Wit Stop

WIT STOP A Barkley Wannabe Mourns His Cruel Fate

America has its president; Great Britain, her queen; Japan, an emperor. Arizona, though, has Sir Charles Barkley, a dribbling, shooting, rebounding, slam-dunking, trash-talking amalgam of all of those.

I like the Phoenix Suns' Sir Charles even though I have good reason not to. He holds the position in life that I once thought was reserved for me. Collegiate all-star, Olympic gold medalist, NBA superachiever those are the goals I sought in life. I was well on my way to acquiring them, too, until fate dealt me a cruel, career-ending blow. It happened in the second grade.

Our elementary school announced tryouts for the basketball team, and I was a shoo-in to make the starting five. My brother was the team coach. Normally, of course, only seventhand eighth-graders made the squad, but I would be the historic second-grader who would break that tradition because my brother was the team coach.

But there was one considerable obstacle that stood in my way: my brother was the team coach.

"I can't let you try out for the team," he said.

I said, "Frank, you have to. Basketball is my life."

"You're nothing but a little snot-nosed, whining, crybaby, second-grade pest."

He exposed his fraternal affection by prefacing his pet names for me with the word "little."

I said, "But Frank, I'll make you proud of me. I'm quick. I'm a good ball-handler, an accurate passer, a heady team player, and I can follow orders from the bench." Quite an impressive resume for a kid who had never actually played basketball.

My brother said, "This is stupid. Give me one good reason why I should let you try out."

I said, "Because if you don't, I'll tell Mom where you and Mary Beth McCarthy really went when you were supposed to take her to the Thanksgiving Day football game."

That problem overcome, I now had to figure out what to wear. The sporting goods stores didn't sell basketball uniforms small enough to fit me. Mom and her reliable sewing machine provided the answer. She cut down a pair of my torn knickers into a basketball tank top complete with the number "one" sewn onto the front and back. My chest wasn't wide enough for two numbers.

The shorts were a problem, though, on tryout day. They were corduroy. When I ran down the court they whistled. Everyone kept looking around thinking a tornado was beginning to form. A few of the other players were annoyed at the noise, but I was delighted. Only on the court for two or three minutes, and already I was the center of attention. Besides, I thought it was inspired. Our team could wear corduroy uniforms and change our nickname to the "Tornadoes." To me, that sounded much more aggressive than: "St. Jude's the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes." (The nuns made up our nickname.) Brother Frank-oops, excuse Coach Frank decided me that the first test of our basketball skills would be foul shooting. Each aspirant would take 10 shots from the foul line, and Frank would record how many were made or missed. When my turn came, I stood behind the foul line, which is 15 feet from the basket, and concentrated on form, on keeping my mechanics smooth and relaxed. My first shot fell short-by 12 feet.

I threw my next shot as hard as I could. It fell 10 feet short. Some players chuckled; others got impatient. "Get this kid outta here!" Coach Frank just glared at me.

One kindly eighth-grader suggested that I shoot the foul shots underhanded. "You might be able to reach the basket that way," he said. I thought it was good advice because reaching the basket is prerequisite to making a foul shot.

So I held the ball in both hands and hurled it as hard as I could toward the basket... I thought. The ball went straight up into the air. It thwacked against one of the rafters and ricocheted straight down, clunking me on the head.

I not only didn't make the team, but I was carried off the court while the rest of my teammates rolled around the hardwood, guffawing. Even Coach Frank was convulsed.

I've grown up since then, but only to a height of about 5 feet 7. I have a vertical leap of % of an inch, and my heels swell up if I run on hard surfaces. So I never made my mark in basketball.

However, if you're ever in downtown Phoenix, stop by the America West Arena and watch the Suns play. As you marvel at Barkley's graceful moves, accurate outside shooting, and fierce slam dunks, remember: there but for God's sense of humor go I.