Basketbawful

Livin' Large: Part 9

2009-07-14T17:08:00.003-05:00

Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8. And check out the official Livin' Large FAQ.

Okay, before beginning this installment, I have a few things to say about Pisa, Italy. Yeah, I know it has nothing whatsoever to do with this story, but it's my blog. So there.

First off, Evil Ted and I went for a run after our grueling 11-hour workday. We jogged by the Leaning Tower of Pisa...I have to admit, that was pretty cool. Now, an interesting thing about Pisa is that everybody eats ice cream. Like, all the time. I'm talking once or twice a day. And every place you go to sells ice cream. Pharmacies, pizza places, cafes, bars, etc. And that's in addition to all the gelato (that is, ice cream) parlors that dot the landscape. Seriously, the gelato stands are to Pisa what Starbucks is to anywhere in the United States.

Our hosts explained that, in Pisa, ice cream is considered to be medicinal. That's because it's hot as balls here and there's no human way to escape the heat. The pitiful little air conditioner in my flat (that is, apartment) sits over the front door and expels enough frigid air to cool off, well, the front door. If I could sleep standing up and propped against the door, I might actually stay asleep for more than 25 minutes at a time. That and not wake up in a pool of my own sweat.

The extreme heat has apparently made sensations of "cold" or even "cool" intolerable to the Pisans. So much so that most places don't serve ice in drinks. And if you ask, you get funny looks. (But not as funny as the look Evil Ted got when he asked a barista for milk in his coffee. The dude looked at ET like he'd asked for a cow urine frapacheeny.) True story. We were having lunch with our co-workers yesterday, and one of them ordered "ice water." When it arrived, our Italian boss, Richard, grabbed it and said (in a British accent), "Dear God, it's freezing. Be careful, gents. It's so cold it might burn your mouth. I can barely touch my glass it's so cold." ET and I were actually afraid to take a drink...then discovered it was barely above room temperature.

Let's see, what else. Cars are tiny. And I mean all of 'em. Most people just walk in the middle of the tiny streets because cars tend to remain parked in favor or scooters or what look like 1950s era bicycles. Almost 80 percent of the women wear sexy sundresses, and most of the guys dress like, uh, I believe the word ET used was "dingleberries." Oh, and there are NO fat people. Seriously. It's bizarre, because in America, you can hardly turn around without stumbling into a huge, giggling belly or tripping into the fatty's wading pool of delicious gravy.

But enough about foreign lands. You're here for stories.

Okay, so I failed miserably in my attempt to get a room reassignment. I was stuck with Mat, and he was stuck with me. Things seemed tense at the time, but in retrospect they were still pretty cordial. It wouldn't stay that way, but at the time, I didn't think things could get any worse.

That didn't keep me from plotting his death.

I'm exaggerating of course. Well, mostly. I did have some rather dark and unsavory fantasies. But most of them involved him accidentally walking into a bus or slipping on a banana peel and falling directly into a wood chipper. I had to hope the fates would do him in, because I sure couldn't do it. I've always felt I could probably hold my own in most fights, but I had no illusions whatsoever about what would happen if I tangled with my roommate. Maybe I would have had a fighting chance if I was wearing a shark protection suit made out of actual sharks, or poisonous grizzly bears or something. As it was, my best instrument of revenge...was the mind.

Unfortunately, I hadn't lived with BadDave yet, so I wasn't very cunning. So I started out small. You know, accidentally-on-purpose forgetting to write down messages about important phone calls, including a few from his professors. (It seemed meaningless at the time, but trust me, it bore fruit later.) I drank his last couple sodas. I stuffed his pillow case under his bed, where I knew he would never find it among the bizarre debris field there. (Yes, he missed it, and yes it pissed him off.)

Sadly, these tiny victories brought me little joy. I took the problem to my role-playing group. One thing about these guys: they may have been geeky -- almost retardedly so -- but they were smart and devious. One in particular was a brilliant kid who was studying chemical engineering. BadDave will have to remind me what his name was, but let's call him "Four-Eyes." Four-Eyes devised several insidious plans for slowly poisoning Mat anywhere from mild illness to death. It was both frightening and rather tempting, which probably tells you how fed up I was getting.

But murder is murder, and as much as I didn't like him, he wasn't that evil. Besides, I would not do well in prison.

Midweek I received another card from Aimee's roommate, Latrisse. But she went one better than that and sent me a care package too. I was really moved. It was my first care package. Several of the guys I'd met had already gotten one from their parents, and I had been mildly bummed about not having received one myself. It made me feel kind of unloved, and I was already have that stupid freshman "I'm just a number now!" feeling.

That night I called Aimee's room, but not to talk to Aimee. I called for Latrisse. I wanted to thank her for the care package. This drove Aimee a little nuts. A few years later and I might have been crafty enough to use that to my advantage, but I was way to inexperienced and innocent to play games. But it got Aimee's attention, and she really warmed up to me that week.

Mat overheard much of my conversation. Despite his constant liaisons, he seemed fascinated by my budding love life. He always paid close attention to my discussions with Aimee, and he was monitoring the situation with Latrisse too.

"Dude," he said, "you need to be f***ing careful. Dat's some dangerous sh*t, playing up to duh girl you wanna date and her roommate. Dat sh*t will get you f***ed up if you're not careful."

I almost laughed in his giant face. This was strange advice coming from a guy who would make a booty call five minutes after finishing with his last booty call. Then again, I had to admit, he seemed to know more about woman than I did (or at least that's how it seemed to my 18-year-old self). Could he have a point?

"Nah," I said after a few moments of hard thought. "It's not like that. Latrisse and I are just really friendly. Guys and girls can be friends."

Mat then uttered perhaps the wisest thing I would ever hear him say. "Guys and girls can be a lot of t'ings, but dey cannot be friends."

Let's be frank here: Mat said and did a lot of stupid, thoughtless, cruel and incomprehensible things while we were living together. But he was almost 100 percent bang on about that. I would learn this many, many times in the coming years, as many a friendship ended in dramatic comedy. However, at that time, it was very easy to dismiss any and everything he tried to tell me.

The next night, I was hip-deep in an English paper in -- I kid you not -- gender construction in the movie Ghostbusters when the phone rang. Mat answered it, as he almost always did when he was actually in the room, expecting it to be Shelly. But, shock of shocks, it was for me.

"It's dat girl Tiffany again," he said.

"Uh...okay," I said. He handed me the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi Matt! My name's Tiffany!" one voice said.

"And I'm Carolyn!" said another.

"We're your new pledge mothers!" they said together.

"My, excuse me, what?" I was dumbfounded.

"Silly boy," Carolyn said. "Don't you remember filling out a rush form for Alpha Phi Omega."

I don't remember whether I slapped myself in the forehead right then, but I wouldn't be surprised if that was my reaction. I had forgotten all about APO probably less than five minutes after I'd filled that form out. Well, that solved the mystery of why two girls would be calling a socially awkward freshman who rarely left his dorm room.

"The pledge ceremony is this Sunday," Tiffany continued. "It's kind of like an orientation, but it's a ceremony too, so you'll want to dress nice. Dress pants and a shirt, maybe a tie if you're into that."

"You'll get to meet your fellow pledges, ask questions, all that stuff," Carolyn said. "Oh, I almost forgot. You have a pledge sister. Her name's Susan."

It's funny, but even that small handful of information left me a little dumbstruck. I wrote it all down on a notepad and just sort of stared at it.

"If you have any questions before Sunday, or if you want to meet us before hand, maybe get something to eat, don't hesitate to call us," Tiffany said. "In fact, we'd love to have lunch with you. Do you have any free time in the next couple days?"

"Uh, I'm kinda busy this week," I said, palms sweating. "I probably won't have any time until Sunday." What a laugh. I had nothing BUT time at that point in my college life. But the idea of meeting two strange girls for lunch intimidated me.

We agreed to meet at the student center on Sunday at 12:45 p.m. The ceremony was at one.

"So," Mat said with some interest, "what was all dat about?"

I explained it too him and he immediately lost interest. To him, it was probably just another geeky thing his dweeb roommate was doing.

The week passed as weeks tend to do. I was delighted when Mat disappeared on Friday. He had that "two-day disappearance" look about him, and I was almost right. He didn't return until really late on Saturday night, maybe around 4 a.m., when he showed up drunk and alone. He was so beat he actually dropped right into bed without turning on his Heineken light or watching a single minute of MTV. I passed the time playing pick-up ball at the co-rec, hanging out with Nathan, and meeting up with the roleplaying group on Saturday night.

On Sunday I got dressed up, Little Matt style. Unfortunately, I'm trapped in Italy thousands of miles away from my scrapbook, or I'd post a picture of me and my pledge family. Anyway, I wore black dress pants, a dark purple dress shirt and a thin black tie. I thought I looked pretty pimpin'. I mean, I was no Wally "Eskimo Pimp" Szczerbiak or anything, but I was stylin' for me at the time.

I met up with my pledge moms in the designated place at the designated time, and while I was genuinely happy to meet them, I couldn't take my eyes of my pledge sister. I thought she was adorable. I also thought she was hot. Susan was short, a little busty, with not-quite shoulder-length brown hair and twinkling brown eyes. She also had a nose like Jennifer Grey, which kinda did it for me. (Remember, I had just had my first serious kiss the previous weekend after watching Dirty Dancing.) She decked out in a very flattering lavender dress and wearing a black choker with a white porcelain cross affixed to it.

I stuck out my hand to shake and blurted out, "HellonicetomeetyouareyouCatholic?"

