Band of Ballers

I wasn’t invited. But I wasn’t turned away. It was August, 2008, and I had never played team basketball other than a few miserable attempts at pickup YMCA ball over the years I’ve been married.
Several of the guys on staff at my church were meeting at 7am to play ball, and I finished weight lifting at 7am—same venue, 25 steps away from the courts. They needed a body to ensure at least 3-on-3, and even my uncoordinated corpse would fill that gap. Joining this bunch would mean I’d have to start work up to an hour later on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—my busiest days in the hangar; but I felt it worth it to get to know some people from church whom I had always wanted to know.
You would like these fellas, too.
There’s Colin. He’s our Kareem. He can play any position better than you, and he can do it with a smile on his face that comes from the enjoyment of the nuances he crafts, because he has the ability to just play with the nuances —and still beat a hard-pressing you. It all goes with his character, the most talented person I know. He loves what he does, entertaining himself with details in which others don’t have/take time to frolic.
Pound for pound—or inch for inch—though, Colin’s got his basketball match in John. Reggie Miller lives in this man for more than his shaved head. He never stops running, hustling, defending people you’d think outmatched him. He’s got the clutch three, the Tony Parker lane drive, and the P.T. Barnum circus shot. He’s where creativity and resourcefulness intersect—good traits to have as a student leader. Those and his unparalleled gift of succinct encouragement—he’s made my day more days than I can count.
Matt, too. He has Stockon’s hairy legs and uncanny ability to assist and rebound balls between taller foes. He’s sneaky fast, and he’s not intimidated. Like John, he’ll run you to death. Good thing he has that kind of quiet energy, working with middle schoolers at church and a girls volleyball team at Jefferson Forest. If any man would strive for a legacy of kindness, he could start that journey taking notes from this dark-buzzed Philly fan.
Judson doesn’t say a lot, either. When he does, it’s potent. He’ll let you talk and add his, “Reeeally?!” He doesn’t comment much outside of directives on the court, focused on execution. I assume he’s that way at work, orchestrating and choreographing vocalists, musicians, and moods—zoning into transitions, marks, and synchronization. Our Dirk Nowitzki, he’s our only answer to Colin, because he’s the only one tall enough—and he’s at least as comfortable behind the arc as in the paint. His smooth, two-handed stroke can hit consistently with a hand in his face.
If you have a hand anywhere on you, though, it’s probably Jeremy’s. Or his elbow. Or his forearm. Or his knee. Occasional guest, Donald, says Jeremy plays “strong as an ox,” and I’ve had to visit a chiropractor after one of his defensive maneuvers; but our Laimbeer is a jolly, unselfish teacher. His gregarious sarcasm and honesty hit you just as hard as one of his work in the paint. He’s the first and loudest to exclaim “my bad” and “Jeremy?!” to claim mistakes, and that self-deprecation and candor carry into his “big room” talks. He’s taught me a lot about myself, from both the sidelines and my Sunday chair.
Scott notices details and likewise instructs; but as our Grant Hill, he’s rarely around for more than a game or two. Sweet shot—don’t get me wrong. He’s money. Just don’t bet on him getting out of bed in time to join us.
Darren, on the other hand, has already been lifting weights for an hour by the time he sweats with us 32-and-unders. At 47, he’s our oldest regular, rockin’ the goggles and thigh-length shorts. But he doesn’t stop motoring, and you can’t defend his turn-around jumper. A real globe-trotter, he’s got stories to match his court-earned bragging rights. His humble, chipper spirit is contagious. I love talking to him after games, while we both decide if our work can wait.
Bob usually guards Darren—and not just because he’s our other resident from the other side of the hill. Bob’s our Barkley, throwing his weight and off-the-wall comments around the court. He will box you out of a rebound and box you in with a quick comeback comment. A coach at heart, his encouraging words are as well-timed as his threes. If we had a den father, it’d be Bob—always texting on Sunday nights to make sure the church staff kids (who theoretically get Monday off) are going to show in the morning.
Drew has needed those texts, ever since he met his Buttercup. Our church’s tech director, he operates with precision on and off the court. And like at church, he seems to do his best work under duress. He’s like Kobe and Jordan that way, only less insecure and without a chip on his shoulder—which I guess would make him our Chauncey Billups. He’s quick and wily, and he laughs at your jokes with a sly Southern smirk and back-tilted head. Drew puts you at ease, whether with insightful instruction, a listening ear, or a thoughtful question into your life. Similarly, he can lull you into poor defense, of which he gets a healthy share from me.
See, I’m like the Christian Laettner or Darko Milicic of the crew. I’ve got a couple highlights for Sports Center, but the rest is fast forward footage. I’m better off the bench, preferably during garbage minutes. Unfortunately, we don’t have those in Yball—or, I guess, fortunately for me. I’m a slow kinesthetic learner, but the patience of this crew has somehow superseded even their talent. I’m not at their level yet and probably never will be, but there’s something about the pursuit in a safe environment that I find constantly new and oddly addicting.
And I’m better for it.