Monday night, I attended my 10,000th open gym.  Some called it historic (with "some" meaning "me").  After the eighth point of the second game, when it became an official open gym, I jogged a Ripken-like victory lap around the court, doffing my invisible cap and high-fiving the seated losers and somewhat confused janitorial staffers.  "Sit down, pal!" yelled a "Too Serious Guy," decked out in a replica Tarheel uniform complete with the matching Carolina-blue headband.

"I DID NOT steal it from Cal," I replied.  "This is all me, loser."

(Digression...it's a problem of mine.  Not usually in the first few paragraphs, though.   I apologize.  Let's just move on.)

Being "Tribute to Open Gym Guys" week and all, I've decided to continue the theme and share my wealth of knowledge regarding our generation's "National Past Time."  This knowledge will in no way serve a benefit to your life, and furthermore, you may end up dumber for having read it.  Nevertheless, here is a step-by-step analysis of a typical open gym in Anywhere, USA.

6:44 -- The usual suspects are on their way.  The "Mentally Unstable Bruiser" is mouthing the words to AC/DC in his '91 Bronco and drooling at the thought of delivering his first
de-cleater of the night...all the while doing about 75 in a 35.  The "Hustler" is in the final leg of his 12-mile run to the gym.  The "Too Serious Guy" is already there, and has been since 4:30, getting his ankles taped and watching film of last week's action.  The "normals" will arrive in the moments to come.

6:56 -- We are in the midst of an all out bull-shit session at this point.  Guys are talking, stretching, talking, shooting, talking, and so forth.  The "Too Serious Guy" is performing some kind of Meadowlark Lemon ball-handling drill off in the corner and verbally pumping himself up.  The do-ers of the group are assembling teams (usually selecting reasonably fair sides from a pool of the first ten to arrive).  

7:04 -- The inevitable bitching regarding the selection of teams will occupy the next couple of minutes. As I've gotten older, the majority of the criticism now revolves around who's shirts and who's skins.  This was not an issue seven years and 25 pounds ago.  "Shoot for it" now determines who's shirts and who's embarrassed.

7:06 -- Always six minutes late, the initial "check" brings with it a flurry of movement motored by seven days of pent-up energy.  Stone-footed five-men are are zipping around the court looking for unsuspecting back-screen victims.  People are actually playing defense.  Feet are moving.  The grabbing of jerseys is as infrequent as it will be all night.  The possession lasts about three minutes, too.  Usually, the "Too Nervous Guy" ruins it with a 95 mph bounce-pass through about seven sets of legs to a teammate five feet away.  Patrick Roy, in his prime, couldn't have gotten a glove on the ball.  What chance does a near-sighted pharmacist-turned-two-guard have?  Turnover number one.  You can
go ahead and expect about 83 more.

7:09 -- Comes now the Reaper, and he brings with him cottonmouth and debilitating abdominal cramps.  All ten participants (minus "The Hustler") pay dearly for their prior demonstration of youthful exuberance.  Total number of calories burned by the average open-gym'er over the last six days: 81.  Total number of calories burned during the first possession of the night: 31,046.  If you remain ambulatory after one trip down the floor, your chances of an injury-free evening increase by 800%.

7:31 -- By now, common sense and physiology have slowed the game down to a more realistic and constant pace.  We know by now who is on and who is off.  We know who needs more shots and who needs a general polishing-up on basic fundamentals.  The "stragglers," perpetually 15 minutes late, begin to limber up.

8:07 -- After the marathon-like first game, three more get rattled off rather quickly.  Rare are the nights when a single team puts on a 1950's Celtics-dynasty-like performance.  Everyone has played by now, and everyone has sat.  Inevitably, there has been at least three questionable calls, two intentional fast-break-halting-full-Nelsons, and one pump fake-turned-undercut.  It's a fact.

8:09 -- The "Too Serious Guy" has become fed up with his unenthusiastic teammates and their losing ways.  He gathers them up and starts diagramming "Flex" on a makeshift chalkboard.  He reiterates the importance of proper defensive rotations.  He demands maximum effort.  He is hated.

8:26 -- The heckling from the seated row of losers grows more venomous at this point.  Tempers are short, laughs are low...it's just natural.  No longer are cracks about one's wife or mother off limits.  Moreover, the threat of a fistfight is usually elevated to
DEFCON 2.

8:39 -- Lose now and it's time to go home.  The gym is starting to thin out.  The quality of play has decreased from an already deplorable level to WNBA depths: every other lay-up is botched, the pace of the game has grinded to a halt, and jump-shots (with "jump" meaning "set") start clanging off the rim at a Feverish rate.  Legs are gone by now, and so too are any hopes of having a soreness-free day tomorrow.  Most begin to exit at this point.    

8:51 -- The last game of the night is winding up.  The "Too Nervous Guy" is beginning to settle down now. The intensity of the game skyrockets as nobody wants to lose their last game.  But these are truly horrid affairs.  The talent has long since left the building as
any-and-everybody with even a modicum of basketball sense knows that this is the time
of night when ACL's tear and ankles fold in on themselves.  It's a mystical phenomenon that needn't be tested.  Trust me: this is a dangerous, dangerous time.

Although the times of day might change and some details could slightly vary, that, for the most part, is an incapsulation of every one of my 10,000 open gyms I have been to.  You may or may not agree with my assessments.  Should you be one of the few who disagree, might I suggest that you turn down your AC/DC when in your Bronco...you look like a moron.  Thank you.
The Prototypical Open Gym
The Prototypical Open Gym
Roy Hobbson