That Girl Done Wore Me Out!

We bumped. We grinded. After a few minutes, we both began breathing heavily, sweat running down our faces. She could hardly keep her pants on. Just she and I, one-on-one. And, when it was over, she even enjoyed a cigarette.

Damn! That girl was good. She was rough. She wore me out!

Of course, I’m not talking about some sultry, steamy night in London…No SIR! I’m talking about my Wednesday night experience on the blacktop basketball court about two miles from my place.

Several weeks ago, I started going down there and shooting. I’ve typically been going twice a week in hopes of losing a few love handles and the extra chin I’ve somehow developed since I moved to Kentucky.

I think this is actually the best I think I’ve ever played. Usually, I just shoot alone for 90 minutes or so, but I’ve played a few people and remain undefeated so far. Nobody has even competed with a team I’ve been on. That’s not really because of me, because my game consists of standing about 17 to 20 feet away from the basket and just shooting whenever the ball is passed to me. That means no running, no jumping and absolutely, positively NO defense. But I haven’t lost any one-on-one games yet either, so I was feeling pretty good about myself.

So, I got off work at a reasonable time Wednesday and decided to go shoot for a few minutes. The court was open when I arrived, both hoops. There was a gaggle of young girls in the parking lot, three of which I’m sure could royally kick my ass in a fight.

I went down to one end and began shooting, but soon heard the sound of another ball dribbling away on the other end. The girls, along with their token tall, skinny guy friend, were playing. They did so for a few minutes and most of them returned to their car…except for one…I gathered her name was Heather from eavesdropping on them talking while playing.

“Hey, you wanna play a game?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?” I said.

She was probably about 5’6”, between 110 and 120 pounds (she was one of the two skinny girls). We were to play to 24, with anything inside the arc counting for two and three-pointers counting, well, for three.

She took the ball first, missing her first shot, a mid-ranger. I rebounded, took the ball out and missed about a 16-footer. She rebounded and took the ball out…now here’s where things got testy.

Heather (I think) put her head down and drove toward the basketball with reckless abandon…no regard for human life! I positioned myself about five feet from the basket, but she would not be satisfied with taking a shot that far out. She actually drove in and ran into a man likely more than twice her weight. Hard. Worse yet, she hit her layup.

2-0 Heather. Oh shit…I’m losing…to a girl.

She gambled on a steal and I managed to tie it up. We traded baskets until we were knotted up at 6 all. Then, ‘ol Ima went on a 4-0 run. 10-6, I felt I had some breathing room, despite the fact I could hardly breathe. At 4-4, my side was already hurting and I was winded. I realized at that moment how pathetically out of shape I am.

My guess is she thought I was taking her lightly, but truth be told I just couldn’t keep up with her. She was in it to win it.

She was wearing these draw-string athletic pants and would have to take time every few possessions and tie her pants back up. “My pants keep falling down,” she’d say. It took me a moment to recover each time because I’ve never had this problem in my life where a girl’s pants won’t stay on around me.

Pride is a wicked thing. At times, it can help you persevere through life’s most difficult situations. Other times, it can keep us from attaining things we probably would have if it wouldn’t have crept in. My pride, and admittedly sexist tendencies, told me that I was NOT going to lose to a girl.

Problem was, I’m fat and slow and this gal was as quick as a hiccup. She answered my run with one of her own. Within moments, we were tied at 10 all. Then, I buried a 20-footer. 13-10…I was feeling better. Then, on her possession, she gets a step on me and answers with her own 20-footer. Tied, 13-13...And I’m worried.

However, I went on a hot streak from outside, one Glen Rice and Reggie Miller would envy. In other words, I got lucky. As soon as the ball was checked to me, I just flung it toward the basket and was fortunate enough to have it go in. The game would end at 24-13. But let me tell ya, folks, the game was a lot closer than the score dictates. I got hot and I got lucky. If not, this chick would have beat my ass, no doubt about it.

Nearly the whole game, this girl was driving in, slamming into me, knocking me off the block. She actually had me in fear the whole game that my father would disown me if he knew I lost to her.

When it was over, she extended her hand and said “Well, you beat me. Good game.”

I shook her tiny hand and forced the remaining breath from my charred lungs to say “G’ game.”

She calmly walked over to her friend’s car, sat in the passenger’s seat and lit one up. I, on the other hand, put my hands on my knees, my side aching, and dreaded the thought of the lung cookies I’d be baking later (that means I’d be hocking up some major lungage).

Soon, Heather (I guess) and her friends left. I shot for about another hour, which involved no running or jumping, but I was exhausted. While doing so, I thought about the lesson I had learned. I vowed to longer let sexism and pride find its way into my life. That girl was tough, ya’ll. I realize at any time, some other girl can come out to the court and wipe the asphalt with me. Sisters are doin’ it for themselves!

And, in all honesty, "Heather's" toughness kinda turned me on…too bad she was about 17…oh, and likely a lesbian.