World Class
I have thoroughly aggravated each of my children with my repeated bringing up of the fact that I was some kind of an athlete.
World class.
The kind of star that only comes around every once in a blue moon.
I've learned that if you say things enough times people will believe it. Just look at Michael Jordan and his whole 'greatest player ever' deal.
I argue with the kids about this all the time. Wilt would've shut him out in an one-on-one. That's not debatable.
But back to me.
I started it with my "I'm Jerry West in disguise talk."
I had Sam believing that for a little while. When he figured out that I was less than ten years old when West was dominating the shooting in the NBA he sort of had me.
But there are enough stories to keep the world class talk going.
I tell them about the time I dribbled it off my foot and out of bounds in a game when I played just 2 seconds. I was put in to shoot a bomb from before half court because I had made the same sort of shot the game before.
The designated shooter.
"Why would you try to dribble?" My coach screamed. "Everyone in the gym knows you can't dribble!"
Then there is the story of the length of the court basket in my Junior-Senior game. I was trying to shoot it. I swished the bastard. The ref turned to me as the crowd sat there stunned. "It doesn't count," the ref said. "You're out of bounds."
And it wasn't confined to basketball my friends.
I scored a goal in soccer as well. Into my own net. Perfect header. Top right corner. Our goalie, who had been working on a shut out just cried out my name and added two simple words:
"Fuzzy! You suck."
The next morning one of my buddies announced my feat over the loudspeaker at school.
That was a good day.
And what about softball?
I kept the books for the team so I know this to be true:
I led the Lions in hitting every year.
How much of it was due to my accounting is up to debate, but know one thing, boys:
They all look like line drives now, some twenty years later.
I also suffered the indignity of tearing my Achilles tendon on what would have been my first career home run.
"Keep your foot on the bag," one of my best buddies yelled as I arrived head over heels at third. "We've never seen you hit a ball that far. You wanna' be tagged out?"
(Great friend there. He also misdiagnosed the tear and had me drinking beer while resting on a bag of ice).
So, you see, kids, there have been moments of greatness.
One of the young NBA players raced up the court and finished the obstacle course in 28 seconds. He completed a pass, a bounce pass, a 3 point shot and dribbled through fake defenders to get it done in that time.
"15 seconds," I said. "I could do all that in 15 seconds."
"What?" Sam asked. "You can't get a bottle of water out of the fridge and sit back down on the couch in less than 15 seconds."
"Well, not now!" I answered, "but back then. I was some athlete."
"World class!" Sam laughed. "World class."
World class.
The kind of star that only comes around every once in a blue moon.
I've learned that if you say things enough times people will believe it. Just look at Michael Jordan and his whole 'greatest player ever' deal.
I argue with the kids about this all the time. Wilt would've shut him out in an one-on-one. That's not debatable.
But back to me.
I started it with my "I'm Jerry West in disguise talk."
I had Sam believing that for a little while. When he figured out that I was less than ten years old when West was dominating the shooting in the NBA he sort of had me.
But there are enough stories to keep the world class talk going.
I tell them about the time I dribbled it off my foot and out of bounds in a game when I played just 2 seconds. I was put in to shoot a bomb from before half court because I had made the same sort of shot the game before.
The designated shooter.
"Why would you try to dribble?" My coach screamed. "Everyone in the gym knows you can't dribble!"
Then there is the story of the length of the court basket in my Junior-Senior game. I was trying to shoot it. I swished the bastard. The ref turned to me as the crowd sat there stunned. "It doesn't count," the ref said. "You're out of bounds."
And it wasn't confined to basketball my friends.
I scored a goal in soccer as well. Into my own net. Perfect header. Top right corner. Our goalie, who had been working on a shut out just cried out my name and added two simple words:
"Fuzzy! You suck."
The next morning one of my buddies announced my feat over the loudspeaker at school.
That was a good day.
And what about softball?
I kept the books for the team so I know this to be true:
I led the Lions in hitting every year.
How much of it was due to my accounting is up to debate, but know one thing, boys:
They all look like line drives now, some twenty years later.
I also suffered the indignity of tearing my Achilles tendon on what would have been my first career home run.
"Keep your foot on the bag," one of my best buddies yelled as I arrived head over heels at third. "We've never seen you hit a ball that far. You wanna' be tagged out?"
(Great friend there. He also misdiagnosed the tear and had me drinking beer while resting on a bag of ice).
So, you see, kids, there have been moments of greatness.
One of the young NBA players raced up the court and finished the obstacle course in 28 seconds. He completed a pass, a bounce pass, a 3 point shot and dribbled through fake defenders to get it done in that time.
"15 seconds," I said. "I could do all that in 15 seconds."
"What?" Sam asked. "You can't get a bottle of water out of the fridge and sit back down on the couch in less than 15 seconds."
"Well, not now!" I answered, "but back then. I was some athlete."
"World class!" Sam laughed. "World class."
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