The Battle Royale

In February, when I went to dinner with my departing colleague, we discussed getting together after I had moved for an athletic competition. We went back and forth on possible sports - tennis, he had never played it; racquetball, same thing; badminton, not quite what we were looking for. We finally settled on basketball, which we both felt we were equally bad at. Those of you who have ever seen me try to throw Christmas wrapping paper into an open bag know this to be true for me. I've missed the trash can standing directly over it. In fifth grade, I had to write "I will never try to make a basket and miss" during recess for Mr. B. That was his rule. You could try to throw it into the trash, but if you missed, you had to spend recess writing that.

A few weeks ago, we settled on May 17th (Happy Birthday sis!) as the date. The last several weeks have been full of trash talk - in reverse. I would tell him how much I'm practicing, and how little it is helping. He would tell me he is going to the gym three times a week and running but that he doesn't have a hoop to practice with. All of the back and forth culminated with today's competition.

People came from far and wide to witness the spectacle (well, really just from Jakarta - and really just our wives and kids - but they did witness the spectacle!) With great fanfare, we warmed up in the scorching late-morning sun. I would take shots from the perimeter - and miss badly. He would run layups and did not make one until around his 20th attempt. We finally decided we were ready and settled on a game. Twenty-one.

Here are the rules, as we played them:

1) Any basket made from inside 3-pt range was worth 1 point.
2) Any basket made from outside 3-pt range was worth 2 points.
3) Free throws were worth 2 points.
4) Once you make a basket, you get to shoot free throws.
5) You keep shooting free throws until you miss
6) On a turnover, you had to take the ball outside the three point range before coming back for a basket

With the rules established, I tossed him the ball and let him start - we were on my home court. We trade errant shots for about three or four attempts each. Then he gets serious. He gets the ball and then drove right, spun left, and before I knew what was happening, he had made a layup and was standing at the free throw line. He makes the first free throw and goes up 3-0. He misses the second, giving me my another opportunity with the ball.

I take the ball back behind the three point line and do the only move I know how, the only move I had practiced all week - drive left, spin right, and do a moving sky hook as I drift left to right. Luckily, it bounces off the backboard and falls through. I go to the free throw line with sweat dripping in my eyes. I try wiping it away, but my eyes are now stinging. I send my wife to get my sweatband, and she heads back to the house. I take my first free-throw, and throw it over the backboard out of bounds.

My opponent gets the ball and takes it back behind the three point line. I follow, giving him distance so I can block his drive to the hoop. He looks at me and says: "You know, I won the 3-point competition in High School", and drains a three point shot for two points. He's now up 5-1 and I'm beginning to wonder how 'bad' he really is.

He missed the free throw, and I corral the ball, take it back then drive to make my layup, but miss the free throw. We trade a few more missed shots - his from 3-point land, mine as attempted layups. At 7-5, him, we decide to take a break until I get the sweat out of my eyes and wait for my headband. We're both dead from the heat by this point, too.

After the break it was obvious who gained the benefits of rest. He's driving the hoop, sinking jump shots from behind three points, and I'm watching my ball go over the back board, spin past the hoop, or miss the board altogether. He's dribbling around me, shooting over me and even passed the ball to himself by bouncing it under my legs. To make matters worse, during one of my missed shots, I feel a twinge in my arm and it hurts to lift my arm over my head. Before long he's up 20-9 and I'm sucking wind.

Then, it happened. I found my shot. He's doing his fancy dribbling and I reach in enough to stop the ball in its spot while he continues running. Quickly, I grab it, pass back to the three point range and drive the hoop. I jump in the air, fight through the pain in my arm and sink a shot. I announce the score: "20-10".

His wife says: "It's that really the score?"

"Yep", I say, "He's winning." Silence after that. I miss my free throw, but am able to block his next shot and make one of my own. It's now 20-11.

I stand at the free throw line, dribble the ball twice and take my shot. The ball hits the backboard, hits the side of the rim, and drops. 20-13, still my shot. I remember that to make free throws, you just need to do the same motion consistently. I dribble twice and take my second shot. It hits the center of the square on the backboard and falls: 20-15. I'm scoring more prolifically than I have all game - 5 straight points, and I've reached the highest streak I've had while practicing, but it's still my shot. I dribble twice, take my shot, and it goes in: 20-17. My next free throw shot is a little off, but it still drops: 20-19. One more shot, and I've mounted the biggest comeback in the history of Jakarta's games of 21.

I look at my opponent and say: "you know, if I make this, I win."

"Good luck", he says. I dribble twice, follow through with my motion - slight jump, one hand shot, backspin on the ball. The ball leaves my hand, rises through the air, heads gracefully towards the hoop, and keeps going, over the backboard.

My opponent takes the ball, heads back to three-point land, stops and sinks a jump shot to win the game. I only have two comments:

1) The game was a far larger thrashing than the final score would lead you to believe
2) From now on, I will practice while wearing contacts, not glasses. I never went over the backboard in practice, and I think my depth perception varies widely between the two mechanisms of vision correction.....at least that's the story I'm telling.

After the game, we came back to the house for lunch and to let the kids play - he has two boys near my daughter's age. We finished the day watching the kids swim in the kiddie pool and letting my muscles atrophy in retaliation for the over-exertion.

When everyone had left, and my wife and daughter were taking a nap, I had to go to the spa for a 90-minute massage so that I'm able to walk and breathe tomorrow. So far, so good. That was the best workout I've had since I've been here and hopefully we'll do it again - and I'll make it tougher for him to beat me.