Going To Overtime

As published in The County Times (countytimes.somd.com)

By Ronald N. Guy Jr.

The current view from the bleachers reveals only courts with rusty poles, slightly bent rims and frayed nets waiting to snap with the splash of another successful shot.  Kids are playing half court games at either end.  Their voices echo, but their words are indiscernible.  Sweat glistens on their skin.  Their laughter and determination are infectious.  Balls bounce in some hypnotic rhythm.  These are beautiful sights and sounds.

Ahh…basketball.  This busy “View” will need regulation and overtime. 

For the former, we will start with horse…or H-O-R-S-E.  Not the animal.  The game.  It’s a universal basketball language.  Simple.  Fantastic.  A test of basketball skills and the imagination.  One player makes a shot, then the other has to sink it or get cursed with a scarlet letter.  Fail to match your opponent five times and you spell out HORSE - and take the loss.  The shots can be traditional jumpers, lay-ups or deep bombs.  And, if called in advance, they can be creative.  Underhand shots.  Bank shots.  Behind the backboard attempts.  Hook shots.  Back to the basket.  Bounce off the ground.  Blindfolded.  Whatever you can imagine. 

I would lose HORSE to Caitlin Clark, Iowa’s sensational guard and newly anointed all-time leading scorer in women’s NCAA history, every time.  It wouldn’t be close.  I would take an honorable “L”. 

Shooters, man.  Here’s the thing about them.  Scant few humans can dunk.  Just as few have elite basketball athleticism.  And the masses who can’t dunk and possess only modest moves, are acutely aware of said limitations; they aren’t in the backyard duplicating Michael Jordan’s dunks or LeBron James’s fly-through-the-air-and-pin-the-ball-on-the-backboard blocks.  Maybe on a Nerf rim, but not a real basketball court.  This is other-worldly stuff beyond the capability of “normal” humans.  We watch.  Jaws drop.  And that’s it.

Shooters leave the imaginative door ajar.  Anyone who has played basketball at any level sees the stuff Larry Bird did, and that Stephen Curry and Clark do, and thinks, hmm…I can do that.  I can hit a fade-away jumper.  I can finger-roll.  I can drill “logo threes” two steps inside half-court.  And we can.  Not every time.  Not regularly.  Certainly not while being defended and in the clutch.  But in the backyard?  All alone?  Sometimes.  Sometimes we can hit those shots.  And…it…feels…fantastic.

Which is, I think, part of Clark’s allure.  She is one of the best basketball players I’ve ever seen and maybe the best women’s player ever.  Her range, feel for the game, flair for the dramatic, confidence, command of the stage – sensational.  She is the biggest thing in college basketball since some long-ago previous biggest thing that escapes my aging and cluttered mind.  Around the country (world?), little kids, teenagers and aging weekend warriors, are shuffling out to public courts, driveways and hoops at the end of cul-de-sacs, and doing their best Caitlin Clark imitations.  It usually ain’t pretty, but every now and then, a shot tickles the nylon as it splashes through the hoop.  These are the warm thoughts Clark inspires. 

Clark’s recent assault on the NCAA scoring record has been magic.  It embodies everything we love about sports.  She’s transcended individual moments and accolades.  This is an all-time, generational player doing stuff never seen before.  It’s prime Jordan.  It’s peak Jerry Rice.  It’s Wayne Gretzky hoisting Stanley Cups in Edmonton.  It’s Serena Williams and Novak Djokovic.  It is one of those beautiful things that life drops in your lap sometimes and, with this likely her last season at Iowa, the only proper thing to do is enjoy it (and attempt feeble backyard replications). 

Overtime: Charles “Lefty” Driesell passed away last week.  He was 92.  Maryland basketball fans of a certain vintage know that no greater personality has coached or played for the Terrapins.  He was the coach of my youth - a bombastic, determine cuss who shook a defiant fist at the Atlantic Coast Conference power brokers in the state of North Carolina.  I am grateful for the disdain he sowed for Duke and North Carolina; part of fanhood, part of loving a team, is knowing who to hate.  Rest easy, Lefty.  Tell Lenny we said hello (#34forever).