I am Dottie—the female “companion” recently rebuffed by Willie. Before assuming I will lambaste Willie for his Neanderthal mentality and hyper-sensitivity to his perceived “position” among his crew, let’s understand how I ended up in a pick-up basketball game with him in the first place.
Every so often, on a Monday afternoon, Roy Hobbson drops an email to see if I am interested in joining the OBA that night. He knows I was a Division-I basketball player (albeit in a conference known more for its academic than its athletic prowess). However, he also knows that I am nearly 7 years removed from college and many minutes removed from the 5:45 mile I used to be able to run—not to mention that I am, quite frankly, not as good as the regular OBA participants (though, I think the self-awareness of these guys occasionally blurs the line between actual talent and the reality of being an aging “athlete”). Nonetheless, I fully understand that I am called to play in the OBA only on those occasions when there is a need for an extra body.
Showing up at the gym on the Monday night Willie so ruefully described was no different than any other time I have stepped out to play with guys. In fact, the pick-up routine is predictable. After the lacing up of shoes, pre-game chit chat, and splitting of teams, here’s how it always goes…
If my team is on offense first, I assume my typical role as the team’s point guard (code for: “make a good entry pass and get out of the way”) by stepping to the top of the key with the ball. Next, there is about a 40-second wait as the guys on defense look stupidly around to one another—without saying a word—before “That Guy” slowly approaches the top of the key, shooting a few, final, desperate glances left and right to make sure he is actually the one that has been silently dubbed to guard me. Suddenly, staying home to watch "American Idol" with his wife doesn’t sound so miserable anymore. Or so says the look on his face.
And, if my team is on defense first, well, that’s where the real ignominy is revealed.
I know what’s going on here…I am not oblivious to the blow the fragile male ego is being dealt when I match up to guard That Guy. In fact, I am so sensitive to it that I actually wash my hands of it: I turn to my teammates and wait for them to tell me who to guard. A few quick words and some not-so-discreet finger-pointing directs me to That Guy who sometimes—but not always—is the slowest, the fattest, or the one with the most limited game. Rare is the eye contact or the friendly smile to get the game started.
As Willie described, this scene is an agonizing one for That Guy. I feel for him…I really do. BUT, let’s just get one thing straight here: while That Guy suffers the reality of being matched up to the “girl,” I must quickly come to terms with the match-up hand I am being dealt, a match-up decision in which I have zero choice. All of my pick-up basketball fears overwhelm me in an instant. I am not talking about anxiety of being made a fool on the court…that’s always an inherent risk of basketball. No, what I am talking about is a series of much more serious fears: How much body hair does my guy have? Is he already sweating even though all we’ve done is shoot free throws to decide teams? Are we going shirts and skins? (Note: In the shirts/skins scenario, resist the temptation to be the dumb ass guy who makes the comment, “Let’s have Dottie’s team go skins…huh, huh…”)
But, inevitably, the ball is checked and the game is on…I quickly forget about the sweaty hairball I am guarding. Sometimes I know I am outmatched and do my best not to get worked over every time for a bucket. (In Willie’s case, the mismatch was apparent, as was his “inspired” play to “prove his manhood.”) Other times, I just get the little things done and hit a few outside jumpers, maybe even enough to elicit a “Who’s got her!?” on occasion.
But sometimes, I am unconscious from the field…though these times are few and far between. My defender be warned: you will soon be asked by your own teammate to switch off on me. So, Willie—if you thought you had it bad because of “the simple fact that a girl was guarding you and it wasn’t even a big deal,” think of the guys that have suffered this humiliating fate.
Willie’s account suggests that the way to protect the delicate nature of a man’s pride is by not allowing it to be threatened in the first place (“…Absolutely nothing good comes from playing against a female…”). Sure, that’s one way, but come on, let’s be real; the basketball court cannot possibly be considered one of last bastions of maleness, can it? That’s what poker games, strip clubs, and golf outings are for.
Bottom line: Willie, you can mix playing recreational basketball and socializing with women. Be physical with me…more likely than not, I’ll avoid direct contact with you in light of my no-sweat, no-hair approach. Take advantage of the mismatch with me…I’ll figure out a way to guard you. And, most importantly, when in doubt of your manhood, visit the JCC to beat up on old guys in jean shorts…I’ll be at the OBA initiating the next That Guy. |
