After the grand success of this year's Birdmas LarryLand video, many of you might be wondering "How did Evil Ted spend the most sacred of Basketball-related holidays, Birdmas?" Or maybe none of you are wondering that. Either way, I'm going to report on it.
I spent Birdmas this year in Cleveland, partially in an attempt to spread Birdmas cheer to a town that needed it so desperately A.L. (after LeBron), and partly because my wife's side of the family lives there.
Birdmas tradition states that the most fervent of Larry Bird supporters (that, of course, was me) dress up as Larry Legend and sit and the head of the table for the Birdmas Eve meal. Before eating, it is also tradition for Larry Legend to recite The Night Before Birdmas, which I did in my best dramatic timbre.
My in-laws patiently tolerated the lengthy poem as the Birdmas turkey got cold, but did look a little perturbed when I tossed the powdered sugar into the air afterward like LeBron James. Oh well. Finally it was time to carve the Birdmas Bird.
Look at the majestic combination of joy and
let's-get-this-stupid-thing-over-with-so-we-can-eat looks on the children's faces.
Now don't go thinking wrote this post just because I had some doofy pictures I took at Thanksgiving and forgot to put them in the montage at the end of the video. That totally didn't happen. And don't think my wife's family got mad because I held up Thanksgiving dinner for ten minutes and then didn't use the pictures. This has nothing to do with that. Nothing.
Anyway, I might as well take this opportunity to give you a bonus treat - the bloopers and deleted scenes from LarryLand. Expect to laugh, cry, and say things like "Yeah, I can see why that segment didn't make the cut." Enjoy! -ET
And one final bit of business: A picture of Larry Liberty was requested for PC wallpaper. Here it is. The only "watermark" is a tiny Evil Ted standing in the crown. Please don't erase me!
Oh, and it was also pointed out to me that I missed the detail of wearing long tube socks in my Michael Cooper tornado segment. Agreed, I missed it, and will go to my grave wishing I'd thought of it.
Or I won't care at all...one of the two.
However, as far as player costumes go, there is one detail nobody has thus far noticed. Here is your challenge should you accept it: find the extremely minute detail in Basketbawful's Laimbeer costume. Hint: You can see it briefly in the terrace scene. Good luck!
Merry Birdmas, everyone! This year we have a real treat for you - an exclusive tour of LarryLand, a vast theme park located on the outskirts of French Lick, Indiana, devoted to Larry Legend. We visit the top attractions of this amazing park, like Bill Russell Title Town, DJ's Science Circle, and the Larry Coaster. We even get an inside look at some of the quirky, but devoted fans who visit LarryLand. Prepare for a Larrylicious amount of fun. - ET
Editor's note: For those of you missing the usual bawful, Worst of the Night will return tomorrow.
...so you'd better go out and buy some protective headgear, because this year's epic Birdmas video is going to kick your head's ass. In a good way.
If you need a teaser, how's this: To support the cause, I reluctantly donned an unnamed NBA player's official jersey...one nobody ever thought I'd wear. And a wig.
If you need your fix of crappy basketball from last weekend, check out the BAD comments.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to sing a few verses of Silent Forum.
Editor's note: Yeah, I know this is kinda like me copping out of my usual Worst of the Weekend post. So if anybody wants my views on anything that happened over the weekend, ask away in the comments and I promise to reply.
Robert Parish is one of my favorite players ever. I grew up screaming "CHIEF!!" every time Parish hit one of his patented turnaround jumpers or jammed home a pick-and-roll pass from Larry Bird. I loved his poise, his unselfishness, and his aura of stoic nobility. I also loved it when he sucker-punched Bill Laimbeer in Game 5 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals.
Yeah, I probably shouldn't love that, but I do. If anybody ever had it coming, it was Laimbeer.
All that said, I'm starting to think Parish has lost his nut a little. And not just because he recently said: "I think Shaq will definitely bring a defensive presence along with Garnett. He's going to cause a lot of havoc defensively."
"I think Paul Pierce, the way he manufactures points is the best player the Celtics have seen thus far. That's saying a lot because you are talking about John Havlicek, [who] was the best offensive player that the Celtics had, the way he manufactures points. But Paul Pierce has them all beat. He’s got the Sam Joneses, the (Don) Nelsons, the Tommy Heinsohns, Jones, Havlicek, (Larry) Bird, (Kevin) McHale, myself. Paul Pierce is the best offensive player the Celtics have seen thus far."
That statement is stunning. No, really. I'm stunned. Parish played with Larry Bird. And I'm going to go ahead and assumed he's watched Pierce play at least a few times.
But still, I'm not sure what Parish could have possibly smoked enough of to make him think that Pierce is a better offensive player than Bird. Don't get me wrong. Pierce is pretty darn good. He can nail the three, has a solid mid-range game, and perfected that sweet move where he spins right and pulls up for a jumper. Paul also has a nice head fake, can get to the basket, and either finish or draw fouls.
