anyone twisting an ankle on that wet spot on the floor.

I absolutely hate streetball. James Naismith is rolling in his grave. Poor guy.

But Saturday Night Basketball has one redeeming quality, and it’s the reason that it should continue until the building is condemned: the fact that church folks are hosting it, and people who walk inside the FLC doors know it is a church they are walking into. If basketball is the way we can communicate with the community and bring them the Gospel, then I’m all for it.

You see, even if we don’t talk about Jesus directly, it’s still an environment that has been nurtured and cultivated by Christians wanting to exalt the name of Christ, and if the Holy Spirit is there, I personally believe that anyone who is open to the concept of Jesus will be blessed by that environment. Then the door for ministry opens.

It’s a good thing they’ve got going on there, they just need some guys wearing striped shirts. So when you see me next Saturday night at the FLC gym, don’t be surprised when you notice I’ve traded my red and black Adidas for flip-flops….and a different shirt.

UNRETIREMENT

Today was my first day participating in a round of Disc Golf at Newport News Park. Last time I was there in April of last year, I went on a horrible tirade on the 17th hole — a deadly combination of having just been stood up by an unnamed girl from Indiana, the realization I had spent $300 on a trip that wasn’t worth squat, already having thrown the disc 72 times that day, and having hit the tree for about the 30th. I had it and I took my frustrations out on the sign telling everybody that they are at the 17th hole, and it hasn’t been seen since by anyone.

Except for me. Hee hee hee.

So today I went back after having retired from disc golf in disgrace after one match. Kevin, Tyler, Jessie, Krista and I enjoyed a pleasant round of disc golf in which I hit the tree maybe only six times and ended up throwing a four-over-par 65 for the course. Not bad at all. When you factor in that this was my second time ever playing disc golf, I birdied the 17th hole, and dealt with a nasty curve on all my throws, 65 is awesome.

And it was all on a borrowed disc that I ended up buying from Kevin for $10 after the match. He hates it, but I like it, so I took it home and named it Brewstradamus. Brewy and I will end up teaming up for many four-over-par 65’s in the future.

But now I must sleep and reflect on my good fortunes. Toodles.