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I've got next!

Sporting News, The, Sept 16, 2005 by Tricia Garner

Men and women are equal in lots of ways. But if there's one place where equality flies right out the window, it's on a court where a bunch of guys are playing pickup basketball. It's sacred territory. I get that. I get that some chick showing up to bang under the boards with the guys is roughly equivalent to a man arriving for girls night armed with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and a copy of Sleepless in Seattle.

But sometimes girls want to play a little pickup, too. I like reading about Brad and Angelina on the elliptical as much as anybody, but even that can get old. So one weekend afternoon, accompanied by my male friend (we'll call him "Michael Jordan"), I show up at the YMCA to get my workout on the court instead. Six guys are playing a game at one end of the gym.

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Apparently there's a protocol to playing pickup--you have to wait to be asked to play. I hover near the edge of the halfcourt game and practice my jumper at a side basket. I'm a little rusty. My first several shots rim out, and Michael Jordan calls me over to offer a little advice: "You might want to make some."

Yeah, thanks. My shots start falling, but it doesn't make a difference. Two players leave, and it still doesn't make a difference--they play 2-on-2 instead. Finally, I take matters into my own hands and make M.J. ask if we can play.

The guys look at us like we've just asked them to sacrifice a kidney. They do not want me to play. At all. They look at one another. Finally, a guy who looks like Darius Miles speaks up. "Yeah, all right."

I can't believe it. They're actually gonna let me play. "Don't play defense like you usually do," M.J. whispers as we break into teams.

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, you play the right way, but if you play defense like that here, you're going to get an elbow in the face."

Whatever. I may be 5-7, but I'm not some wussy girl. When I was 15, I broke my cheekbone in the first inning of a softball doubleheader and played the rest of both games. I can handle an elbow or two.

My team--me, Darius and a guy wearing a UCLA T-shirt--gets the ball first. I'm wide-open. Mr. Bruin looks at me, looks away. Looks back at me, looks away. Finally, he zips a pass to me, a pass that would have been perfect if 1 were 6-6 but instead goes sailing just over my fingertips and out of bounds. Two guys on the other team snicker as they exchange looks. They know they've dodged a bullet. It's written all over their faces: Thank goodness we didn't get stuck with HER.

A couple of possessions later, Darius gets trapped under the basket. Out of desperation, he passes me the ball. I take the shot--a jumper just outside the key--and make it. A collective "ohhh" fills the gym. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or indignant that my made basket elicits such a response.

To this point, I've been guarding M.J. Darius gets my attention. "Guard that guy instead." He's pointing at a kid--maybe 18 or 19--with frosted hair, baggy white shorts and a diamond stud in his ear. Diamond Stud is not happy. Diamond Stud is, in fact, absolutely insulted that the lone girl on the court has been assigned to him on defense. Diamond Stud's ego--his very manhood--is at stake. So the second his hands touch the ball, he does what any self-respecting boy-on-the-cusp-of-manhood would do: He drives as hard as he can right into my chest.

Listen, I lied earlier. I am a wussy girl. It hurts. Bad. But my feet stay planted, and he's forced to pass the ball back out. "You OK?" Darius asks. 1 nod, mostly because I can't breathe (and, in fact, won't breathe normally again for the next two games). Still, like a klutzy kid who scores the winning run after getting picked last in kickball, I can sense I've gained the tiniest bit of respect.

Two hours and five games later, I finally call it quits. I've managed to hit a few more shots, grab a couple of rebounds and avoid making a mockery of my gender. My team has won four out of five games.

I'm still sore, though. I might stick with Brad and Angelina for a little while.

I've got next!

Sporting News, The, Sept 16, 2005 by Tricia Garner

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