Of course, Bird could do all of that and more. He could shoot either either hand. He could post up. He had a hook shot going righty or lefty. Heck, Bird once got so bored with being so awesome he tried to spend an entire game shooting left-handed (and finished with 47 points, 14 rebounds and 11 assists...the night after going off for 35/15/11 in Seattle).
I mean, have you ever seen Pierce do something like this:
Don't take my word for it, though. If my progressive series of Larry Bird tattoos is any indication, I can't think clearly when it comes to The Legend. So let's consult the stats.
Note: Bird played 897 career games. Pierce has played 884 so far. Also, where appropriate, I have included the all-time rank next to the stat.
Career Stats: Raw Numbers Larry Bird PPG: 24.3 (16) FPG: .496 3P%: 376 (92) FTP: 88.6 (10) APG: 6.3 (41) ORB: 2.0
As you can see, the raw numbers all favor Larry Legend. Some other random facts:
Bird ranked in the top 10 in PPG six times. Pierce has done it five times.
Bird shot 50 percent or better five times and barely missed 50 percent two other times (.496 in 1985-86 and .492 in 1983-84). Pierce has never shot better than .472. Bird's career worst FGP of .454 (which happened during his injury-ravaged 1990-91 season) eclipsed six of Pierce's seasons and equalled his 2000-01 campaign.
Bird ranked in the top 10 in three-point percentage seven times and shot better than 40 percent six times. Pierce has never been a top 10 three-point shooter and has hit 40 percent or better three times. It's true that there are more and better three-point marksmen today than there were in the 1980s, but this shows how Bird measured up to his contemporaries.
Bird ranked in the top 10 in free throw percentage 11 times and led the league four times. Pierce has never ranked in the top 10 in this category.
Pierce has 19 career games in which he scored 40 or more points.
Bird had 27 games with 40-plus points from 1986-87 through 1991-92. That included one six-game season (1988-89) and his final two injury-ravaged seasons (1990-91 and 1991-92). It also doesn't include any of his three MVP seasons. (Man, I wish Basketball-Reference would get box scores going back to before Bird's career.)
Bird ranks fifth all-time with 59 career triple-doubles. Pierce has six.
But hey, maybe the raw numbers lie. Let's take a look at the advanced stats that are supposed to take various confounders (pace, era, quality of teammates) into account.
Pierce has a very slight edge in True Shooting Percentage...and that's it. All the other advanced stats go Larry's way. Some other random facts:
Bird has three top 10 finishes in Offensive Rating. Pierce has none.
Bird has six top 10 finishes in Offensive Win Shares, including a first place finish in 1984-85. Pierce's best finish was 10th in 2004-05.
Look, Pierce is one of the great scorers of his era. Bird is one of the great scorers of all-time. The only reasonable conclusion I can come to -- and Zach Lowe of CelticsHub agrees -- is that The Legend was clearly a better offensive player than The Truth.
Once I made it my goal to play on the varsity team during my senior year, my training kicked into overdrive. Nearly everything took a back seat to working out, practicing and running drills. I was so single-mindedly devoted to this process that I couldn't imagine failure.
Of course, many things are clear in retrospect. I was working out, but my routine hadn't been designed by anyone with personal training expertise. It had, in fact, been designed by me, a high school kid who one short year ago hadn't been able to run down the block or carry a 100-pound box of weights. Furthermore, I was practicing and running drills without the benefit of an actual basketball coach -- or even a coach-like father figure -- to provide guidance.
The point is, I was working hard, but the results weren't nearly as effective as I imagined.
But I was training in a bubble of my own creation. I often practiced alone, or I played in the intramural league (which, as noted, was crappy crap basketball), or I went to outdoor courts where I was unconsciously or semi-consciously choosing competition that didn't intimidate me. That's not to say I didn't occasionally play -- and play well -- against solid competition. But I wasn't exactly being forged in the fires of adversity.
Frankly, I was winning too often against inferior competition. It inflated my sense of where I was as a basketball player.
Now, I said "nearly everything" came second to my obsession with playing basketball. There were a few things that managed to sneak in and wrestle away some of my spare time. One of those things was watching basketball. The Celtics had been struggling all season, due mostly to a) age and b) injuries to Larry Bird and Kevin McHale. But as the season was coming to a close, Bird and McHale seemed relatively healthy, and the Celtics went on a tear. They had won seven games in a row and were hot on the heels of Pat Riley's Knicks, who were leading the Atlantic Division.
On April 3, my mom took me and my buddy Greg to a Celtics-Pacers game at Market Square Arena, which was a great place to experience a live game. Honestly, I'm not a big fan of these new luxury arenas. They make the game feel like a sideshow. Market Square Arena, the old Chicago Stadium, the Boston Garden (although I never made it to the old Gah-den for a game)...those places were basketball Meccas. You went there to live a basketball game. The new arenas were built to attract as many people as possible, to make basketball seem like a family outing, or a place to take your date, or a venue to entertain clients. In short, they were built to make money, not enhance the basketball viewing experience.
