I don’t want to brag or make anyone think I’m a huge jock or anything, but I played a little hoop in high school. Sure, as the fourth-string forward I didn’t get a lot of playing time, but that’s because my coach always played favorites with guys who were tall and coordinated. Even my uniform was fourth-string. Everyone else had a new, NBA-chic baggy uniform, and I had what looked like a wrestler’s singlet and a pair of Daisy Dukes. Combine those attractive 1976-era duds with my flair for self-injury (I put new right angles in both a finger and an ankle) and maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t play much.

This lackluster hoops history meant that when I was offered a chance to play basketball with Harlem Globetrotter Otis Key, I knew the outcome was predetermined. I could get in shape, I could eat my Wheaties, I could put on an inspirational T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “Somewhere, your opponent is practicing, and when you meet him he will beat you,” and there was still no way I was going to have a chance against a 6’9”, 265-pound former college All-American. And since Key is also a Globetrotter, there was the additional possibility that he would pull down my shorts and throw buckets of confetti at me. So I was happily thinking “my column will practically write itself” as I made my way to Sports Club/LA for our game.
    I had a plan. Key would destroy me, but I would talk trash to him the entire time. I would be irrepressibly cocky and indefatigable in the face of assured failure. Prior to the game, I solicited friends to help me compile a cache of trash to drop on Key’s b-ball skills. Some of it was general-purpose (“I’m gonna shred you like an Enron document,” or “You’re about to get rejected like my application to Dartmouth”) and some of it was interactive (“How many languages do you speak? Four? Well, you’re about to learn a fifth: the language of defeat.). I was ready.
    When Key walked out onto the court I felt like Mini-Me. His size stat should omit weight and just read 6’9”-by-5’8”. It’s a good thing Key is a jovial guy, because if he got mad he could probably take out Tokyo.
    Due to insurance reasons we couldn’t play one-on-one (I assume because the Globetrotters’ policy doesn’t cover damaged egos), so we decided to play HORSE. I mentally cued up my trash-talk.
    Key hit the first shot, a three-pointer. I stepped up and...answered. The sparse collection of onlookers let loose a barrage of sarcastic “Watch out, Otis”-type comments. Key moved to the foul line and made a shot. My foul shots have always been the ugliest rocks since City Hall, but I managed to make that shot, too. I delayed my trash talk, because I wanted to wait until I was getting whupped for proper comic effect.
    Then a strange thing happened: I started to win. I hit a three-pointer from out of bounds on the baseline and put an H on Key. Then I spotted up at a knot on the floor and drained an NBA-range three. H-O. I buried a shot from half-court. H-O-R. Somewhere, Larry Bird must have been slumped over in his lunch, because I was definitely chaneling a higher power.
    I was happy to be winning, but I was ruining the premise of my article. Now if I’d told Otis “you’ve got March Madness, thinkin’ you could beat me,” it would’ve seemed like I was serious. If I told him that he dribbles like a toddler, or that I was gonna burn him like a faulty hot plate, or that he’s so slow his drop-step rides the short bus, I’d just be a jerk. Of all the lousy times to have a great game...
    Like most Cinderella stories, though, this one had to end. There was a no-dunk rule in effect (I still tried to dunk with a palm ball, leading Key to tell me “nice ups,” which is sort of like Brad Pitt telling me “nice face”), but Key came back with a slew of three-pointers and—oh, the frustration—foul shots to win. And thus my run at beating a Harlem Globetrotter at HORSE came up short.
    I want a rematch. Now that I’ve tasted the hors d’oeuvres at the buffet of victory, I’m hungry for the main course. That’s right. I’m gonna practice those foul shots, Otis. I’m gonna practice those treys. Every day, somewhere, I’ll be practicing, and when you meet me I will beat you.
    Until then, I guess I’ll get back to building a house for my momma with all those bricks. *