Being dunked on is the worst. Being dunked on by a guy in sandals who came to the game wearing a Disney backpack? You will never live it down.
It was in the fall of 2007 and I was just returning from feeding baby animals in the woods; the evening breeze was refreshing and I was full of youth. It was the last day of freshman camp and a few friends of mine wanted to play basketball. Though I had also just donated blood and planted trees because I value human and natural life, I thought that it would be a good idea to join the basketballing.
Now, we had five people and needed a sixth to run 3-on-3. Luckily there was this kid with a backpack on who was by the bench next to the court. He was showing a crowd of girls card tricks that he had learned while moonlighting as a horrible human being (my memory may be fuzzy). I had reservations about asking him to join in because of his snake-like features, but eventually we convinced him to come fill in the open roster spot. Don't mind that he looks like Judas, I said, he can play with us. He was also wearing sandals, so it couldn't hurt.
The game started like any other normal basketball game, with me absolutely dominating. And by dominating I mean playing hard defense and shooting threes. Like, threes all game. It was a small outside court and I was launching shots from half court like a gorgeous, less disappointing Jimmer Fredette. A handsome Peja Stojakovic.
My first few minutes in that game were basically NRA sponsored. I took almost as many shots in that game as I did later that night when I cried on the floor because I wanted to undrunk myself. That's not important though. What's important was that I was Patty Mills vs The Heat.
Everyone else was playing good as well, I guess, if you really must know. It was generally a fun, hard-fought game between college students with above-average basketball skills. Then something happened that still lives on in the memories of everyone who was there: Backpack boy got the ball at the top of the key and I rushed to defend him as we were the two most athletic people there, and I love a challenge. So far, so good.
He dribbled to the right, where one of his teammates had set a screen, so one of my teammates in turn rotated onto him as I just went with the roller under the rim. Lo and behold, backpack boy blows past his defender and is coming full speed towards me. I should have done the honorable thing and low-bridged him as he went up for a layup, but I didn't. I thought he would just lay the ball up like we'd been doing all game.
Dude dunked on me. In front of everyone. In sandals. Like the flip-flop sandals that you have to wear semi-tube socks with. It was one of these types of dunks:
I've never wanted to hurt another human being so bad in my entire life.
Everything happened so quickly: he jumped and didn't have the air for a dunk, or I thought so. But then, he got another boost like when a video game character double jumps; or when Iron-Man turns on his thrusters as he's about to hit the ground and flies up again.
Everything was chaotic. The crowd was running around ooing and ahhing like a nest of bees had been unleashed. The other players were hollering and running around the court. I was trying to decide which new name to go by for the witness protection program. My mom was crying. She wasn't there, but it's one of those things you can feel. Like when a twin can tell when the other is in pain, I could feel my mother turning her face in shame. If Vine was available back then, I would have wrote emails to have that particular incident taken down because it was abusive to my person.
And there's just no way to make up for being dunked on. Especially when the guy is wearing sandals. We kept playing til around 11 p.m., and at that point I was shooting half-court threes and leaping from the free-throw line trying to get him back. Didn't work. The crime had been committed. Before the first day of classes in my first year of college, I got dunked on by a guy who had a Disney characters backpack. I was ready to risk it all and start a brawl. I donate blood every three months. I deserved better.
They say time heals all wounds, but whoever they are, they're liars. Backpack boy ended up becoming my best friend, along with most of everyone who I played with that day. Which meant that every year that story is revisited, and some outlandish extra information is added to it. Sometimes they say he was barefoot and other times that I was about five inches taller than him and fouled him in the process. It just never ends.
Fast forward to last year and another one of my friends tried to DeAndre Jordan-Brandon Knight me in the school gym while my girlfriend was watching. That was the last time I played basketball for fun.
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