Calling My Number

During the start of a pickup basketball game, everyone has to take a cursory look at their own team and the opposition to determine height and defensive assignments. For offense, it’s got to be determined quickly who will handle the ball, who will play inside and how the floor will be spaced; it’s establishing an offensive and defensive identity. It’s interesting how this can often be done without any words being exchanged, although verbal communication in basketball is always a plus.

Whenever I play pickup basketball I do my best to find a role for myself and for others, as well. If I’m playing on a strong team then I find my niche as a hustle player and/or someone to move the ball around to the go-to people. On a weaker team, I get the chance to express my inner Jordan (because someone has to do it), but it seldom happens because I defer so much regardless of who I’m playing with. There are only two occasions in recent memory where the offense ran through me. Once was at the Arrillaga gym at Stanford about a month ago. I played with these four Asian guys who clearly knew each other. Since I was the tallest (at 5′11″!!), I played center, but they kept feeding me and I kept hitting and rebounding and dishing and we all played really well. One play I remember in particular: our guard gave me an entry pass and I backed my man down…his defender came over to double-team me and our guard cut to the basket…I handed off to him as he drove, but the defenders converged on him…he threw a no-look pass behind his head to me — now unguarded — and I finished with a layup to the delight of the players on the sideline. That’s always cool.

Anyway, the other time wasn’t quite as glamorous. But I filled in on the adult league team where all the drama had been before. In my mind, it was a strictly “set-screens/rebound/play defense” assignment. But, out of nowhere, my teammates were calling my number! Wha-WHAT?! And I was definitely the fifth option, but I guess they wanted to attack the defender on the other team who was at least 45 years old and about five-foot-five; naturally, he was the one guarding me.  I was bewildered and honored at once, and it paid off.  I got one basket out of a possession and a foul shot off of another.  Maybe it’s time to call WhatUpThen’s number a little more often!