Hello mouth, I am the foot. Allow me to insert myself.

Susan looked at me like a third eye had just popped out of my forehead. "Uh, yeah, I am Catholic. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, uh, well, you're wearing that cross and everything."

"Yeah. I just think it's cool."

"Oh, yeah, yeah sure, it is. Like, very cool. I really like it."

As awkward as that little exchange may seem on your computer screen, I promise you it was ten times more awkward than that. At least. It was a stumbling, bumbling first impression. And it set a precedent: I would continue to be painfully and sometimes hilariously awkward in Susan's presence.

I sat through the pledging ceremony in a daze. I was really smitten with Susan. Every few seconds I'd sneak a quick peek at her. I guess someone must have slipped some infatuation juice into my cereal that morning.

After the ceremony, our little pledge family went out for lunch at a popular pizza place right off campus. My awkwardness continued unabated, but I managed to sort of contain it. During the discussion, Tiffany explained why she and Carolyn had chosen me as their pledge son. "Well," Tiffany said, "I saw you put down soccer as one of your hobbies. I was really excited about that, because I played soccer for, like, seven years. Most guys put down football or basketball. When I saw soccer on your pledge form, I knew I had to pick you."

It's really funny how things turn out. Some crazy whim had taken over my mind that day and caused me to put down soccer instead of basketball. I never quite understood how or why that happened, considering my obsession with watching and playing basketball. But some strange twist of fate had moved my pen, and so I ended up meeting Susan, who would become the second love of my college life.

Of course, I'd blown the first impression. But I'd get other chances.

When I got back to the room, Mat was still out like a light. I had nervous energy to burn off, so I changed into workout gear and went for a run. When I came back, I heard Mat singing in the shower across the hall from our room. Bob Marley of course. When he wasn't watching MTV, Mat was either listening to or singing Bob Marley. Or both. I reached for the doorknob and found it was unlocked.

Now let me explain something. The whole door locking thing was a real hangup for me. Things were a little rough in my neighborhood while I was growing up. Rough enough that my mom repeatedly stressed the importance of locking your door. On top of that, school officials, members of the dorm government, writers in the school paper, everybody was issuing dire warnings for students to lock up, even if they were just going down the hall to talk to a friend. I took this advice to heart, and I wanted Mat to do it too...but that was like asking Lindsey Lohan to lay off the magic sauce.

Finding the door unlocked yet again made me snap. It wasn't just the door locking thing, it was all of Mat's shenanigans. I just wanted to get him, really embarrass him, just once.

I locked the door and left the dorm.

An hour later, I returned. The door was locked. I let myself in and the room was empty. However, there was a note on my desk. I still have this note somewhere, and I swear if I find it I will scan it and post it here on the site. Anyway, it was from Mat, and it said, "You locked me out of the room. I'm going to fucking kill you."

Okay, I'll admit: I was terrified. But I also got this totally wild thrill. Oh, and it gets better. By the time Mat got home, he had calmed down a little bit. He still wanted to kick my ass, but not badly enough to actually do it. This is what happened. Mat came out of the shower to find the door locked, of course, and he didn't have his key. He was forced to go down to the main office, which is in a large common room area.

There was some kind of event going on -- to this day, I don't know exactly what it was -- but the common room was filled with students and their families: dads, moms, brothers and sisters. Even some grandparents. And here comes this lumbering giant, soaking wet and wearing a teeny-tiny towel that barely fit halfway around his massive trunk. If you want to know how small that towel was on him, go get a hand towel from your bathroom, fold it in half, and then try to wrap it around your waist. Yeah.

Mat walked up to the front desk, which was manned by a student worker. He explained that he was locked out of his room and requested a spare key. The student worker, citing protocol, said Mat would have to produce his dorm ID before he could get a spare key. Mat not-so-calmly explained he didn't have his key. The student worker insisted. People started gathering around, fascinated by this freakish standoff.

Now, I had believed to that point that Mat had no shame. But apparently he did, and this situation evoked it. He was embarrassed, humiliated, so he began screaming at the student worker. The student worker got scared and supposedly threatened to call the police. Finally, the hall assistant manager showed up and gave Mat the spare key, after which he shambled, still mostly naked, past dozens of staring eyes back to our room.

He was still steamed about it...still embarrassed even. I apologized without meaning it. Then we kind of laughed about it together. Oddly enough, it felt like one of those moments when roommates bond a little. But it was just an illusion.

Livin' Large: Part 8

2009-07-13T13:45:00.005-05:00

The next week with Mat was more of the same: he'd come home a little (or a lot) drunk, stay up all night, and partake in the carnal glory of random hookups. I was studying for a Calculus quiz one evening when he and some girl practically fell through the door together, laughing and talking like their eardrums were busted. Let me tell you, it isn't easy to work out the derivative of a function when there's a naked girl five feet away screaming about the size of your roommate’s genitalia. Sometimes all I could do was give up studying to go next door and visit Nathan until the shrieking stopped. I tried to tell myself it was only one year, but I still hade most of that year left to go. I really didn't want to keep living like that.

Mat, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. People loved him...and not just the ladies on campus. One day he received some gifts in the mail from "concerned alumni" who understood how "lonely and isolated" a foreign student could feel. He got a portable CD player, some cash, and a few other things I can't remember. Talk about isolation busters. I was pretty sure that kind of treatment violated several NCAA rules, but rules only apply if you get caught, right?

Free gifts weren't enough though. He had come up with a new gimmick: stealing CDs from frat parties. Mat's pockets were huge. So huge he could slip two or three CDs in them at at time. He returned to the dorm one particular evening flush with the excitement of a master thief. "Look at this shit," he exclaimed as he emptied his pockets.

"Don't you think those frat guys are going to miss their CDs?" I asked.

"Hell, are you kidding?" he bellowed. "Dey got so many CDs, dey'll never even know dese are gone. Besides," he said with a hint of menace, "nobody's gonna say shit to me, you know?"

Probably not. But still.

On Thursday, I decided it was time to become pro-active. I went to Brett and requested a room change, immediately if not sooner. He eyed me warily for a few ticks and then said, "I don't know if that's going to work. We don't have any vacancies in this wing."

"Fine," I said. "Move me anywhere. I don't care where. Up. Down. Over and around. There has to be an opening somewhere, right?"

Brett thought about it. "I don't know, tell you the truth."

I groaned.

"Look," Brett said, "talk to Mat again. I know, I know," he said as I glared daggers at him. "But just try. Give it the weekend. See if he responds. If he doesn't, I'll get you an appointment to talk to the hall manager."

"Okay, fine" I said. But I didn't like his plan. In fact, I hated it.

It was with a heavy heart that I approached Mat later that night. Jennifer was on her way over, so I had to work fast.

"Mat" I said. "How are, uh, things going?"

"Fine," he said, apathy and irritation oozing from his giant pores. I felt like a telemarketer or something.

"Look, man, here's the thing," I blurted out. "I just need a break from the all-nighters. And, like, if you want to have sex in the room, can you just let me know ahead of time. I'll make plans or something."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," he said.

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Nothing was going to change.

"By duh way, a couple girls called for you," he said, and he looked about as surprised as I felt. "Carolyn and Tiffany." He then handed me a piece of paper with their numbers on it.

Carolyn and Tiffany? Had I ever met a Carolyn, let alone a Tiffany? I had no idea. I was and still am terrible with names. There was this one girl in German class I'd been talking to, and I'd met another girl during a fountain run. (There's a large fountain in the middle of the campus, and there's a long and storied tradition of students running through it. Sadly, a litigation-conscious former university president conspired to enclose the water jet inside a large metal tube. Very lame.) So yeah, I knew two girls, but chances were they didn't know each other. I couldn't figure it out, and I was too nervous to call them back. I passed it off as a wrong number.

"Dude," Mat said. "It wasn't a wrong number. Dey asked for you by name." He seemed to want to get to the bottom of this great mystery: why girls would be calling his dweeby roommate.

I refused to give him the satisfaction. I didn't call back. You know, the old "cut off your nose to spite your face" routine.

Despite not getting much sleep, as usual, I woke up refreshed and invigorated. I was going home that weekend. Not just going home, either. I was getting face time with Aimee. It might have been my imagination, but I really believed she was warming up to the idea of being my girlfriend and not just my girl friend. I figured it was time to make my move. Only...I had no moves. Gulp.

On Friday night, I had dinner with my mom and hung out with my hometown buddies Greg and Gauvin. Those two guys had never really gotten along, but they tolerated each other when I was around. However, a fight almost broke out when we were cruising around in Greg's car, a sweet-ass 1957 Chevy Impala. Meat Loaf's "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" came on, and we all sung it together up until the woman's part. At which point Gauvin continued singing. By the time Gauvin belted out, "would you take me away, will you make me your wife," Greg was freaking out.

"DUDE," he yelled. "YOU DO NOT SING THE CHICK'S PART!"

Gauvin realized his faux pas but refused to back down. "Whatever. I can sing whatever part I want."

Greg's eyes bulged. "THE GIRL'S PART? SERIOUSLY?!"

Things didn't improve. Not until the next night, anyway. Aimee's family was celebrating her brother's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese. We ate pizza, played skee ball, and killed time until we could go hang out on our own. To this day, I still remember the absolutely hideous outfit I had on: blue jeans, brown weave belt (too long and tied into a little loop), and this long sleeve t-shirt that was made up of thick, alternating, horizontal purple stripes. If I ever finish my time machine, I'm going back to that night to kick myself in the groin for dressing like that.