Anyway, it was a great game. The previous season, the Pacers had pushed the Celtics to the limit in a very heated first round series. In the fifth and final game -- this was back when the first round series were best-of-five -- Bird, who already had a bad back, knocked himself out diving for a loose ball. He came back in dramatic fashion, scored 32 points (to go along with 9 rebounds and 7 assists in only 33 minutes), and finished off the Pacers in his last truly legendary playoff performance. Here are some highlights:
With that playoff series as a backdrop, every game against these teams seemed to have greater meaning. The crowd was electric.
Boston fell behind by 17 points early in the fourth before stating a late rally. The crowd was giving the Celtics absolute hell. That, in itself, was quite a turnaround, because Bird was from Indiana and therefore the Celtics usually got a lot of support in Indiana. (Former Pacers guard Vern Fleming once joked after a home win over the C's that "It was nice to come away with a win at the Garden.") Anyway, during a fourth quarter timeout, with everybody around us cussing and damning the Celts, Greg turned to my mom and said, "Thanks for taking us to the game, Mrs. McHale."
Remember: Kevin McHale was on the Celtics back then, and was still a major star in the league. The people around us went dead silent. They must have thought we were related to McHale. Hell, they may have thought my mom was Kevin's wife. Whatever they thought, the cussing and damning got a little muted in our section for the remainder of the game.
The Celtics almost stole the game. Near the end, Boston was down a couple points when Bird badly missed a three-pointer that might have won it. The C's were forced to foul, the Pacers hit their free throws, and Boston lost 101-97.
During the game, Bird had received a brutal shot in the back from wanna-be rival Chuck Person. Person -- who struggles that night, scoring only 8 points on 3-for-15 shooting -- had apparently decided the best way to make a name for himself in the league was to stoke this supposed rivalry with Bird, so he was always trying to go one-on-one against Larry, and occasionally that meant getting physical or taking cheap shots. Well, this particular cheap shot sent Bird to the floor.
Bird got up slowly and left the game, which was part of why the Pacers built that 17-point lead. But Bird came back and finished the game -- he had 16 points, 9 rebounds and 10 assists but shot only 8-for-20 -- so I figured everything was okay.
It wasn't. Either the blow or the fall (or both) had aggravated his back injury. Bird missed the rest of the regular season. He returned for four playoff games, struggled through the Olympics -- that was the year of the Dream Team -- and then retired. So, although I didn't know it at the time, I had been there for Larry's last regular season game.
Bird's absence didn't hurt the Celtics. They finished the season with eight straight wins -- including a 97-86 home win over the Bulls, who were on pace for 70 wins at the time -- and stole the division title from the Knicks.
Another thing I had time for was my hopeless crush on my friend Cindy. Amazingly, I'd had a crush on her for over two years without making anything near what you'd call a "move." I didn't even have her phone number yet. This changed near the end of the school year. It went down like this. Most of the juniors in my school were set to take the SAT on Saturday, May 2. My entire class was on pins and needles.
I was extra nervous. Firstly because the Celtics -- who had swept the Pacers in the first round despite Bird's continuing absence -- were opening their second round series with the Cleveland Cavaliers that day, which meant I was going to miss the game. This really pissed me off. I couldn't believe my academic future was coming between me and a Celtics playoff game. Sure, I was going to record the game, but I felt like my inability to watch the game live could actually affect the outcome. No, really. I kind of believed it.
I had a second reason to be nervous. On Friday, I had been talking to Cindy about the SAT -- she was freaking out too -- and, for reasons unknown, I blurted out, "Heyyouwannagivemeacallsometime?"
"What?" she asked, apparently unable to decipher my word mush.
Haltingly, I repeated, "Do you want to...give me...a call...sometime?"
She gave me what I remember was a huge smile and said, "I'd love to!" I'm pretty sure something inside me either melted or exploded. Maybe both things happen. I don't really understand human anatomy.
So I went into the SAT thinking about everything but taking the most important test of my life to date. Would the Celtics win? Would Cindy call me? Could Cindy call me? Would the Celtics win? I knew I should be focusing, preparing myself for test taking. But those two things seemed more important than anything else could possibly be. Until the test administrator set the ScanTron form and question booklet in front of me. It hit me then, for the very first that, that "Oh fuck! I have to take the SAT!"
Sweat started to gush from my pores.
I don't remember anything about that test. Not a single thing. I blanked it from my mind. I walked out in a haze, just like everybody else who had taken it. Seriously, the image of stunned test takers shuffling out of my school looked like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie.
