Basketball Groans

If you ever find yourself in Auburn, New York on a Thursday evening, you’re probably lost. And since you’re in town anyway, with little hope of ever finding your way out, you may as well stop in and cheer on my team, “Curley’s Crew.” One of eight teams in Auburn’s “Over 40″ basketball league.

Don’t just come for the basketball. While entertaining and exciting in its own right, I want you to come so you have proof that middle-aged men are every bit as able-bodied, athletic, and capable of playing basketball as those who are in their hundreds.

When I was asked to join this “Over 40″ team, I figured the majority would still be in their 40′s. I had no idea that I’d be the only one on the team with a 4 in front of their age. Of my 11 other teammates, five are in their 50′s, four are in their 60′s, and two are 71 and 72 respectively. We are, by far, the oldest squad in the league. And we play like it. At 1-6, all my presence has done is successfully bring our team’s median age to pre-AARP eligibility levels.

God bless the 70+ year old guys who still want to get out there and play some ball. I hope I can do the same at that age. But they just seem so brittle. I worry about them. If a body part of theirs bends, it has some sort of brace or pad on it. And they’re each one or two bandages away from qualifying as mummies. Yet out they go, shuffling their feet up and down the court, passing the ball around, and even shooting occasionally. Sometimes even in the direction of a backboard. If my sister were to attend a game, I can hear her now: “Awww, look at them, they’re trying to run. They are SO freakin’ cute!”

Don’t get me wrong. They’re a great group of guys. They’re just not a great group of basketball guys. They readily admit that they only show up for the exercise and this is made quite apparent through their style of play. The only real difference between Curley’s Crew and elderly mall walkers is that elderly mall walkers don’t reek of Ben-Gay and cortisone. They don’t rehydrate with Fierce Prune Gatorade or get technical fouls for accusing the referee of being just as blind as they are. They just walk. And sadly, that’s pretty much what we do, too.

First, our offense. While other teams shout out numbers like “ONE!” or “TWO!” to coincide with whatever play they’re going to use to run circles around us, we don’t have any plans whatsoever when we bring the ball up the court. If someone on our team shouts out a number, it just means he needs a timeout before he does said number in his shorts.

Once we manage to get all five team members across mid court without the aid of a Paramedic, we immediately launch into our stall offense. We don’t do this on purpose. It just looks like we’re stalling. As though we’re happy only being down 16 points and want to run out the clock so we can all go grab a beer at Curley’s Bar & Tavern with the shred of dignity that remains.

Our offense is simple: I frantically wave my arms and call for the ball while sliding from block to block. The rest of the team just stands in place passing the ball to everyone but me like it’s one big game of keep away. The other team, comprised of guys who are all 40 years and 1 day old, then steals the ball (which requires the speed and reflexes of a three-toed sloth) and prepares to run the score up.

What’s nice is that after a steal, even if they have a clear path to the basket, teams aren’t allowed to fast break. If they were, we’d probably lose by triple digits. This is why I’m glad the league put a few Geezer rules in place to prevent both runaway scores and heart attacks.

The rule we rely on most often, and the one that’s undoubtedly saved us from total humiliation, is this “No Fast Breaks” rule. If the opposing team manages to steal the ball after one of our inertia-defying passes, they must wait until at least THREE of our team members are back on defense before they can approach the basket. A waiting period that usually takes us to the end of the game.

If we do manage to get back on defense before the buzzer sounds, our defensive strategy is simple:

Stall.

Come to think of it, our defense is a lot like our offense. Only this time, everyone is facing the other direction.

When we’re back on defense, I’m supposed to stand under the basket with my arms raised up like Big Chief from Cuckoo’s Nest. Should my imposing frame not cause an instant turnover, I’m then expected to drain all my energy chasing the other players, swiping at the ball, and grabbing rebounds. All while everyone else watches. Basically, when we’re on defense, there’s me and there’s four spotters. Four eagle-eyed teammates who stand stoically and just tell me where each of the four players I’m NOT currently guarding can be found.

Still, even with all my frustration over our losses, I love the game of basketball too much to stop now. Actually, I don’t think I’ll ever stop. Someday I’ll be that 60-something or 70-something guy shuffling down the court while some young know-it-all blogger takes a mental picture for the nation’s amusement. And you know what? That’ll be okay with me. Because if I’m still running around playing a sport I’m passionate about when I turn 70, I won’t give a crap what anyone says.

Mainly because I don’t think I’ll hear them.

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