Aimee and I went back to my house to watch a movie. Mercifully, my mom stayed in her room to give us some privacy. We ended up watching a chick flick: Dirty Dancing. This was not a new situation. Aimee had brought her friend Heather over the previous summer so we could all watch The Bodyguard together. One thing led to another and we took turns giving two-on-one massages in what was probably the most erotic moment of my life to that point. Not that anything sexy happened...it was all very above-the-clothes and chaste. But I was an 18-year-old virgin. Kitchen tile was erotic to me. Sadly, the fun ended when Heather started getting a little too frisky with me and Aimee cooled me off with a couple ice cubes down the pants.

On this night, there was no Heather and no ice. We watched the movie without really watching the movie. You probably know how that is. After it ended, I turned off the TV and we just talked for a while. The conversation eventually turned to my feelings for her. She smiled and blushed and tried to hide behind her hair. Then, and I don't remember exactly how it began, we kissed for the very first time.

I was terrible.

Seriously, it was like I lost all control of my lips. They became these thick, rubbery, lifeless things. Honestly, it was humiliating. I pulled back to apologize for sucking at the whole kissing thing, but Aimee said, "Sssh. Just relax. It's okay." And we tried again. And again. I didn't get any better.

At some point, I pulled back and said, softly, "Where do we go from here?" What I meant was, "Does this mean we're a couple now?" Aimee took it to mean, "Wanna have sex?"

She jumped up and said, "Uh, I go home and you go to bed!"

It took me a second, but I figured out what she was thinking. "No," I said, a little flustered. "I mean, where does our relationship go from here. Like, are we dating? I mean, like a couple."

She looked very tiny and afraid at that moment. So unsure. For some reason, seeing her look so vulnerable made my heart pound even harder against my chest.

"I don't know, Matthew McHale," she said. I knew it was serious when she pulled out my full name. "I...really don't know."

Then we hugged and she walked out to her car -- this huge, rusty old Ford truck -- and motored away. Don't laugh at this, but I honest-to-God watched her drive away and thought, in complete seriousness, "I screwed that up...and I might never get the chance to kiss a girl again." What a schmuck.

I went over to Aimee's house for lunch the next day. I was hoping the previous night's passion would still be alive, but Aimee was moody and distant. She also took great pains to avoid discussing anything romantic. I somehow ended up feeing both incredibly excited and utterly frustrated. Such is the life of a teenager in love.

The ride back to school was steeped in gloom. My mom became concerned over my dreary silence, so I told her I was just bummed about Aimee. In reality, I was filled with dread. I didn't want to go back to living with Mat.

When I stepped into our room, I discovered my fears were totally justified. Once again, the place was trashed. All my food and soda had been consumed. (My Kleenex, however, were untouched.) My bed had been stripped and my sheets were gone...to where, exactly, I never discovered. I ended up pulling Mat's mangy sheets off his bed and exchanging them for fresh linen. The only saving grace was that Mat didn't return that night. I figured, with any luck, I'd never have to spend another night sleeping across from him.

Brett got me in to see the hall manager the very next day. At first, I tried to be cool. I explained to Chad that me and Mat didn't have much in common, and that it would probably be best for both of us if I moved out.

"I'm really sorry, Matt," Chad said, "but that's impossible. The hall if full. I don't have a single opening in any room, on any floor, of any wing. But look," he continued, "Mat's a great guy. I'm sure if you talk to him, you can work everything out."

"No, it won't." I said. Then I spilled my guts. I talked about the booze, the occasional drug use, the fact that he slept with a different woman every night. I told Chad that Mat never went to class, that he stayed up all night, that he ignored me when I asked for compromise. I didn't want to get Mat in trouble. I didn't want revenge. All I wanted was a new room assignment. And I really figured that what I told Chad would seal the deal...and maybe even get Mat kicked out (even though I didn't want that to happen, if only so that I could avoid his wrath).

"Matt, there's something you need to understand," Chad said. "Student athletes are special people. They're under a tremendous amount of stress. It isn't easy balancing school work and classes and all their responsibilities to the team. We have to be patient with them, and very understanding. We have to make special allowances for them because student athletes make our lives better. They represent the university. They give of their bodies and minds so we can feel happy and excited about our teams. Don't you think that the least you can do in repayment is give Mat a little of that patience and understanding I was talking about?"

He phrased it like a question, but it wasn't one.

I walked back to my room feeling completely defeated. Mat was my roommate, and he would continue to be my roommate whether I liked it or not. I briefly considered asking my mom to get involved, but that would have been way too humiliating. All I could do was endure and count down the days.

And maybe plot a little revenge...

The Livin' Large FAQ: Part 1

2009-07-12T16:14:00.004-05:00

Never let it be said that I don't love you people. Instead of getting sweet, sweet sleep, I've just spent the last few hours answering (I think) every FAQ question that was submitted. Hopefully these answers will sate everyone's burning curiosity. If not, I'll do my best to give follow-up answers.

If comments aren't published immediately, it's because I'm in Italy and might not have access to a computer and/or the Internet. I will complete Part 8 of Livin' Large tomorrow...sometime.

The only thing I want to know is whether or not you have any pictures of Jennifer and/or Shelly: Alas no. Neither Mat nor I owned a camera. He took one round of pictures with a disposable, and strangely enough none of the pictures he took were of his girls. I could probably use stealth and cunning to obtain some current pictures of Shelly...but she's had seven kids. So, uh, yeah.

Do you remember what character you played in D&D? Class? Name? Any other geeky games played? Oh, man. I'd tried to avoid this, but apparently my geek past is catching up with me. Sadly, I was a goody-goody back then, so I typically had lawful good or neutral good characters, usually straight-up fighters. I did so much thinking in real life that when I role-played I just wanted to hit things.

And: Can you give us a numerical estimate as to just how many VHS tapes were in this mystical pile of old basketball games? I didn't see them in the pictures, were they flowing from underneath your bed? Rough guess: Around 200-ish. Some of them had only one game, others had as many as three.

Did Mat at least use some sort of contraception during his many random sexual encounters? God knows we don't want any of his bastard offspring wandering the planet. I actually had to squeeze some thought juice on this one. I must have tried to erase all thoughts of anything relating to his penis from my mind. At first, I didn't think he used protection because I couldn't remember seeing any used condoms in the trash. But upon further consideration, I do recall seeing condom boxes in the debris covering his desk...12-packs of course.

Yeah, I have a question: what happened after what happened in part 7 (and before what will happen in part 9)? Okay, okay, I get it! I'm behind! Part 8 will be published tomorrow. I promise.

What kind of impact, if any, did watching Mat's sexual exploits have on your future relations with women? None whatsoever. Mat was a selfish and careless lover. And I have to say using the word "lover" in reference to my old roomie gave me a bit of a wiggins. But even though I was, ahem, less experienced than Big Mat, I wanted to be nothing like him, sexually or otherwise.

Do you realize how easy it was for anyone who's a decent fan of basketball to figure out the school, your roommate, and the former NBA All-Star from the last post? I cannot control the amazing powers of deduction you people possess.

Are Matt and Mat actually just 1 person, ala Fight Club? Nope. Or, at least, I don't think so. Would I even know if we were?

Did you end up screwing that girl's friend? The one that Mat ordered you to bang? No. But somebody else in my hall did. And he continued to hang around all year hoping Mat would throw some more scraps his way. Never happened.

You were pretty active on the pick-up basketball scene. You even gave us your height and weight. How would you describe your game? Strengths and Weaknesses? In a full court game to 21, how many points can I expect you to score? If both teams had captains picking, where would you be chosen? Since this FAQ is intended to cover my time in college, I'm going to describe my game from that era. If anybody wants me to expand on this answer in the comments to describe my current game, I will.

In college, I became an offensive machine. I never stopped running, and I picked up a lot of easy buckets by sprinting downcourt on every possession. I developed a nearly unstoppable post game (assuming I wasn't fouled or double-teamed) and an awkward but efficient turn-around three-point shot. I could also stick the mid-range shot from the foul line area with regularity. I had a really good first step. I was a very aggressive rebounder, especially on the defensive glass. In a game to 21, I usually scored at least 10 points, and sometimes I would score 15 or more. I was known for hitting an extremely high percentage. There were games in which I didn't miss a shot (as BadDave will attest).

However...I had some gaping holes in my game. My defense was aggressive but sorely lacking in fundamentals. Honestly, because I became an accomplished scorer, I wasn't that concerned with defense. That would come later. My passing was, at best, okay. I wasn't a black hole, exactly, but I was looking to score first (and sometimes second). My handles were okay for scoring in the post or making quick moves to the basket, but I could not bring the ball upcourt without getting picked. I was also a bit of a hothead, and my temper occasionally took me out of the game.

In retrospect, is there anything you remember about Future NBA All-Star that totally makes sense now considering his career? You know, kinda like how crabdribble-gate was just kind of funny at the time, but now was clearly just the tip of the iceberg as LeBron keeps topping himself as a prima donna. Looking back, it's rather obvious that Future NBA All-Star relied heavily on his natural physical gifts. Too much so. He had other high-level skills, but he was the kind of ball player who never had the kind of mental toughness and inner reserve that the true greats had. That was proven in his final college game in the NCAA tournament. At the time, I thought it was an abberation. Now I realize that Future NBA All-Star feasted when he had a clear physical advantage over his opponents...and he starved when he did not.