My buddy Dave D. and I shambled across the street to his house to find out the result of the Celts-Cavs game. During his early childhood, his family had lived in a little town just outside of Cleveland, so Dave was (and is) a huge fan of the Browns and the Cavaliers, two of history's most depressing teams. So whenever those squads were any good -- and the Cavs had tied the Trail Blazers for the second-best record in the league that season, so they were pretty good -- Dave got extra worked up.
As it turned out, the game was just ending. Well, technically speaking. It had apparently ended a long time ago, but even back then David Stern was forcing teams to play the full 48 minutes even in the case of a blowout. Which is exactly what this was. The Celtics lost 101-76.
I felt so incredibly low. The SAT had fried my brain and I was pretty certain I had bombed it. Then I walked in on the end of an ass kicking, where my team was the ass getting kicked. I drove home and my mom reminded me that I had to mow the lawn. Back then, because we had a dog, "mowing the lawn" meant more than just cutting the grass. Before firing up the lawn mower, I had to pull out the pooper scooper and clean up the care packages my dog, Pookie, had left throughout our giant back yard. (For the record, Pookie was named after the teddy bear owned by Garfield.)
That was my day: Eff up the SAT, see the Celtics get humiliated, scoop up shit and mow the lawn. Cue the confetti.
My mom brought me a glass of water when I was finished cutting the grass. We were talking about SAT when I heard the phone ring. I literally threw my cup aside and went running helter-skelter into the house.
"Hello," I said into the receiver, slightly out of breath.
"Hey, is this Matt?" It was Cindy.
"Yeah!" I said, sounding way too excited.
"I told you I'd call," she said, explaining why she had, in fact, called me.
"I know!" I said, still too excited. No, really, I was waaaaay too excited. You'd think I'd just seen a double complete rainbow or something.
I managed to not scare her off by being a complete and total spaz, and we had one of those stupid, teenage first phone calls. It was short, but felt totally sweet. For me, it redeemed what had been a pretty crappy day.
When my mom asked how the call went, I said something totally lame like, "It was a really nice call." I probably sighed in happiness, presumably with cartoon hearts circling my head. Did I mention I was a huge dork back then? (Some people who know me now would argue I should use a strikethrough on the "back then" part.)
With the SAT out of the way, I resumed my basketball über alles lifestyle, save for a) the occasional phone calls to or from Cindy, b) nights out with my buddies, or c) shifts at the Ponderosa.
I should also point out that I had to watch the Celtics get eliminated by the Cavaliers. The C's actually recovered from their Game 1 blowout by winning Game 2 in Cleveland 104-98 behind Robert Parish's game-high 27 points. Mind you, the Cavs had lost only six home games all season. Boston then won Game 3 too. Reggie Lewis was on fire. Team chemistry was great. It looked like the Celtics were on a collision course for an Eastern Conference Finals showdown with the Bulls.
Then Bird came back.
Here's the thing. The Celtics had been forced to play long stretches without Bird. They had found a rotation that worked. Everything was clicking. And, frankly, the team was feeding off Reggie Lewis, who had taken over as the team leader. But when Bird came back, things changed. On paper, Larry's return should have pushed Boston to the next level. Instead, Bird disrupted the flow that had been established while he was rehabbing.
The Celtics brought Larry back for Game 4, probably hoping to fire up the crowd and the team, and therefore take a commanding 3-1 series lead. Credit the Cavaliers -- who really were a very good team -- for weathering the storm. Bird didn't play well (4 points, 1-for-5, 2 rebounds, 3 assists), but Reggie Lewis was on fire (42 points, 16-for-28). The game was close all the way. It was tied at the end of regulation. The final play was drawn up for Lewis, who inexplicably dumped it off the Bird at the last second. Bird missed the shot and the game went to OT. At the end of OT, the Celts had the ball down two. Lewis again deferred to Bird...who again missed a buzzer-beater.
The teams traded home blowouts over the next three games. The Cavaliers finished the Celtics off in Game 7 in Cleveland as Bird ended his NBA career by scoring 12 points in a 122-104 loss. And at the end of that series, I was (rather painfully) forced to admit (if only to myself) that the Celtics had -- in this particular instance -- been better without Larry Bird. It was one of the saddest days of my young life.
But life always goes on. And I had training to take my mind off of Larry's last game.
With the weather severely limiting my ability to spent countless hours playing basketball on the various outdoor courts of my hometown, I decided to use the extra time for off-court training.
The decision was made one particularly bitter February day while visiting Gauvin. There was an old weight bench (complete with the weights) sitting in a heap in the backyard, half-buried in the snow. I rather stupidly asked Gauvin whether the bench was being used, and Gauvin rather stupidly replied, "I don't know."
Teenagers.
Anyway, this led to a short negotiation with Gauvin's dad, Vern, for ownership of the unused weight bench. We settled on a price of $50, which I thought was a pretty good deal for a bench that came with all the weights (most benches I had seen in the local sporting goods stores were sold without the weights). I'm sure Vern thought he was the one who'd gotten the deal, considering he now had a wad of cash in his pocket from selling something that was probably destined to be thrown out with the trash someday soon.
