That's When Ya Lost

One thing about playing basketball (wait, where are you going?) as exercise: it's so fun for me that I have a hard time knowing when it's time to quit, to walk away and give my body a rest.

Today I was lucky enough to finish work early, and, knowing so ahead of time, took my backpack -- containing a change of clothes, my sneakers and my ball -- with me to work. Jesus, with my Adam Morrisonesque mop, whispy facial hair, and the fact that I was walking around with a backpack all day, I sorta felt like those shifty-looking waygooks I see all the time.

Wack like me.

Anyway, after arriving in Bundang I got off the bus at Seohyeon and dashed into a phone booth/officetel bathroom to change. What's up with all the nicest bathrooms in Bundang being in Seohyeon? They're always empty. Couldn't they spread 'em out a little?

Whatever. I got changed, headed down to the court, and arrived at 3:30. Typically, no one was there, so I shot around, practiced free throws, layups, circus shots, you name it. It was a bit cooler today than it has been these past few weeks, and cloudy, so the heat didn't zap me of my energy too quickly. In fact, I shot around non-stop for two and a half hours.

Now, you may be thinking, so what? But let me tell you, when you're the only guy shooting and have to collect your own rebounds, you can get worn down pretty fast -- a lot faster than if, say, you have a buddy or two with whom to shoot. So I was kind of tired by the time 6 rolled around.

I was about to call it quits and head for home, but just then a stocky-looking guy, who looked about 25 or so, walked onto the court.

I had a feeling he was going to suggest some one-on-one (get your mind outta the 5th grade), and though I contemplated saying no on the grounds that I was too exhausted, I figured I'd continue shooting for a little while longer and see.

But the dude just stood there, not 3 meters from where I was practicing. At first I figured he was waiting for a friend or something, but as the minutes passed, I guessed that that probably wasn't the case.

Now, I gave the guy every opportunity to ask me to play, taking small breaks between shots and looking him in the eye; but he just stood there stoically.

He was the first weird-acting Korean male I've encountered in nearly 6 years here.

But seriously, I began to get the idea that he had every intent of requesting a match, but was purposefully waiting for me to wear down further before doing so. Paranoid? Maybe. But I still believe that was his plan.

Finally, he asked "you wanna play?"

"Ahhhhhh," I let out a sigh of apprehension. Let me reiterate, I was really fucking beat. "To what?"

"Five-five," he said.

And here's what I don't get: in such games, you play to five, then take a short break (or not, as is often the case), and play to ten. Why not just play to ten (or eleven, which is what I'm used to)? I think the point is that, because it's winner's out, the player trailing is given possession; but more often than not it doesn't work that way, and today was one such example.

(But I tend to clear the ball at the 3-point line, so what the hell do I know?)

Back to the story. I accepted, believing I could take the guy, even though I was worn out (have I mentioned yet that I was worn out?).

We shot free throws for possession. He airballed his first attempt (Nelson Muntz: Ha, ha!), I nailed mine. On the first play I drove right (note to anyone who plays me: I always drive right) and from 7 or 8 feet kissed the ball off glass.

But Stubby (which is what we'll call him from here on) tightened up on D, getting his arms in my face everytime I tried to replicate the move or post up, and my shots were way off.

At "halftime" he was up 5-3.

I can't lose this game, I can't. I won't be able to live with myself.

This is what was running through my mind at the time. But what could I do? I was beat like Neal Cassady. Not even my reliable jumper was falling, and Stubby was giving me more than ample room with which to heave.

Put your goddam legs into it! some part of my conscience (the part that sounds like Pat Riley) shouted.

I did.

Sometimes, it's such a small thing that can throw a player off his game. For me, my shot wasn't dropping because I was tired and not putting my legs into it. After I did, presto Change-O.

The score was 8-5 in favor of Stubb Rock when I rebounded, cleared the ball at the perimeter, and let fly with perfect form.

Swish.

And again. And again.

Score tied, this dude still wasn't coming to pressure my shot. So I kept shooting.

(And, as a brief aside, it's always amusing when the guy you're playing can't stop reminding you the score when he's winning, but clams up as soon as you're ahead. Good times.)

Final score: Sparky 10, Stubby 8.

And the only reason I mention this, apart from being a self-centered braggart, is that, whenever I'm asked by Koreans to play one-on-one, I don't think their primary reason is for genuine, sportsmanly competition, but rather because young Korean males see it as a huge ego boost to beat a foreigner. To wit: when I lose, my opponents tend to stick around and make small talk; when I win, they hightail it faster than Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans .

Again, paranoid? Maybe, but I doubt it.

Anyway, after my lights-out J clinic I walked home. No mean feat, because I live a 50-minute walk from the court. But I hate getting on the bus all sweaty.

I'm considerate like that.