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Earning his charity stripes: with clean shorts and a thirst for glory gone by, Joe Headband got his groove back

Sporting News, The, Dec 27, 2004 by Matt Rhodes

During my senior year of high school, I was the captain of my basketball team and the king of superstitions. I never changed my underwear, and I downed a Rax roast beef sandwich and a bucket of ranch dressing-soaked curly fries before every game. I Hey, it worked early in my career--I piled in 26 points once q after gorging on said grub. But back then I had a metabolism, plus I was usually the best player on the court. When I squared up against Tim Hardaway more than a decade later, that was not the case.

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Last month, as a rickety 31-year-old ex-athlete, I faced Hardaway, Chris Mullin, Mitch Richmond and Rod Higgins at the Golden State Warriors' Run TMC Fantasy Camp. I'm happy to report that I beat three out of four in abbreviated one-on-one contests. (The games went to two points; Mully put a 27-footer in my eye to beat me). I have my revamped pregame ritual (soy protein shake and organic waffles, plus fresh underwear) and my trusty jumper (well, an explosive set shot, anyway) to thank.

Mullin, now a vice president with the Warriors, organized the event to raise cash for ex-Warrior Manute Bol, injured in a car crash last summer. Seventeen hoops fans (plus yours truly) came from as far as Minnesota and New York City, eagerly paying $5,000 for the chance to have their fibulas fractured by Hardaway's killer crossover.

I figured the pace would be leisurely; after all, this was a charity event. As I shot around with the other campers, I spotted a few candidates for Joe Headband, the gym rat who plows through friendly contests at full speed in a pitiable attempt to relive past glory. You know, the guy who slaps, grunts, hustles and, unconscionably, takes charges. This creature usually is readily identified by his headband, though sometimes he works undercover.

Initially, all this NBA-caliber stuff was disorienting. The 3-point line was so deep, I needed a compass to find the basket. Higgins has Inspector Gadget-like arms--he gave me a 10-foot cushion and still blocked my jumper. Despite all this, I tried to be a cool and casual observer.

But when I spotted Hardaway and Richmond courtside, I felt as giddy and excited as a teenage girl standing next to Justin Timberlake. I shook it off and focused. I was suddenly the 17-year-old me, desperately trying to get noticed at Five-Star camp. All that hustle paid off. When it came time for the players to choose teams for the main event, a fullcourt game between two teams of campers coached by Mullin/Hardaway and Richmond/Higgins, Richmond made me the No. 1 pick.

In the first half of the big game, I was content to distribute the ball and hit the boards. But with the game tight at halftime, Coach Richmond pulled me aside and we shared a Mick-and-Rocky moment. His tone was stern, fatherly: "I picked you because you can shoot the ball. So shoot the ball." What would you do if a guy who scored 20,497 NBA points commanded you to shoot?

I shot. I mean, I really shot. I assaulted the rack. I knocked down free throws. As we began to pull away, I made a steal at halfcourt and lollygagged toward the hoop in NBA fashion. But Coach Mullin got a huge laugh (and a technical foul) when he dashed onto the court and swatted my layup to San Jose--he was clearly out of the coach's box.

We staved off our opponent's late run for a 38-35 victory. Next thing I knew, I was shaking Mully's hand and accepting the MVP plaque. Coach Mullin gave a nod to the impressive clipboard skills of Coach Richmond, who told a gracious Manute (recovering at home in Connecticut) via speakerphone that we had won the game for him.

As we hit the showers, NBA-style--beneath absurdly high showerheads and with full access to the Warriors' astonishing supply of deodorant and hair gel--we were all just painfully sore pals. I took off with a conspicuous limp and a bag heavy with hardware. I had slapped. I had grunted. I had hustled. I had tried to take charges. I was decidedly Joe Headband.

Earning his charity stripes: with clean shorts and a thirst for glory gone by, Joe Headband got his groove back

Sporting News, The, Dec 27, 2004 by Matt Rhodes

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