Gauvin helped me load the bench into my Fury, and I quickly drove home to set it up. There wasn't any room in my house for a weight bench, so I had to set it up in the garage. Of course, my mom was (and still is) a bit of a hoarder -- and saying "a bit" is a probably a significant understatement -- so I had to wedge the bench into very small space between boxes of Christmas decorations and huge bags of who-knows-what.
The bench was a little on the wobbly side, not to mention more than a little rusty, but I was stoked. I had been eyeballing weight benches for a while. Of all possible exercises, bench pressing seemed like the most manly. That's what all the guys at school either did, wanted to do, or talked about doing. In terms of the measures of manhood, the amount of weight a young man could bench press rivaled penis size and how many bases he had made it to with a girl.
Now, I had never actually attempted a bench press before, and I didn't attempt one the day I set up my new-but-used bench. I have no idea why. I guess the act of transporting it to my house and assembling it had been enough of a workout that day. Instead, I waited until one day after school the next week...which ended up being a pretty big mistake.
Oddly enough, my mom was out of town. She was still working at Delco Electronics, which made various car parts for General Motors. However, she has somehow stumbled into a position as liaison with another Delco plant that had been opened in Mexico, where the workers could be paid in lesser currencies (old rocks and chunks of rusty metal for instance) to do the same work fat Kokomoans were doing for upwards of $30 an hour. At any rate, my mom was in another country, and I was home alone.
I am very sad and embarrassed to report that this did not lead to a wild party or any other adventures. I didn't put a bra on my head and try to make a girl using an old Commodore 64, ala Weird Science. (But don't think I didn't want to. I mean the making a girl part, not the bra on my head part.) Nope. I did a lot of sitting around and eating pizza. And I tried out my weight bench.
Someone had driven my mom to the airport, so her car was still in the garage. The available space was so packed with stuff that I could barely walk through it to get to the bench. Inexperienced as I was, I didn't have a clear idea about how much weight I should use. However, 200 pounds sounded like a nice, manly number. So I jammed a hundred pounds of weights onto either side of the bar, squeezed past our old Christmas tree, and settled down onto the bench.
It took literally all my might to heave the bar off the bench, which should have made my Spider Sense tingle. But I was psyched and my testosterone was pumping. Therefore, instead of dropping the bar back into the braces, I slowly lowered it to my chest...
...and there it stayed.
I couldn't move it. I could not lift this thing an inch off my chest. In fact, it was taking every iota of my available strength to keep it from laying directly on me. Within about a minute of struggling, I didn't have enough strength for even that, and I was forced to let a portion of the weight rest on my chest. Now, I had grown up reading comic books, and whenever a hero really, really needed to something that required a phenomenal amount of strength, they would just imagine something inspiring -- like how Aunt May was going to die if Spider-Man didn't recover the poison antidote that Doctor Octopus had left laying just out of his reach -- which would result in an adrenaline surge that provided the hero without however much strength was required to accomplish the heretofore impossible task.
Well, I tried this method. Turns out, it doesn't work very well unless you've been bitten by a radioactive spider or exposed to gamma rays.
Now the weight was really pressing down on me. I couldn't expand my chest to get full breaths, so when I tried to scream all that came out was a rattling gasp. There was so much crap on either side of the bench, I couldn't tip the weights to either side of me. There was no escape. I couldn't yell for help. And my mom wasn't going to be home for days.
I'm going to die, I thought.
That did it. Now I got an adrenaline surge. However, it wasn't a dramatic movie moment. Like, I didn't toss the weighted bar aside like it was a paper weight. Instead, my adrenaline provided me just enough power to kinda-sorta lift the bar up enough on one side to wriggle and squirm my way -- slowly and painfully -- out from underneath the bar (while also sliding partially under my mom's car in the process).
I celebrated my survival by kicking the weight bench that had almost just killed me...bruising the hell out of my foot in the process.
Good times.
Shortly after learning the importance of slowly building up to larger amounts of weight on bench press, I purchased a punching bag. Although, like most wanna-be manly men, I wanted a heavy bag, I opted to go for a speed bag instead. This was because I had heard or read somewhere that using a speed bag was good both for cardiovascular conditioning and for improving hand-eye coordination, which was a skill that could translate to other sports as well.
Because I didn't have a father around to do it for me, I had to install the bag myself. This was a problem because, again, I didn't have a father around to teach me important things. Such as when installing heavy items into drywall, you should really try to secure it into studs or wall supports. That would have been some damn handy information to have. I simply borrowed a drill from my next door neighbor, drilled some holes and screwed that sucker directly into the thin, flakey drywall.
I'm sure you can figure out where I'm going with this.
