Preparing for the men from the Yukon

Coach Roman Hoyt gathered us at center court to give instructions about our afternoon practice. His mustache was still greasy from lunch and his tear-gas breath was blowing us backward with the smell of grilled onions. Hoyt was flanked by assistant coach Johnnie Eureka, who was dribbling a basketball while Hoyt droned on, and trainer Danny Fazlow, whose sour expression showed he was having yet another bout of acid reflux. Hoyt notified us that it was time for a full-intensity scrimmage game, the starting five versus the “B” squad. Our opening game against Yukon State was just a few weeks away.

The scouting report on Yukon State was that the team was short on talent and speed. They compensated for these deficits by being extremely physical, which was an especially gross experience for opposing teams because the boys from the Yukon had excessive body hair and bulbous foreheads. They were men reminiscent of an earlier geologic era.

“They’re slow but powerful,” Hoyt said. “They can’t shoot for shit but they get lots of second and third shots because they box out like Sumo wrestlers. Half the guys also play on the school’s football team, so we must use our speed and lateral quickness to avoid their chop blocks and illegal use of hands. These guys will be looking to hurt you. They have an inferiority complex toward people of all kinds from the Lower 48 States and try to take it out on them whenever and wherever possible. Now let’s scrimmage.”

Hoyt coached the starting team, assistant coach Johnnie Eureka directed the benchwarmers and trainer Danny Fazlow laced a whistle around his neck to referee the action. Because of his girth and general lack of mobility, Fazlow lingered around half- court and rarely blew the whistle, encouraging the players to get increasingly physical, especially after hearing what was in store from Yukon State. LeVoy Wiggin was guarding me with extreme aggression, royally pissed off that the nerves in my dog-bitten leg had healed properly, causing him to lose his slot in the starting lineup – again.

Wiggin had gotten a reprieve last season and regained a starting position because of my dog attack, but he didn’t fare so well. He was not a natural point guard, too tall and lanky to split defenders and protect the ball against trapping defenses. The team finished in the middle of the Northwest Conference pack with a winning percentage of just .525. What burned Hoyt most was that Wig couldn’t run the Candy Box Offense to save his ass. That’s the very reason I had been recruited, because I was a renowned ball handler and playmaker who could dribble his way through a labyrinth. I developed exquisite control over the basketball because I used to walk to and from school bouncing a tennis ball. When I mastered that I started dribbling two tennis balls simultaneously.

As Wiggin kept inflicting punishment my frustration grew. I cried out to Fazlow that Wiggin was fouling me on every trip down the court. He gave me a blank, catatonic stare. “Get the whistle out of your throat and blow it!” I said. Fazlow blew the whistle and called a technical foul against me.

“That’s absurd,” I said. “It’s unprecedented. This is an intra-squad scrimmage game. There aren’t technical fouls.”

Fazlow ignored me and gave Wiggin a free-throw and ball possession to the “B” squad.

“You pop off again Tribeca and I’ll give you another ‘T’ and eject you from the game.”

I gave Hoyt a pleading gaze. He was picking remnants of the grilled onions from his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “Play through it, Tribeca. That’s enough whining,” he

said. “What do you think Yukon State’s going to do to you opening day? I told you this was full-intensity, now let’s see some toughness.”

Wiggin, emboldened by the staff’s dismissal of the rough play, intensified his pushing, pulling, holding and elbowing. He started trash talking, too.

“You’re limping,” he said, slapping at my scarred left leg. “Puke,” he said, every time I took a jump shot.

When I started retaliating with some physicality of my own, we both lost our shit. I grabbed Wig by the throat, Letrell Sprewell style, and started to choke. We wrestled each other to the floor and were locked in a homophobic embrace – hot breath to hot breath, skin to quicksilver skin, groin to groin, groan to groan. We had both gotten too queasy to stand it anymore. We broke free from one another and then locked up again, though this time in a more masculine way, free of any pelvic engagement.

Players and coaches had gathered round and were suggesting new and more perilous holds and pressure points. Fazlow was pulling for Wiggin, telling him to pull my hair and box my ears. Then I broke one of Wig’s arms loose and wrenched it behind his back. A falsetto screech escaped his lips and Hoyt pulled us apart just before I popped one of Wiggin’s elbow tendons.

Wiggin walked in circles rubbing the hyper-extended joint. “Fuck, man, I don’t think those shots worked at all. Your wild ass has got rabies.”

The coaches were looking pleased with themselves. Coaches in all sports knew that players hadn’t begun to get mentally prepared for the season until the first fight broke out.

To better simulate a real-game situation the scoreboard was activated, time was kept and the score tracked by one of the team’s interns. The clock was set for a regulation forty minutes of play.

Hoyt was hollering for the fast break. We roared up and down the court, our athletic shoes squeaking with every stop and turn. It sounded like a flock of birds chirping. The “B” squad double-teamed Windgate to deny him the ball and started hitting their shots on the offensive end. By halftime they had climbed out to a nine point lead.

Hoyt was getting hot because Eureka seemed to be outcoaching him.
“Can’t anybody out there play defense!” he said.
The coach threatened to rethink the starting lineup if the travesty continued. He

huddled the starting team and diagrammed some plays to spring Windgate free and get him some good looks at the basket.

It worked. Windgate caught fire and started draining three-pointers from behind the arch and dropping in some floaters through the lane. We started playing a two man pick-and-roll game. The defense was perplexed. Our chemistry was straight out of a DuPont laboratory.

The icing was a fast-break lob to Windgate, who slam-dunked the ball and hung from the rim to provide an exclamation point. Wiggin slapped at one of his feet in frustration.

By time the final buzzer went off the starting team was victorious. The dejected “B” squad walked off the court with their heads down and their mouths mumbling about missed opportunities. It was a hollow victory, though, because we won by only a seven-

point margin, far too thin to establish the kind of dominance that ensured there would be no second-guessing the starting lineup.

Hoyt was smiling again as we gathered for his post-game assessment. He took a cocky stance with hands on his hips.

“You were sloppy,” he said. “You were undisciplined. The passing wasn’t crisp. The shot selection was deplorable. And the rebounding! Where did you guys learn to box out? Where was the footwork and anticipation? Where is the learning curve? The fundamentals just aren’t there. Not only that, you’re fat and out of shape. I didn’t see any stamina. Trapagnier, you were foaming at the mouth so bad I thought we were going to have to call the paramedics. We haven’t played game one yet and Threet’s got a groin injury.”

He went after everybody except Trevor Windgate. There was no taking a chance of riling his star pupil and risking rebellion. The McDonald’s High School All American needed to be coddled. The bastard was driving my Mustang again this year, and the school had bought a later model for him. It came with an intelligent key, moon roof and Bose stereo system.

Hoyt said, “I’m not seeing any...”
He turned to Eureka to supply the elusive word. “Alacrity,” Eureka said. “Alacrity,” Hoyt repeated.
Lucius Tallon broke in to say, “Hey, that was last year’s word.”
“That’s true,” Eureka said. “This year’s word is ‘intensity.’ ”
“Well, I’d certainly like to see a lot more of that,” Hoyt said.

Then he paced thoughtfully for a few moments and concluded the practice by saying, “All things considered, it wasn’t too bad a scrimmage. I think you guys are just about ready for the hairy men from the Yukon.”

@copyright 2009/Mike Consol