How noisy was the sex? Are we talking porn overdubs...gasping moans? Tell it in detail. Then describe how the ladies looked. It totally depended on the girls. All Mat ever did was grunt. If the girl of the moment wanted to put on a show, it got crazy...gasps, moans, screams, laughing, squealing, name-calling, praying, speaking in tongues, you name it. If the girl was nervous or modest in any way, it stayed relatively quiet.

As for looks, the girls were usually either hot or very hot. Jennifer was the least attractive of the batch, and she would have been considered very attractive, especially for a freshman. I never saw Mat tap an ugly girl. I never even saw him tap an average one.

So, when did you first see your roomie go ballin', and realize that he wasn't ever going to amount to anything other than Tremendous Upside Potential? I attended a practice during the semester we lived together and watched him working one-on-one with an assistant coach. At one point, he bricked a dozen or so short hook shots and then bonked a couple reverse layups. He even blew a dunk. That's when I started to get worried.

I still would like to know what your Clark Kent job is. I think you may have mentioned being some kind of programmer, but I'm not too sure. Like I said above, I'm trying to limit questions to my college life, But I'll give a quick answer to this one. I'm a technical writer for a global computer software firm. I write release notes, help text and user guides for various software packages. You know, that boring stuff that everyone ignores and throws away without ever reading.

Our software is specific to the financial industry, so most people will never user or even hear about it in casual conversation.

Did you ever play a game with/against your roommate? Sort of. That will be explained in a future installment.

What is your roomie doing in 2009? I don't want to give away too much information about his current whereabouts, but it seems as though he has become a professional ass-kicker. No, really. The big liger. That's all I'm saying.

Besides himself, who were Mat's basektball heros? Or was he too egocentric to have any? As far as I can remember, he didn't have any. Mat wasn't interested in basketball. He never wanted to watch it with me. He really didn't discuss anything outside of our men's team and his past as a prep school baller. He knew some pro players, but he more or less only knew their names. I have always believed that his disinterest in the sport is why he failed at it.

This is two sided. 1) Did you ever take the sloppy seconds? 2) You always mention how you buried your head under your pillow while he was with one of his girls, did you ever watch? Sorry for the loaded questions but I am curious as to how a hormone enraged 18-year-old reacts to that kind of situation. I never took sloppy seconds. I never even considered it. However, I will admit that there were a few times I was unable to prevent myself from sneaking a peek at the girls. And I took a few long, lingering eyefuls of Shelly, both during her initial visit and her follow-up trip. I tried not to. I did. But I was 18, I was male, and, well, that pretty much sums it up.

To go along with chris's question, once you realized Mat was basketbawful and would never measure up to his potential, did you ever feel guilty for not passing this info along to the thronging horde of young ladies who were throwing themselves at him for a shot at someday being an NBA wife or girlfriend? No. For the most part, I felt like they were idiots for being interested in the guy. I only ever felt sorry for Jennifer.

Now for my own question: was Mat's weirdness well known among the other people in your dorm or on your floor at least, or did you keep it mainly to yourself? Like, did you go vent to anyone else about the Heineken sign or tell people about how Mat stole that giant chair from a sorority, or did you ever bring anyone else in to listen to the phone messages girls left for him? Or did you just keep it all bottled up inside not knowing who to confide in? I told my R.A., Brett, and my next door neighbor, Nathan. But I didn't tell anyone else on the floor because I didn't know who I could trust. Mat was semi-famous. It wasn't that guys on the floor liked him, exactly, but many of them were angling for perks: girls, entry into frat parties, etc. And some of those guys thought there was something wrong with me for not doing the same thing.

Did you ever play Mat one on one in hoops? If so, did his size negate your skills? If you never played, do you think you could have taken him? We never played one-on-one, but I did play in a pickup game with him. More on that in a future installment.

Did Mat ever try on the Larry Bird shorts? If so, did he look like Shaq when he put on John Stockton's shorts? Mat was big, and he was strong. However, it would have taken a nuclear blast to break into the safe in which I kept the Larry Bird shorts.

I assumed you played second edition D&D rules, god what a nightmare. Sadly, yes.

Follow up on Wild Yams question on Mat's weirdness -- just what was Mat's reputation around school? Was he generally well liked? Put up with? Did he have actual friends, or was he too busy working his way through the groupies to even care? Mat never had any close friends that I was aware of. But he had plenty of people who wanted to hang around with him because of his status as a school athlete. However, most students were aware of him as a flop and failure in terms of actually playing basketball. Sometimes I would overhear him being mocked in casual conversation in coming years. For example: "Hey, [Mat's last name] scored a point last night. Must be a season-high." Stuff like that.

Do you like the cocktail that shares its name with your school's sports teams? Not really. But I have to drink it, you know?

Whenever I see a blog post about any hot girl, it's frustrating without pics. Do you have ANY pics of ANY of Mat's conquests? If so, can you post? Of course, you can blur out their face or whatever to protect their identity. No. Keep in mind, this was pre-cellular phone days. Not everybody had cameras. There were exactly three PCs on my floor during freshman year. It basically worked out that everybody had one specific piece of technology they used to barter the use of someone else's piece of tech.

Now that you mention it, what were Mat's favorite foods? The only thing I ever saw him eat was pizza. Dude ordered pizza almost every day. I know he had to eat other things...he had to. But I never saw it.

Did you ever see Mat play? Yes. It was...not pretty.

Who got more punani in college, Mat, or the Future NBA All-Star? I don't know anything about Future NBA All-Star's sex life in college...but I'm certain he got at least 10x the punani.

Why was "Future NBA All-Star" (By the way i watched some you-tube clips of him in college last night, he was a true talent) so keen on having him play that season? Was his defensive presence that intimidating? I picture Mat as the perfect alternate candidate for the 7 footer Vince Carter dunked over in Sydney Olympic Ball 2000. Why was Bryant Reeves a lottery pick? Why was Darko Milicic chosen over Dwyane Wade and Carmelo Anthony? Why did guys like Greg Ostertag hang around the Association for 10+ years? The allure of the Big White Guy is strong. Our basketball team didn't have size. Mat did have size. It was just assumed someone big, strong and athletically gifted -- remember, he was a black belt -- would come in and dominate. I mean, he was Shaq-sized! How could he fail?!

How come you haven't had any posts about the recent signings, trades, free agents, summer league, and new players/potentials to the NBA? My time is limited. I can write Livin' Large or I can cover all the other stuff. And, in general, my readers seem to prefer one to the other...

Did your roommate use protection? Seriously, because how he missed out on Herpes and AIDS is beyond my belief with no "glove". I never saw him use condoms. I don't know how he disposed of them. But he had them. Since he never knocked anybody up, he either used them or was/is mercifully sterile.

Did girls ever catch on to Mat's game? As in, did word spread that maybe they should stop throwing themselves at Mat, either because of his basketbawfulness or because of how he treated women? Apparently not. Even during his fourth year on campus, I would see him out at the bars every weekend with hot chicks.

Did the Jennifer story spread? No. It would seem that the only people who knew were Mat, Jennifer and me. And now anybody who reads this site.

Did Mat have any friends outside of basketball or his hookups? If so, were they like him? Not close friends, not at school. He had a group of close friends from back home (Holland). More on that in a future installment.

I know you love pick up games, so when was the first time you got to actually play basketball with your roommate? How did you do? (Don't be modest) and did he have any more respect for you after playing or less? Did you get the chance to play against the Future NBA All-Star? This will all be covered in a future installment. I didn't do much. And the Future NBA All-Star dunked on me. With prejudice.

I'm impressed by the details you provide in this 15 year old account. Out of curiosity, did you keep a journal or something, or do you have an unusually good memory, or were these events so permanently seared into your brain you couldn't possibly forget them? Actually, the answer is: all of the above. I kept journals from the beginning of my freshman year with the intention of writing a book. I also have a mutant memory, especially for interpersonal events. Most importantly, I have told and retold Mat stories so many times over the years, I couldn't forget them if I wanted to. It has become an oral tradition among my friends.

Did Mat have any redeemable skill relating to basketball other than being a gigantic ham beast and just generally clogging the lane? Mat had no game whatsoever. If you've ever played ball with someone who has never played basketball before, then you know what it was like watching him try to play. He had no sense of the game.

Do you think you would've told Mat off had you both been built similarly? Oh, I tried telling Mat off. You'll have to keep reading to find out how that went.

How long did it take for the coaches to find out Mat was rather useless on the floor? He hardly ever played, so I'm guessing they figured it out pretty quickly. But they never cut him. I guess hope springs eternal.

What was Mat's favorite NBA team/player if any? He liked Michael Jordan and the Bulls. That was pretty much it. He knew Rik Smits personally, but he never spoke of him in glowing terms.

Using the power of 20-20 hindsight, do you think the mere fact you attended the same university as the Future NBA All Star, particularly during an important run (not to mention the college experience itself, once it stopped blowing) inflated your opinion of his abilities in any way? Absolutely. Keep in mind, I had season tickets that season. Watching a guy AVERAGE 30/10 and just destroy people live, with everybody freaking out and high-fiving all the while, made me crazy. Plus, I had a lot to learn about the game. I still do, as a matter of fact.

why did you decide to release the story now? I have intended to release it the previous three summers...and I talked myself out of it every time. It felt too opportunistic. I wanted people to read this blog because they enjoy it for what it is. Using this experience too early felt like cheating. I don't know if that makes any sense, but I'm weird about Basketbawful. It's my baby.

