Thursday, January 29, 2015

Cut Out Scene, magic + Dream - SOL, "Legendes" Dave Cowens camp

What follows in this flashback is the first time I officially lost it and the also the first kid to ever call me wiger. It was in the fifth grade shortly after my proclamation to God. “This so exciting for you too. Mike and Matt you guys are going to be great.” Mike’s mother obviously a great person in the mere fact that she adopted two babies and like my own mother was on to our celebrity early. My mother to this day can’t drive on highways, fly on airplanes, take elevators along with a long list of anxiety “just don’ts.” It was decided things would be easier on everybody if I went with the Masters. “I think you guys will surprise yourselves going against the kids from the other towns. You’ll have an interesting week.” Mr. Masters was driving and his tone was always staunch, to the point and applicable. He was so right, this would be the first time that the two us would be able to test our early successes at Hayden and check what greater Boston had to offer. “I think we’ll surprise everybody else. Mike I’m going to score a hundred more points than you.” ”Boys stop it already. Your going to be roommates.” “So?” I spoke very comfortably around the Masters having spent many a day at their home. We not only lived in the same neighborhood that ironically was south central Astori but had similar sounding last names. When west coast rap hit I thanked god I was from south central Astori. Also our fathers many nights that summer like many others hit endless fly balls where the only expiration on such an event is the suns cloak of the night. Playing till dusk was my favorite always reminding me of what it took and reaffirming my love for the game, tantamount to nothing. Dropping us off I quickly picked up while reviewing new “roommate rules” a new kernel about Magic, he sleep walked. And for the kicker he responded to verbal commands when sleep walking. Talk about leverage was my first thought. Upon their leaving an exhilarating rush of Christmas adrenaline flowed through our muscles realizing we were away from our parents for an entire week. Hayden had given us the social confidence of knowing hip things that others would sweat us over simply spending so much time at Hayden. Our basketball skill, local fame and bearers of a strong Astori b-ball tradition were the best but most of all we were excited to display. This was our first real grade sheet against what else was out there as we marched together towards College fame and one day the NBA. The Dave Cowens camp at the time was a whose who of local high school basketball coaches and the all scholastic athletes that helped make these legendary coaches jobs somewhat easier. Mike Jarvis was there touting a point guard just a year older than us named Herman Moore. Mike Jarvis came from a long line of coaches at the helm of the prestigious Cambridge Ridge & Latin. Patrick Ewing and also NCAA March Madness legend Rumeal Robinson attended Ridge as well. Also off the “basketball map” but squarely centered on the Boston all time list, Hollywood celebrities Matt and Ben also attended Cambridge Ridge. Jarvis as we know would go onto above other things including a multi million dollar payday in the Big East at St. Johns. Mike and I quickly separated ourselves above the bar in our division besides being the smallest we never quite got the respect of Herman Moore. Coach Jarvis offered him as a sixth grader a scholarship on the spot to Boston University where at the time he was head coaching a spot recently abdicated by hoops legend Rick Pitino who was twenty-five years old when his tenure at BU begun. Years later in high school we would see Herman head to head in an AAU tournament and he was stupid nice, but so were we. The camp week flew by just hanging around new fellas made time speed. There would be many more basketball camps every summer throughout all of our years. Good athletes by nature in the Darwinian sense attract the most attention, like the coolest things and stand at the top of their collective class whatever their age may be. This camp was our first chance to reaffirm our initial intuition. Basketball heads are straight from the fridge. It’s just that being so good at such a widely accessible and national art makes anything a player with serious acceleration of acumen in regards to their skills prowess says interesting. That’s why news wires across the country will offer a huge page six story on the mighty Curt Shilling of my own Boston Red Sox holding a press conference after we won our first world series in almost one hundred years to throw his support behind President Bush? Who gives a fuck what this guy thinks about politics. I mean aren’t athletes dumb asses anyway? But that’s the fascination of sport just like acting. Some become Senators. I of course was the Dennis Rodman as always at every camp I ever attended with Mike, Danny Studwell or Stanley Fullerton and that week was no exception. My deal, hating all, there for the run, late night hamburger soda Canteen, peep who could rap, get away from my family and make fun of retards. All of this aggression, talent and the general camp experience bring us to my first serious “wiger” snap. This entire scene was on display for the junior Friday finals of the three on three classic and not surprisingly I was in the finals. The fans were the kids that you spent the entire week jawing with and proclaiming your own pretentious propaganda. I had made it that far and they hadn’t. While Mike could always turn boundaries into rubble and make strides with any and all at camp for me it wasn’t like that. Too much hate, too much pride regarding where I placed myself. The answer at this camp was I just wanted to hang around Dave Cowens in the golf cart. Therefore the fans here were my peers that I had offended regularly over the past week. Yes they were out of the tournament but they could be heard and the very last thing anyone in my league wanted to see was the wise ass white black kid that got run over by the lawnmower to win the title. My fellow campers voiced delectable audio for their favorites with euphonious pleasure and cracked on bricklayers with the anger of a twelve year old girl that creates the “Melissa is a slut” list has everyone sign it and then at lunch hands the list to Melissa. So my squad starts to torpedo and I’m becoming increasingly disenchanted. After air balling a critical turn around jumper the crowd on the small hill starts chanting and yelling what I felt inappropriate things to me. “I turn to the crowd, grab my crotch and flip everyone the finger.” This sparks to life a quick dose of laughter which quickly gives way to a chorus of “ooh’s.” My head coach came over before the ball was checked back in and told me to “take it easy kid.” Extremely disturbed the ball is placed back in play. So angry I’m chest to chest with the man I’m guarding talking mad scrap trying to find the monster. “He can’t go by me.” So excited am I to steal the ball from him, lay in a bucket and then run over to that small crowd on the hill grab my crotch and throw the bird again that the ref calls a foul on me instantly. High scoring campers on the hill begin tantalizing me. Right as I look back I catch Magic Man becoming blotchy I hear as if it was the only audible in a deafening cheer, “Dreams such a wiger!” The humorous roar that my ear detected was the last thing I can remember before launch. Running directly at the small circle of campers that were laughing and saying the most I was throwing haymakers at anyone within reach. A short while later peace was re-instated and my team forfeited. I was to be monitored personally for the rest of the day on a tick by tick basis by an adult. “Thank God my mother never attends Championship Friday’s.” Was all I could say to myself. Magic Man still breaks out in hives to this day whenever HE brings that story up. If retarded kids have that illogical wiring that makes them act really retarded when you say one specific trip word? Well if I’m retarded than my trip word is wiger

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