All things considered, I'm surprised things didn't go worse. I think the thing managed to stay in the wall for a couple weeks, which was probably a couple weeks longer than it should have. But at some point -- probably when I was punching for power instead of speed and dexterity -- the whole unit slid right off the wall and fell on me. Of course, being the idiot that I was, I just drilled some new holes and screwed it back onto the wall. This time, it only stayed up a couple days before falling off (this time I was ready and jumped out of the way in time).
Another failure.
Soon, I convinced Dave and Gauvin to come over and work out with me after school (but before my mom came home, meaning we had the extra car space to move around in). These days, between magazines like Men's Health and what you can find on the Internet, there are endless sources for good workout routines. But when I was a teenager, all we had were whatever crappy crap we could find at local bookstores or hear about by word of mouth.
This led to various forms of unintentional hilarity. For instance, Dave had heard from the friend of a friend of his brother's that a good ab workout was to stand against a solid wall, tighten your stomach muscles and let somebody punch you rapidly in the gut for a couple minutes (or however long you could ensure it). Next thing you knew, we were standing around punching each other. As a workout.
We also started running together. Unfortunately, Gauvin wasn't a runner. So the running circuit we devised -- which ran from Dave's house (which was across the street from our high school and a couple blocks from Boulevard school) to Highland Park (Kokomo's most prestigious park, home to Old Ben, the world's largest preserved steer) -- was much too far for Gauvin's tastes.
Therefore, it would go like this. We would start off at a moderate pace for the first half-mile or so. That's the point where Gauvin would start to lag behind. It wasn't that Gauvin wasn't in good shape. Hell, Vern believed in punishing his children with pushups and pull-ups. But he had no cardiovascular endurance whatsoever, mostly because he hated (and still hates) all forms of exercise that develop that kind of endurance.
After Gauvin started his "granny shuffle" (as me and Dave secretly called it), Dave and I would maintain our original pace until we'd gotten maybe a quarter mile ahead of Gauvin. Then we'd turn around, run back to where he was, then turn back around and resume our forward run. We would continue doing this for the duration of the run, meaning Dave and I would eventually run nearly twice the actual distance between the two points.
I should probably note that, at this particular time in my life, I didn't have a very clear notion of what good workout gear was. I had a standard basketball outfit (black Purdue shorts and a matching tank). But here was what I typically worked out in: an old-school Hulkamania tank top (complete with three rips across the back), a "Hulk Rules" bandana and a pair of yellow Purdue shorts. I probably looked like a huge, nerdy banana.
What's more, I owned exactly one pair of shoes: a pair of black Converse high tops. That's right, baby! I was rocking the Converse Weapon. These were my school shoes, my weight lifting shoes and my running shoes. They also would have been my date shoes if I had been going on any dates. Come to think about it, this fact might partially explain why I wasn't dating.
Here's a funny story. My future girlfriend, Aimee, heard me talking about going for a run and suggested we go running some time. I showed up for that run in -- I shit you not -- a pair of jean shorts and a Larry Bird t-shirt. Within about half a second of seeing me, Aimee said: "You...do realize we're going running right?"
That was the point where I finally went out and bought some legit workout clothes: mesh athletic shorts and tanks. Most of them were of decent size and quality, but, much to ongoing shame, I purchased a pair of 1980s-style Celtics practice shorts.
That is, short shorts.
What's worse, I would pair them with bike shorts (worn underneath), which had become a semi-popular practice in the NBA. I thought I looked awesome.
Regardless of how I looked, the new duds certainly made working out a lot more comfortable (and therefore enjoyable). So much so that I couldn't believe I'd been working out in what were basically street clothes for so long.
Anyway, winter was finally starting to fade. Around mid-March, the NBA on NBC was airing a matchup between the Boston Celtics and the Portland Trail Blazers. At the time, the Celtics were struggling (having lost three straight) and the Blazers were on fire (having won seven in a row). Larry Bird was on his last legs and playing in a cumbersome back brace that made him look either fat or box-like, depending on your point of view. Even worse, Portland -- the second-best team in the league and widely considered the only team that could knock the Bulls off in the Finals -- were a young, running, gunning team...Kryptonite for an old, gimpy team like Boston.
It was supposed to be a blowout. Instead, viewers were treated to an instant classic: Clyde Drexler went crazy (41 points, 8 rebounds, 11 assists, and 17 free throw attempts) but Larry Bird was, well, Larry Bird: 49 points (19-for-35), 14 rebounds, 12 assists, 4 steals and a blocked shot. What's more, Bird hit one of the craziest buzzer-beaters I've ever seen to force OT...a one-handed push shot while shuffling his feet in the midst of a bear hug from Drexler. It was, and still is, unbelievable that thing went in.
Here are some highlights:
I cannot tell you how juiced up I was after that game. It had seemed, I don't know, world changing. I felt like Bird was back. I felt like the Celtics could totally win the title that year as long as everybody stayed healthy. I thought, as Kevin Garnett would later say, ANYTHING IS POOOOSSSSSIIIBBBBBLLLLLEEE!!!