Did you ever ask Mat what had happened when you were gone that weekend that he wanted you to sleep with his girlfriend's friend? Did he ask someone else to fill in for you or did he just take care of both of them? I never asked, but I found out that he had a guy down the hall stay in the room -- in my bed -- to "entertain" his ladyfriend's friend. So I figured out who soiled my sheets. Yay.

So did you ever actually get laid in the time you lived with Mat? ... No.

Can you tell me why everyone wanted Mat to play when he couldn't even...play?! It was all about his Tremendous Upside Potential. People figured that he HAD to be good. You can't teach size! People figured it out eventually, but when he first arrived, there was talk about him being the next Shaq. Seriously. All because he was big.

Did you ever use being Mat's roommate to get something? I used him to get into a frat party. Didn't go so well. More on that soon.

Did you meet your current wife/girlfriend while you were roommates with Mat? The only girl for me at that time was Aimee. We did not end up together.

How big was Mat's penis? I have seriously considered contacting Shelly to find out. After all these years of repression, I'm finally curious.

From your story you never seemed to think much of 'wow, I am rooming with a potential NBA player' -- did you ever have this thought, or were you not so easily swayed by a man's size? From day one, his lack of interest in the sport worried me. I honestly thought he'd make it to the NBA. Why? See the collected works of Kite, Greg. But I never thought he'd be good. He didn't care about or respect the game. Plus, he was an ass. I was pretty happy when he have me the practice shorts though.

Another question: what were Shelly's measurements? More information please. And a pic if you've got one. What kind of panties did she wear (or DID she?). Odds are they are probably basic white, cotton, underpants. But I sort of think well, maybe they're silk panties...maybe it's a thong. Maybe it's something really cool that I don't even know about. Hm. It's been a long time, but I would guess she was a...hey! You perv! I can't believe you asked that. I can't put that in a FAQ! (Ask again in the comments, though, and I might answer.)

Did you two ever go out to parties together? I went out with him once.

Are you still in touch with Mat? Nope. I never spoke with him again after freshman year.

Did Mat ever get with Aimee? No. Thank Zeus.

Did Mat ever watch the old basketball tapes with you? He sat through maybe five minutes of one game before he got bored. Mat didn't enjoy basketball. At least, not when we lived together.

Did you ever get into a physical altercation with Mat? Almost.

What is the motivation behind the greatness that is "Livin Large"? Was there any intention of revenge or was it just flat-out funny that you were compelled to post this? I don't want revenge. I've been telling friends these stories for years and years. Never once have they failed to entertain a group. I had to share that with my readers.

What happened to Jennifer? Did she end up back in college? Move home? Start dating another athlete??? I never found out. I can only hope she made better dating decisions.

What was your major? I started out in journalism, moved to public relations, and eventually picked up a double major in PR and tech writing.

Why 5 years of college? Ooooh boy. Well...I was set to get my PR degree in four years. I was going to get my masters while I was there because, by the time I left, I was going for free. However, there was this whole flap with Aimee and marriage and her going to law school and not wanting to wait two years. I had accepted a job for my fifth year, so I had to stay. Instead of going to graduate school, I crammed all the classes necessary for a tech writing degree into one year. Aimee was going to get a job until I finished up, then I was going to support her during law school, then I was going to go back to school. Only shortly before we graduated, she started a conversation with, "Oh, by the way, I'm moving to Texas..."

Did you ever get the Future NBA All Star's autograph that you were so afraid to ask for? Never got it. Afraid to ask.

Do you know the words to nearly every Michael Jackson song? (MJ owned MTV in the early 90's did he not? I would expect his music to be playing constantly in your room what with Mat's MTV obsession.) No. But I karaoke a mean "Beat It."

You said you had a CD player -- what kind of music did you listen to and did Mat approve? At the time, I listened almost exclusively to Joe Satriani. I also got into Meat Loaf that year.

Why didn't you ever buy ear plugs? Or a blindfold? Because I became a master of the wrap-around pillow.

Did you actually enjoy D&D, or did you only play because you had nothing else to do? I enjoyed it.

Did you ever request to move out of your dorm room? Or were you afraid of angering Mat/getting him in trouble? I did. More on that soon.

Was there any point in "Fifth Year", Matholomew, where you realized some of your habits were starting to channel those of your first-year roommate?! Yes. When I had successfully used the same incredibly lame "get it on" line for the umpteenth time. I literally woke up one day and went "uh oh..."

You'll probably cover this in the last chapter of the story, but where is Mat now, or when/where/what was the last you heard of him? Some resourceful readers dug him up for me during this series. All I can say is, check out some YouTube links in the comments sections...

"Little Mat and Big Mat"? Why? Was "Poindexter and The Ogre" taken? A Revenge of the Nerds reference?! Ouch. Major ouch.

How, in the name of Steve Austin, did you even bother to attempt sleeping from a dude banging chicks 5 METRES AWAY?!? As a non-U.S. citizen, who didn't attend an all-gay boarding school, i just find it impossible to comprehend that a) you didn't leave the room everytime, b) the girl involved would be uncomfortable with the nerd in the corner wacking off, and c) this is some kind of common practice you just 'have to live with' when your not even drunk or stoned?!? I was awkward and inexperienced. Looking back, I should have just left for the five minutes it took for him to finish and go to sleep.

Have you considered turning this story into a novel or movie script? There is some serious film potential here. Basketball nerd goes to college, has asshole student-athlete roommate, meets some quirky nerd friends, tries to hold things together with his girl back home (while roommate gets it on with numerous girls). I'd watch that. I honestly had never thought of it before writing this series. I might have to add it to my "To Do" list though.

Did little Mat ever get involved in any sexual activity / menage e trois with Big Mat's lady friends? No. As it was, I was terrified their herpes would leap across the room and crawl in my mouth while I slept. I would have let Shelly wrap me around a tree though.

Did Mat ever talk about his home country? Where he lived, his basketball club, family et cetera. Did it change your opinion about The Netherlands? He did. He spoke about his family, is group of friends, things he did, stuff like that. Mind you, I was a country bumpkin back then, so it was the first time I realized that, wow, people in other countries are just like us! Only, you know, different.

How about the raunchiest sexcapade night you had to deal with. Mat wasn't particularly creative at that time. The only raunch happened when the girls talked dirty...and it was basically porn script stuff.

I was wondering how far apart time-wise the pictures of you in your room and with your buddies outside were taken. You look really different in the two pictures, as you no doubt already know. Those pictures were one year apart. I grew up a lot in a year.

Was there ever a role-reversal: you hooking up in the room while Mat watched MTV? Actually, yes. And that will be an entire installment of its own.

Did Taco Bell Jennifer move to Atlanta or Connecticut? I don't know, but my money's on Atlanta.

Did you ever use Mat's courtship advice, and, if so, what were the results? Never. And I did go to him for advice exactly once. His answer: "F*** them both." Keep reading for the full story.

Was Mat friends with Future Runner-Up To The NFL Champions? No, but he did hang out with some of the football players from time to time. Just not that one.

Did Mat ever do the girl that Brett had to follow into Future Runner-Up To The NFL Champions' room? Not that I know of. She was African American, and I never saw Mat hook up with anyone who wasn't Caucasian. It's possible, I suppose, but doubtful.

When did you finally say, "yes," to the sweet cheeba? (Understanding that your answer would, in no way, imply that you do or have done anything like that since the first time; and, also, understanding that you'd be a lot cooler if you do). I...I'm not sure what you're asking. Don't make me Google this. I feel so uncool for not knowing. Am I just getting old or something?

Did you only have tapes of Celtics games? You were a Pacers fan at the time, too, right? I taped everything I could. Mostly Pacers, Bulls and Hawks, because those teams were shown on local stations. That and anything shown on CBS or NBC.

In school, did Mat look exactly the same as he does in the YouTube video? He was younger and fitter, but otherwise he appears unchanged.

How many times did Brett write you up before you became friends with him? How many of those times were deserved? And, were you eventually his boss? He wrote me up three times, none of which were deserved. Of course, once BadDave and I started drinking in the room, he turned a blind eye many times. Of course, Brett IS blind in one eye...so...yeah.

Did you ever talk about the Mat/Shelly situation with Brett afterwards? What sort of discussion was that? Did Brett laugh about it, eventually? Brett has done nothing BUT laugh about it since. When I see him in Florence next weekend, I'm going to bring it up again.

Did you ever see Mat just flat-out pummel anyone, a la his muay thai video? No. But he threatened to do it to me.

Any fall-out from the game when he popped a 15-foot jumper off the shot clock? I remember my trainer buddy saying he was nearly in tears in the locker room after that game. Alas, that happened long after Mat and I parted ways. But BadDave and I laughed our asses off over it.

How much money did Jennifer spend on Mat? I don't have an exact number, but hundreds of dollars, maybe a couple thousand. She brought him food on nightly basis, bought him gifts, paid his phone bill once and gave him money.

Did Mat ever get/give from/to STDs? Not that I know of, but I wouldn't bet against it.

An open apology to commenters

2009-07-10T09:45:00.003-05:00

I was away from any and all things Interweb and could not publish comments. My bad. Publishing them now.

Basketbawful Video Game Review: Barkley, Shut Up and Jam: Gaiden

2009-07-10T01:51:00.002-05:00

A while back, we here at Basketbawful pondered a list of the worst NBA video games. And by pondered, I mean stole the list from another blog and put it on this one. Anyways, those that know me know I'm all about the irony and schadenfreude, so I set out to play some of these games. And by that, I mean I'm too lazy to fire up an SNES emulator, but that's okay since the only actually free game on the list was the one who's presence on a worst ever list was most questionable.

