Company fallout game - playing basketball with co-workers

Men's Fitness, August, 1998 by Daniel Frankel

The dangers of playing office sports

I play basketball the way some people wash their hands: compulsively. I'll play roundball anywhere and with anyone who'll take on my hoops-fixated butt - in a hot, fetid gym, posting up some homeless guy picked up off the street to make it five-on-five; on a Seattle playground, taking it to the rim wearing hiking boots under the 9 p.m. summer sunlight; in a Chicago park, airing out three-pointers despite a January wind-chill factor of minus nuts, an hour before a job interview.

I've squared off against dangerous guys, too: a wannabe gangsta who threatened opponents with his "strap"; a volatile Mike Tyson lookalike with an elbow tick; a psychopath named Bobby - a former Division I college player - whom our gym served with a restraining order because he put a couple of guys in the hospital.

Yeah, playing pickup basketball can get dicey. But gunplay, ligament damage and head trauma notwithstanding, life goes on after the game. Bumps and bruises heal, and arguments on the court are usually left there.

What's truly dangerous is playing with co-workers - people you need to maintain a good relationship with. You can't just hit the asphalt, play your game, have fun and go home. Politics are often involved. In fact, athletic competition with a co-worker carries many of the same risks that dating one does. Any bad feelings can easily spill over into the office and create a hostile environment.

But while discovery of your affair with Monique from personnel can lead to snickers by the water cooler, taking professional relationships to the ultra-competitive athletic limit via a game of hoops, softball or in-line hockey can result in a volatile collage of skewed boundaries and inappropriate emotion. The fallout can range from the merely unpleasant (estranged co-workers) to the extremely serious (sudden termination).

Take my friend Jess. Off the court, he's a successful and likable sales executive. A blast to drink a pitcher of brew with; a cool guy you wouldn't mind dating your sister. He's also the best player in the office, which is saying something, because we've got guys who can flat-out ball.

But while the rest of us wanna be like Mike, Jess thinks he is. Jess, last initial M, even likes us to call him "J.M." - a palindrome to Jordan's well-worn "M.L" And just like the Bulls' megastar, part of Jess' game involves dehumanizing, humiliating and frustrating his opponent. Like M.J., it's not enough for J.M. to win. He has to make you look bad, too. While this is an asset if you're up against Gary Payton, it's guaranteed to piss off your workmates in a casual evening game.

I've personally D'ed up Jess dozens of times, including once when he forgot to bring his gear and ate me alive wearing slacks and wing-tips. But he doesn't get under my skin. I enjoy the challenge of guarding a superior player, though I can see why he rubs other guys raw with his screaming chatter: "Take the rock from him! He's got no handle." He gets even nastier when the game's on the line: "Give me the damn ball! This slow-assed punk can't guard me! You shouldn't even be out here with me."

There have been times that we've had to wrestle angry co-workers to the ground to keep them from taking a swing at Jess. One morning, after a particularly contentious evening, a regretful Jess put out a company-wide memo: "I apologize for anything I might have said [last night] to offend anyone." He also - a la Jordan - announced his so-called retirement from our games. When he publicized his comeback with a memo that read, "I don't care about you sensitive punks out there," he succeeded in permanently alienating several colleagues.

Of course, it would've been much worse for Jess had he rubbed his boss the wrong way. I made that mistake after I took a summer job a few years back and began participating in the weekly office basketball game.

Like little Anthony, the telekinetic monster-child in that old Twilight Zone episode, our leader (also named Anthony) was a control freak. Get on his bad side and he, too, might wish you into the cornfield, or at least the unemployment line.

Our games were after-hours, but on the court, Anthony still had to be the boss. He even had all the guys - grown men, some with families - performing layup drills as if he were Bobby Knight. Everyone had to know his place. Company veterans could argue a few calls and take some bad shots. New guys like me were supposed to pass the ball and keep quiet. Not really my style.

I played my first game with the crew like John Starks in Game 7 of the 1994 NBA finals. Brick after brick, I kept putting up errant 25-footers. I was sure I would heat up eventually. I wanted so badly to impress everyone at my new job. Frustrated, and trying too hard, I blurted out a few profanities and made a couple of rough plays. Nobody seemed irritated with my boorishness except, of course, Anthony.

He stopped me in the lunchroom the following day to tell me my game was way too physical and I was lucky nobody had beaten the bejesus out of me. He even, in a roundabout way, called me a jerk. What a weenie, I thought. All the other guys seemed to like me just fine, and I certainly wasn't laying any hard fouls on my boss. But the boss he was, so I decided to be a good boy, pass the ball and shut up.