So I finally stated out loud what I had been thinking about for a while: "I'm going to be on the varsity basketball team my senior year."
Once I discovered the joys of shooting a basketball, the rest of the summer after my sophomore year in high school was a blur of balling, working out, and bussing tables at the Ponderosa. And even though I didn't love working at the 'Rosa as much as I enjoyed the other two activities, it was a means to an end. Namely, my first car: A 1978 Plymouth Fury.
Cherry red and roughly the size of a small ocean liner, the Fury -- which I named "The Red Baron" -- was a one-way ticket to freedom. I could now go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. You know, as long as my mom was cool with it and it was before curfew.
I purchased the Fury on a Friday night in early July. If I recall correctly, it cost around $800, which seemed both like a small fortune and a ridiculously tiny price to pay for virtual independence. The bad news: I didn't have my license yet. I had actually failed my first driver's test a couple weeks prior.
This still pisses me off. I was kicking ass on the test and then, at the very end, right outside the DMV, the woman administering the test asked me to parallel park. I nailed that too, and I naturally assumed I'd passed with flying colors. However, she failed me. When I asked why, she said it was because, while turning left onto Markland Avenue -- one of the main streets in Kokomo -- my left tire had passed ever-so-slightly through the opposite lane and cut over the front edge of the yellow line separating the two sides of the street.
"If there had been a car there, you would have hit it," she said.
"But there wasn't a car there," I replied.
"True, but there could have been."
"But...but...people do that all the time," I said.
"Yes, but new drivers shouldn't," she answered. "I think having to retake the test will break you of that bad habit, don't you?"
Seriously, I could have choked a bitch.
The Tuesday after buying the Fury, I went in to retake my test. I got the same instructor, and yes, she remembered me. She literally had me drive a circle around the DMV and passed me.
"I trust you learned your lesson?" she said.
The only lesson my 16-year-old self learned was that people in a position of power can and probably will screw with you. But at least I was now a licensed driver.
Now, I had taken the test in my mom's car -- a 1987 Buick Somerset -- because it was much smaller than the Fury and therefore easier to drive under testing conditions (that is, if I needed to parallel park again). When I got home, the first thing I did was jump into the Fury. Jammed in the key. Turned the ignition.
Nothing but a dry cough-like sound.
See, on Friday night, shortly after getting my new car home, my buddy Greg had come over and -- since I couldn't actually drive us anywhere yet -- we had spent the night sitting in the car listening to the tape deck...which was wired directly to the battery. That meant the radio could be on and running even when the key wasn't in the ignition. Sure enough, I'd left it running and the battery was now deader than Shaq's bathroom scale. Dead and so old, in fact, that jumping it only blew a little rust off the connectors.
One battery replacement later, I was finally on the road.
But I wasn't taking too many joy rides. Not at first anyway. About the only places I drove to were my friends' houses -- it kind of rankled them at first that I wouldn't drive us to the mall or the local cruising strip -- and my "home court." This was a little basketball court behind Boulevard School, my old elementary school, which just so happened to be about two blocks away from my high school, Kokomo High School.
The Boulevard court had some definite downsides. The backboards were made of the creakiest wood imaginable, and the rims were composed of the clangiest iron in the known universe. The blacktop surface of the court was covered in dead spots and shallow, nearly imperceptible depressions that tended to collect water. Oh, and it was surrounded on three sides by nothing but corn fields. This meant that a) there was no protection from the burning summer sun (so I often had no choice but to shoot toward the sun from one angle or another) and b) there was no protection from the wind.
And, if you've ever played outdoors, you know the wind can be a real problem.
That said, the Boulevard court was also relatively private. Nobody liked to play there for the reasons outlined above and the fact that there was no three-point line. As a result, I could practice for hours upon end without being interrupted or even seen. And I was definitely in Learning the Game mode. And for that, I wanted privacy.
Since I didn't have any actual coaching, I decided to make Larry Bird my coach. I re-read Bird's autobiography, Drive. I re-watched Larry Bird: A Basketball Legend as well as every old Celtics game I had on tape. I went to Kokomo's only major bookstore -- Walden Books -- and found a copy of Bird's instructional manual Bird on Basketball: How-to Strategies From The Great Celtics Champion. (Still available used from Amazon.com!)
I read. I watched. I read and watched some more. I digested. And then I tried to incorporate Bird's concepts into my budding game.
Which brings us to...
The Pickup Rules
In case you haven't seen Zombieland yet -- and I highly encourage you to do so immediately if you haven't -- the main character, Columbus, is a painfully awkward nerd who managed to survive the zombie apocalypse by strictly adhering to a series of zombie-specific survival rules. For instance:
Kickass indeed.
But long before Jesse Eisenberg was unintentionally (one assumes) fooling people into thinking he was Michael Cera -- they're entirely different people, I swear -- I was inventing the rules necessary for my survival in pickup basketball. I will be describing these rules throughout The Pickup Diaries.