Have you ever thought to yourself: "Self, wouldn't this thing would be way more awesome if it had basketball somehow involved"? Then do I have an epic something for you. Tales of Game's Studios Presents Chef Boyardee's Barkley, Shut Up & Jam: Gaiden, Chapter 1 of the Hoopz Barkley SaGa (yes, the G is capitalized) does just this with the classic Square-Enix RPG video game formula. So if you're bored from the summer NBA off-season, or tired from stealing chairs from sorority houses, and need to zone out away from your geeky roommate, read onwards.

Once again, if you haven't already downloaded this free game, here's the plot introduction courtesy of Wikipedia. I should mention that right when you load it up, the game clearly states that this story IS canon:

The game takes place in a post-cyberpocalyptic New York called "Neo New York", after a "chaos dunk" causes the death of millions.

Twelve years prior to the game, Charles Barkley, in an attempt to impress his son Hoopz Barkley, performs a Chaos Dunk -- and inadvertently kills almost everyone present. As a result, basketball was made illegal and nearly all great players were killed in "The Great B-Ball Purge of 2041" (a.k.a "B-Ballnacht").

In 2053, another Chaos Dunk rocks Manhattan, killing fifteen million, and the blame falls on Charles, who is believed to be the only human capable of performing the Chaos Dunk. With the help of the Ultimate Hellbane, Charles escapes his pursuers: the B-Ball Removal Department, led by ex-NBA all-star Michael Jordan. Charles follows Ultimate Hellbane through the B-Ball Catacombs to the tomb of LeBron James, discovering that the Ultimate Hellbane is actually Balthios - the Octoroon great grandson of LeBron James. James contacts Charles from the B-ball dimension, offering him a warning which tells him to "seek the Cyberdwarf."

Protip: Remember the game is canon, so don't waste money upgrading Vinceborg's gear. He's obviously going to desert your team after moderately trying.

The combat system was simple and fun, considering the last RPG I played was Chrono Trigger like 8 years ago. You'll meet and battle plenty of other characters along the way:

Luke Walton was cut last second as a playable character.
Even videogame KG is still an ass.
Thousands of epic years.
In addition to the epic basketball tale, there's an underground town of furries, diabetes sugar land, racist genies, Incan gold, and even a horrifying dating sim section. Of course, what would an RPG be without those few unforgettable moments:

Final verdict: If I had to give any existing videogame the prestegious award of being named Basketbawful: The Game, it would be Barkley, Shut Up & Jam: Gaiden, hands down.

About the author: AnacondaHL is the Chief Internet Media Relations and Security Officer for Basketbawful and a grizzled Internet veteran who watches in despair as his favorite team, the Phoenix Suns, prepare for the Pavlovic/Ben Wallace era. When not wasting time at his Clark Kent job to read BasketBawful, he can be found playing the Internet computer game du jour, still watching animes about robots in Nikes playing basketball, wondering why the Diamondbacks have seven team colors, living vicariously through other people's way cooler stories from college, and browsing other obscure things on the Internet. He hopes someday to learn four languages, name the largest number in the world after himself, and to eat a crab grown in Akron.

Livin' Large: FAQ request

2009-07-09T09:22:00.003-05:00

Hey everybody. I was too swamped last night/this morning to finish the next installment of the Livin' Large series. Yeah, sorry about that.

Anyway, today's post is a request. I'm going to create a list of Frequently Asked Questions for Livin' Large. That's where you, the readers, come in: You have to submit the question. I will NOT answer questions regarding the name of the school, my roommate or the Future NBA All-Star. But short of incriminating details, I'll answer just about any other reasonable question, either about my roommate or myself during the time I was living with him (or even afterward but while I was still in college).

So if you've been wondering how I remember things or what Mat's favorite foods were, now's the time to ask.

Tomorrow I'll post the next installment of Livin' Large and Monday I'll post the FAQ. Note that the FAQ may expand as the story goes on.

Nike stormtroopers seize dunk tapes

2009-07-08T11:33:00.003-05:00

Execute order 66! Or something like that. This one is straight from the "couldn't make it up" files: According to Gary Parrish of CBS Sports, Nike is supposedly blocking any and all taped footage of Xavier's Jordan Crawford posterizing LeBron James, which happened at the LeBron James Skills Academy earlier this week.

Turns out, there were at least two cameras rolling Monday night when Crawford dunked on James during a pick-up game here at the LeBron James Skills Academy. It was a two-handed jam, the kind that would've circulated quickly on YouTube. But Nike officials eliminated that possibility shortly after the dunk happened by allegedly confiscating tapes from various cameramen.

Freelance photographer Ryan Miller was one of the cameramen shooting the game.

He told CBSSports.com that Nike Basketball Senior Director Lynn Merritt took his tape.

"He just said, 'We have to take your tape,'" Miller said. "They took it from other guys, too."

Worth noting is that there is no policy against filming at the LeBron James Skills Academy, and Miller said he had been filming all day without incident. Nobody ever told him to stop. Nobody ever said there was a problem...until after Crawford dunked on James.

"LeBron called Lynn over and told him something," Miller said. "That's how I knew his name was Lynn. LeBron said, 'Hey, Lynn. Come here.'"

Minutes later, Miller said Merritt demanded his tape.

"There's nothing I can think of besides LeBron just not wanting it online," Miller said. "It's a good story to tell people, I guess. But then again, I'm kind of pissed. I lost my tape."

Wait, what? Mr. Check My $tats, Mr. Look-At-Me-I'm-The-MVP doesn't want video circulating on YouTube of him being jammed on by some college kid?! I can't tell you how NOT shocked I am. Let's just say that sound you just heard certainly wasn't my jaw hitting the floor. Between this situation, the egomania t-shirts and that whole "I'm a winner and winners don't have to shake hands" thing, LeBron sure is coming off as kind of a douche lately.

[Hat Tip: Brandon Hoffman of BallerBlogger.]

Livin' Large: Part 7

2009-07-08T07:38:00.004-05:00

The Future NBA All-Star.
Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

A running subplot from the beginning of my first semester at college was whether my roommate would actually play for the school's basketball team once the season began. The team was nationally ranked and expectations were sky-high. There were a handful of solid players on that squad, but those rankings and expectations were due almost entirely to the presence of the Future NBA All-Star. The general feeling at the time was that the Future NBA All-Star could do almost anything and everything by himself, but the team was too small to be a true contender. There were other ranked teams in our conference, and they all appeared to have a size advantage over our team. Even assuming we could win our conference, there was plenty of size outside of it as well. That's where Mat came in.

The assumption was that if he chose to play, he would get significant minutes and play a major role. Even if he had no offensive game whatsoever -- and trust me, he didn't -- that wouldn't matter. All the team needed him to do was control the boards, block some shots and clog the paint. Everyone, even casual fans, believed his ability to accomplish those tasks was a given. After all, he was HUGE. With that kind of size, any idiot should be able to rebound and block shots, even if only by accident...right? Yeah, right. Anyone who believed that probably should have spent a few nights watching Mat's fellow countryman, Rik Smits, consistently fail to do those things for the Indiana Pacers. Maybe then what happened later would have been less of a shock.

But as I mentioned in a previous installment, a basketball player is often judged by his Tremendous Upside Potential, and Mat had that coming out of his freakishly big ears. Somehow, he became The Final Piece in everybody's mind, the difference between our team being an also-ran and a national champion. In retrospect, that might have been part of the reason women were flocking to his bed as if their vaginas were ticking time bombs that only his genitals could defuse.

There was only one wee-little speed bump on this presumed road to glory: Mat didn't want to play.

Mat and I had little (read that: no) common ground outside of basketball, so that was almost all we ever talked about. I have to admit, even I was obsessed with the notion that Mat could put our team over the top, so I asked nearly every day whether he'd made a decision. The answer was always no, he had not, and providing that information always left him looking somewhat drained and defeated.

The reality was, Mat did not feel ready to play competitive college ball, especially not for a nationally ranked team. Furthermore, his prep school coach had strongly advised him NOT to play, to spend his freshman year as a redshirt. Not only would that provide Mat with the time necessary to develop some actual basketball skills, it would also give him a full four years of NCAA eligibility going into his sophomore year. That was important, because it would allow him to follow a five-year course plan. That meant fewer classes per semester, which is invaluable to a student athlete, particularly when said athlete didn't particularly care for attending classes anyway.

However, Mat was meeting some heated resistance to his redshirt plans. The coaches were whispering in his ear. His teammates were screaming into it. Everybody he met and talked to on a daily basis -- including his many hookups -- wanted to know whether he was going to play. The questions were coming from every direction, and Mat was getting sick of it. He wanted to end the farce and just say no, but the coaching staff wanted him to wait a little longer to make the final decision. (Or so I was told. This information all came second-hand from Mat.)

One of the major movers in the "Get Mat To Friggin' Play" campaign was the Future NBA All-Star. He had confided to Mat that he might declare himself eligible for the NBA draft after the college season ended. Once that happened, the team's championship window would slam shut. This, then, might be the team's (and, by extension, Mat's) last and only chance for a national title.

Now a few words about our Future NBA All-Star. By the numbers, he had an above-average pro career. He played 11 seasons, averaging just over 20 points and 6 rebounds per game while shooting 46 percent from the field, 34 percent in threes and 82 percent from the line. (For the sake of comparison, Dominique Wilkins' career averages are 24.8/6.7 and 46/31/81.) He made two All-Star teams. He even won a league championship, kinda-sorta.

