Once upon a time -- OK, so about 30 years ago, when I could still hoop a (very) little -- I used to play pickup ball at the Y. Every Tuesday and sometimes Thursday, 6 a.m., with a bunch of other 30-somethings.
We were all dads. None of us thought we were MJ or Kobe. It was good times.
Anyway, one morning, one of the guys -- a big-as-a-house former football player/heavyweight wrestler with whom I went to high school -- set a pick. I ran spang into it, having violated the first rule of basketball, which is always keep your head up. It was like hitting a brick wall.
No, really. I literally bounced off him and hit the floor. Had we been in an episode of the campy old "Batman" series, the word "Splat!" would have appeared on the screen.
I'll give you two guesses what happened next:
1. I got up, shook my head and laughed while the guy I ran into -- a genial giant named Rick -- rushed over to see if I was OK, genuinely feeling awful about setting a blind pick.
2. I got up, called the cops and had Rick charged with aggravated assault.
OK, OK. So that was too easy. Of course it was "1."
On the other hand ...
On the other hand, that is not what happened here.
Yes, that's right. This ... wuss ... actually did call the cops.
Best part about this whole deal is how obviously puzzled/annoyed the poor officers are. I'm sorry, what? You called us because why? You do realize this is BASKETBALL, right? A little pushing, a little shoving, a hard screen here or there?
Yeesh. Suck it up, buttercup.
At least you didn't run into Rick.
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