Now...despite his reputation as a fearsome outside shooter, Bird's arsenal also included a wide variety of drives, dunks, layups, hooks and scoops. He also had some killer low post moves. That's why his career field goal percentage was just a shade under .500, and he probably would have finished above .500 if he hadn't limped through his final four seasons with bad back.
Just for kicks, here's Bird beating the Portland Trail Blazers left-handed. I'm not kidding. You might have heard or read about this one: Bird told teammates beforehand that being so great was boring him...and he he vowed to shoot left-handed all game. He didn't, but Bird still ending up scoring 22 of his 47 points using his left hand. I know. Awesome.
At any rate, Bird's shooting philosophy became the basis for my very first rule regarding pickup hoops:
Pickup Rule #1: Always take the highest percentage shot available.
Sounds obvious, right? So simple...but so very hard. I mean, you'd think everybody would do this. But take LeBron James and Kobe Bryant for example. They're probably the two best basketball players in the NBA, but they take an unbelievable number of crap shots. At times, it seems like they're stuck in permanent heat check mode. And they aren't alone. Lesser players do it (think Monta Ellis). Hell, even lousy players do it (for further reading, please refer to the collected works of Hughes, Larry).
Mind you, Bird wasn't without sin. He had the blood of a hundred bastard field goal attempts on his mangled hands. But in general, Bird tried to always get -- for himself or his teammates -- the highest percentage shot available. And for Larry Legend, that meant close to the hoop.
When Bird retired, he was perhaps the greatest three-point shooter in league history. Even today, he's considered the one of the all-time greats, in part due to his dramatic victories in the NBA's first three Long Distance Shootouts (1986, 1987 and 1988).
But in many ways, Larry hated the three and decried its use. This was because a) he felt it was a low percentage shot (which it is) and b) that if a team had a two-point lead at the end of the game, that team should never lose to a last-second shot. Which is kind of ironic, considering Bird won several games on last-second treys during his career.
However, despite this slight contradiction in philosophy and behavior, Bird's word was Basketball Law to me. For this reason, I never practiced threes. Never even attempted them while goofing around. To me, it was a waste of time that could be spent practicing shots I could actually use in a game. (For this same reason, I've never attempted a half court shot or developed any trick shots for HORSE, unless you consider a three-pointer from NBA range to be a trick shot.)
Therefore, all my shots were attempted from 15 feet and in. After all, I had almost grown to my full height of 6'3" -- I've often wondered whether I would have grown even taller had I not spent much of my childhood malnourished -- which made me a "big man" in pickup basketball terms. This meant that my game should be close to and going toward the basket.
I worked on every variety of layup I could think of. (Although it was quite a while before I realized the value of trying to develop my left hand...in fact, I'm still working on that.) I used my mental chalk to draw a 15-foot arc around the hoop and practiced shots from every angle. (However, due to dead spots and funky rims, I often avoided baseline shots, which would haunt me later.) And I worked on my inside moves.
Fortunately, I was a natural in the post due to decent footwork, a long wingspan (or, as my college roommate BadDave called them, my Gorilla Arms), and a soft touch. Plus, I had spent my formative years following the Bird-era Celtics. This meant hours upon hours of watch Kevin McHale put opponents into his torture chamber.
McHale -- yes, my last name is also McHale, no Kevin and I are not related -- had a seemingly endless array of low post moves. This wasn't exactly true. He had a set number of moves, but the moves had so many subtle variations that they seemed endless. These moves are actually described in stunning detail in The Book of Basketball by Bill Simmons, which makes the book a must-read for anybody who wants to became a killer post player in pickup ball.
And that was my life for the next two months. Endless, tireless practice. I practiced in the morning, the afternoon, and at night. I played in the sun, the wind, and in the rain. By the end of that period, I was knocking down a fairly high percentage of my shots, which made me feel pretty good about myself. After all, I had only just picked up the sport.
What I didn't (and couldn't) understand at the time was this: A large part of my early "success" was due to the fact that I had focused on a very specific and therefore very limited number of shots. Not to mention that every shot had been attempted against no defense. But these things don't matter when you don't know any better. I was confident. A little cocky even. And with the new school year fast approaching...
I couldn't think of any better way to spend an off day than by watching some old Larry Bird highlights...in this case, almost 20 minutes of Bird passing the basketball.
Some of these dishes are just sick. Behind the back, over the head, from the floor, full court one-handers from out of bounds, no-look passes, touch passes, wrap-around passes, passes that seem to defy the laws of that govern human life. These videos are like a spaghetti sauce that cures cancer: there's a little bit of everything in them and they will change your life.
During the 1981-82 season, Caldwell Jones ranked 9th in total blocked shots, 9th in blocks per game, and made the All-Defensive First Team. Those honors make the fact that he got posterized by a one-handed dunk from a white guy who was specifically known for his lack of jumping ability that much more awesome.