Despite all that, the Future NBA All-Star was generally considered a disappointment at best and a flop at worst. Those feelings were based mostly on how amazing he was in college. And he truly was spectacular to behold, particularly on offense. He was strong, fast and outrageously athletic. He could dunk on anyone and stick jumpers from anywhere. I watched him throw it down over seven-footers. I saw him stick threes from just inside half court. He scored 49 points in a conference title clincher. He led the nation in scoring. He led the conference in rebounding. He became the only player in school history to record more than 1,000 career points, 500 rebounds, 100 steals, 100 assists and 50 blocked shots. And he did that in two seasons. Seriously, he could do anything. I cannot stress this enough: It was like watching a basketball superhero, and I honestly thought: "Here's somebody who could become as exciting on offense as Michael Jordan." I really believed that. And trust me, if you'd been watching him live at 18 years old, you probably would have believed it too.

I don't know what happened when he got to the NBA, but I can tell you this: The intensity he played with in college disappeared. He didn't appear to be trying as hard on a nightly basis (although he had some monster games). His body started to look soft. (Ben, my first post-college roommate, suggested that, "He got a $100 million contract and spent $80 million of it on Twinkies.") I once got to see him play against the Pacers in Indiana. He scored 20 points on 8-for-18 shooting and his team lost 108-97. His shots appeared casual and careless. (I seem to remember him attempting four or five slow-footed reverse layups.) The buddy who went with me to the game said, "That's the laziest 20 points I've ever seen." To give you an idea of the kind of effort he put forth, he was outrebounded 8-5 by his team's point guard.

But none of that matters. In college, he was a certified basketball stud and his exploits -- both in games and during practice -- were instant legends on campus. In fact, Mat swore he watched Future NBA All-Star grab a dollar bill off the top of the backboard. He even described the moment in graphic detail. I believed Mat's story for years, until Henry Abbott exposed the whole "makin' change off the backboard" myth for what it really is. But the point is: Future NBA All-Star captured everyone's imagination. Mat's included.

One night, we were both in the room. I was studying, Mat was sitting in his giant chair watching MTV and listening to music at the same time. (He seemed to crave overstimulation.) The door was open, and, out of nowhere, in walked Future NBA All-Star.

I held my breath.

"Hey dog," Future NBA All-Star said. "Whatchoo doin'?"

"Nuttin'," Mat said. "Just watchin' some TV."

They continued to chit-chat for a couple minutes, and then Future NBA All-Star made the pitch.

"Look," he began, "you know I might not be comin' back. This is our chance. You play, we win it all. It's that simple."

Mat looked stressed. "I dunno, man."

"You play, we win it all," Future NBA All-Star said.

And that was pretty much it. Future NBA All-Star left and Mat didn't speak for the rest of the night. He even went to bed early by his standards, like 1 a.m.-ish. All I could do was kick myself for not...doing something. I figured I'd just ask Mat later to get me Future NBA All-Star's autograph.

The weekend arrived and Mat disappeared. He was gone when I came home from class on Friday afternoon and didn't return until after I'd gone to bed on Sunday night. I had a mildly entertaining weekend. Zach and I ordered pizza on Friday night. I met up with another refugee from Kokomo, Jason, for a few games of ping pong on Saturday morning. I also ventured next door to talk to Ron and his roommate, Nathan. Ron -- who had accidentally walked into my room mostly naked -- was spacy and eccentric. Nathan was just eccentric. Despite his oddities (such as spiritual battles with his computer and a habit of singing Bible hymns into a handheld recorder), Nathan and I hit it off and became fast friends.

Nathan and Ron were part of a group of guys who got together every weekend to play Dungeons & Dragons. They invited me to the Saturday night gaming session. That was the first time I met BadDave. I say "met" because we barely spoke, either that night or any other night I roleplayed with this group. Ironically (but not surprisingly for that time), we just didn't click.

On Sunday morning I got up and played some pickup basketball. I even ran into one of the guys I'd played ball with on my first morning at school. His name was Joe. He had graduated several years before that, but instead of seeking gainful employment he went to Russia as a Christian missionary. Joe eventually decided that wasn't for him and returned to the states only to find out his degree was obsolete. For this reason, he had to go back to school for his master's.

Wow. I was being social, meeting people, making friends. It had taken a few weeks, but I was starting to get the hang of this college thing. The weekend was capped off by a particularly affectionate phone call from Aimee. She was going home the next weekend to celebrate her brother's birthday...and she wanted me to go home too so we could spend time together. Hoo-ah! I was in such a good mood that when Mat showed up with Jennifer, I didn't mind sandwiching my head in a pillow as they had noisy sex across the room.

Livin' Large: Part 6

2009-07-07T07:38:00.003-05:00

Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

At times, being Mat's roommate was an exercise in helpless frustration. At other times, it was a source of endless hilarity. As much as I hated the unceasing sexcapades going on across the room for me, I was constantly amazed at the lengths girls would go to in order to sleep with my roommate. They were willing to be put on display, offered up as sloppy seconds, forced to drive halfway across the country for a booty call, so on and so forth. Some even did his homework for him. I had always assumed that this sort of treatment was reserved for men who were already rich and famous. Now I was learning that some women are willing to demean themselves based solely on a man's Tremendous Upside Potential. Mat was undeniably huge, and, as basketball scouts and experts love to say, you can't teach size. It was therefore widely assumed that he'd immediately become a great college player, after which he'd naturally transition into a long and productive NBA career.

Yeah. That didn't happen. But nobody could have known at the time.

Girls were in and out of Mat's bed so fast you'd think his genitals were the baton in some sort of secret (and bizarre) relay race. It got so out of hand at one point early in the semester that girls were cold calling him with offers of casual sex. I am not kidding. One day I came home from class to discover the following message on our answering machine: "Hi, Mat. [giggle]. My name's [whatever]. I've never met you before, but I know you're really [giggle] big, and I bet that means you have a big [deep breath] penis [giggle]. And I was hoping you might want to [deep breath] put it in me. If you're interested, please call me at [phone number]. Byeeee!"

In case you're wondering, the answers are: yes, he called her; yes, she came over; and yes, they had sex. (I'm sure it was three and a half minutes she will forever treasure.) That wasn't the only call of its kind. These weren't trolls or beastly goblin-women, either. These were hot girls. Some of them were actually intelligent and well-read. I know this only because sometimes they would chat me up after Mat had rolled over and gone to sleep. (I never discovered whether he was genuinely tired or that was his method of dismissal.) Not because they found me interesting or anything like that. They simply wanted to pump me for information about Mat.

I soon became, more or less by default, Mat's accomplice and sex secretary. I kept his secrets, covered his ass, and made sure his various "dates" (which were usually nothing more than hookups or booty calls) never overlapped. This was not something Mat and I agreed on, or something we ever even discussed openly. It just sort of evolved out of the unspoken Bro Code that guys live by. I didn't enjoy it, but soon I was in so deep there was no way out...other than pulling down the house of cards that Mat had been so carelessly building around him. And it felt wrong to do that to him. What a laugh, right?

It wasn't always easy, either. I often became the focus of womanly wrath. And let me tell you, hell hath no fury like it. Unable to get to Mat, many of these girls -- who were usually jilted and ignored after the first date -- chose to vent their rage at me. In fact, some of them blamed me outright. "Why didn't you tell me he was such a selfish pig?!" one of them screamed at me over the phone. Another showed up at our door, shrieked "How could you let him do that to me?!" and demanded to go through his things. (To what purpose, I have no idea.) When I didn't let her in the room, she yelled through the door for a couple minutes before storming off. When I told Mat about these incidents, he'd just laugh.

So the f*ckbuddies and booty calls came and went. The only constant female presence in Mat's life was Shelly...until Jennifer came along.

Jennifer was a freshman who was planning to major in English. She was "only" slightly above average in appearance, which made her seem incredibly plain next to most of Mat's conquests. But she was the most persistent and patient of Mat's suitors. She also was the one who asked for the least. In most cases, girls became clingy and demanding almost immediately after they slept with Mat, which might be part of the reason why he ditched them so quickly. Jennifer, on the other hand, was eager and submissive. I'm not trying to be mean when I say this, but she reminded me of a dog that had been abused for so long that she was willing to endure anything for the teensiest scrap of human kindness.

And so she became Mat's first and only "regular." That's not to say that Mat stopped dating around and sleeping with other women, but Jennifer was the only girl who made return appearances. She was also the only girl, other than Shelly, whose phone calls Mat returned. Sometimes, he even called her on his own. Jennifer made the mistake of assuming this treatment meant Mat cared about her, maybe even loved her. I have to admit, I made the same mistake.

See, at the time, I couldn't believe that a guy would want to sleep around without commitment. To me, the only relationship model was: fall in love, have sex, get married, live happily ever after. And sometimes the "have sex" part came after the "get married" part. Yeah, I know. I was a schmuck.

As Mat's de facto sex secretary, dealing with Jennifer became a part-time job. She called frequently and, even more dangerously, showed up at random times. Unlike the other girls who tried to glom onto my roommate, she was never checking up on him or trying to catch him with someone else. Jennifer simply enjoyed being with Mat and wanted to shower him with love and affection. And gifts. She was always bringing him things. Food, CDs, jewelry, little knickknacks that reminded her of him. She truly loved Mat, or she believed she did anyway.

Things started to get very serious very fast. Within a few weeks of "dating" Mat, Jennifer dropped out of school to work at Taco Bell full time. Why? So she could provide economic support to Mat, who was unable to work due to his responsibilities to the men's basketball team. "He's under a lot of pressure," she explained to me. "And until he goes to the NBA, he's going to need a lot of emotional and financial help. That's where I come in." I still remember the sweet, stupid smile she had on her face when she said that. I honestly didn't know whether to pity her or try to slap her back to human reality. I opted for pity.

The situation started to wear on my conscience, though, because Jennifer was making some really bad life decisions for a guy who probably couldn't be counted on to do right by her in the long-run. Still, for some strange reason, I wanted to give Mat the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to believe he wasn't a complete douchebag. So one day when we were alone, I asked whether he wanted to date Jennifer long term.

"I dunno," he said, and it was pretty clear he didn't want to think about it.

I wouldn't relent, though. "Look, Mat," I said, "you realize Jennifer's in love with you, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And you also realize that she dropped out of school to support you, right?" I said, searching for any sign of humanity within him.

He said nothing.

"Mat, she's giving up her future for you," I said. "If you don't want to be with her, why are you stringing her along?"

He paused for a second, and then he said something I will never, ever forget. "Because she swallows."

He was being completely serious too.

So the weeks passed. Jennifer would come by every night or every other night. She'd bring Taco Bell, service Mat physically (by massaging him or whatever) and sexually (self-explanatory), and then she'd stay overnight or Mat would usher her out, either because he wanted time "alone" (except for me, because I was always in the room) or he had another date lined up.

It was a pretty sweet setup for Mat, because, again, she never once asked for anything except a little of his spare time here or there. But eventually, for whatever reason, Mat got tired of her. One day, he let me know, "I'm done with Jennifer."

I had figured the day was coming. And even though I felt Jennifer was stupid for not seeing Mat for who he was, I also had a lot of empathy for her. "Just let her down easy okay?"

"F*** that!" he said. "I'm gonna just ignore her 'til she goes away."

I couldn't believe it. Well, I could, sort of, but I still said, "Don't do that to her, man. She deserves better than that. Just tell her."

"No way," he said. And that was the end of the conversation.

The next two weeks were an exercise in avoidance. Mat wouldn't take her calls, nor would he return them. He actually left the door closed and locked until he figured it was too late for her to come by. And she did come by. Mat simply used the peephole to make sure the door never got opened when she knocked. It was surprisingly cowardly for such a big, scary man.

Near the end of the second week, she stopped by one evening when I was in the room alone. By this point, she was frantic. "Please," she pleaded, eyes brimming with tears, "just tell me what's going on."

I figured at this point there was no point beating around the bush or trying to keep Mat's secrets. He wanted her out of his life. "Okay," I replied, "but do you want me to let you down easy, or do you want the whole truth? Because the truth is pretty ugly."

"I want the truth," she said.

"And you're completely sure abo..."

"Tell me!" she screamed.

Part of me still wishes I hadn't made that offer. I would rather have told her that Mat simply didn't want to date her anymore and left it at that. Maybe she would have accepted it. Maybe she wouldn't have. But it sucked -- I mean really sucked -- being the one to have to break her heart so completely.

"Mat's avoiding you," I began. "He doesn't want to date you anymore, and he hopes that if he ignores you long enough you'll just go away. He doesn't love you and he never did. He's been dating and sleeping around the entire time he's been dating you. He kept you around because you were convenient and because you swallowed. But he's tired of you know, so whatever the two of you had, it's over."

"I was a virgin," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Uh oh.

Jennifer hiccupped a couple times and took a deep breath to steady herself. I was expecting more tears, maybe even a mild to moderate freakout. But she looked oddly calm, almost serene. She thanked me for my honesty, walked slowly away, and then disappeared down the stairs. I assumed I would never see her again.

Two nights later, around 1 a.m., I was in bed suffering through my usual half-sleep while Mat sat in his giant chair watching MTV in the glow of his Heineken light. The door to our room was wide open. Suddenly, even in my semi-consciousness, I became aware of a silhouette in the doorway. It was Jennifer. She had a grocery bag in one hand. The other hand was at her side, shaking and balled into a fist.

I sat up without a word and walked past her out of the room. I sat on the floor across the hall and waited. Jennifer turned off the Heineken sign and turned on the room's main light. She then proceeded to rip Mat a new asshole for the next hour. She recited all the things she'd done for him, all the sacrifices, not the least of which had been her college career. She tallied up the money she'd given him (which I hadn't known about until then). She described the whole lot of nothing Mat had done for her, which was capped off by the spineless way he'd tried to break up with her. I have to tell you, she was venomous and she was mean. And even though Mat totally deserved it, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the guy.

To wrap things up, she opened the grocery bag and dumped its contents onto the floor. It was all the remained of the gifts she had bought him in advance. I remember only two things from the pile: a Care Bear doll and a 14K gold earring of his jersey number that she'd had custom made.

"Take it," she said. "Take it all. I don't want it."

With that, she turned off the light. Then she broke down and began to sob. She covered her face with her hands and then ran from the room. I never saw her again. As far as I know, Mat didn't either. I have no idea what happened to her.

I got up and walked to the doorway. Mat was dead silent. The room was pitch black, and I could barely make out his outline in the glow of the hallway lights. Like I said, he had deserved the verbal beat down. There's no question about that. But he was also a human being, and he'd gotten blistered pretty badly. I felt my first major surge of compassion for him...a feeling that I would experience only one other time while we lived together.

"Dude," I said with all the empathy I could muster, "are you okay?"

He was quiet for another second or two, and then he started to laugh. It started out as a low chuckle and then built into a huge, full-forced howl.

"OH MY GOD," he bellowed, "I REALLY F*CKED HER OVER DIDN'T I?" And his laughter continued.

I know I keep using the phrase "I couldn't believe it" with regards to my old roommate, but I really couldn't believe it. Mat had broken a young girl as utterly and completely as she could be broken by her first serious romance, and he thought it was funny. I don't know. Maybe he was just putting up a front. Maybe that was his way of dealing with whatever guilt he felt. Or maybe he was just a rat bastard. I'll never know for sure.

Anyway, I'm done flash-forwarding for now. As this story continues, just know that Jennifer was always around, if not always noticed, a running subplot in the drama of that first semester. A subplot that ended badly and (to me) revealed a rather jarring truth about Mat's personality.

Now, back to the day after Mat stole that giant chair from some nameless sorority. I spent the day dreading the night, at which time I was sure he'd ask to bunk our beds. But now that he had the chair, he was exceptionally content with the room the way it was. And while the bed bunking would come up again, for now everything was copacetic. So much so, in fact, that he purchased a disposable camera to take pictures of the room that he could mail to his parents in Holland.

He then took two pictures of me. "My parents wanna know what my roommate looks like," he explained. I still remember what I was working on: an essay about gender construction in the advertisements shown in Cosmo. As you look at these pictures, you'll note that 1) I hadn't yet emerged from my "painfully nerdy" stage, 2) I hadn't yet found a barber in my new town and thus my hair was out-of-control long, 3) I studied in my glasses (the contacts came out promptly at 8 p.m.) which were laughably huge, and 4) I was wearing the immortal Larry Bird shorts that Wild Yams often gives me a hard time about. Not also the stark contrast between my side of the room and Mat's.

Dig my super-awesome entertainment center. Otherwise known as a desk chair.

And since I'm being completely self-indulgent, here's a picture of our floor's undefeated flag football team, the Smokers Club. You'll notice me in the back row on the far right, sans glasses and apparently after a haircut. Oh, and that guy giving the peace sign? That's none other than BadDave. I find the peace sign somewhat ironic since BadDave was known for knocking people on their ass. (BadDave's motto was: "The body's part of the flag.") He was a helluva block, and he led our team in quarter back sacks. A total flag football rockstar. Which very nearly excuses his super-mullet.

Next time: A brief visit from the Future NBA All-Star.

Livin' Large: Part 5

2009-07-06T07:47:00.002-05:00

Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

The following week with Mat was more of the same: casual hookups, late-night conversations with Shelly, and a schedule that regularly kept him up until around 5 a.m. He also developed the troubling habit of leaving the door to our room open all night (unless he was having sex), which meant everybody who walked by got an unobstructed view of our living quarters. And that happened a lot, by the way, since we were located directly across the hall from the bathroom. We were only a few weeks into the semester and Mat's lifestyle was already starting to get to me. It seemed as if I never got a full night's sleep, and I hardly ever felt completely comfortable in my own room. The situation was made even worse by a new item that arrived for Mat in the mail.

Mat's favorite beer was Heineken. He raved about that flavorless dreck, claiming it was the best beer in the world. That, of course, is scientifically impossible, since we all know that Guinness is the world's best beer. But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then drinkability is entirely in the taste buds of the beer drinker, so Mat maintained his delusion about Heineken for the duration of our time together. And that was fine. However, the way he was now able to express that delusion was not.

Mat had ordered a neon Heineken sign. The evil thing immediately went up on the wall over our phone, and that's where it stayed until he moved out of the room. I quickly learned to hate that sign with every last molecule of my being. It was actually pretty cool, as far as neon signs go, and it was a pretty sweet decorative accent to a dorm room. BUT...it was also as bright as the noon sun, and Mat never turned it off. Never. It was like having a spotlight shining in the room 24 hours a day.

I couldn't escape that dreaded light. Even when I wrapped a pillow around my head, I could detect a faint glow through the cheap foam. This made it even more difficult to get any sleep. Mind you, I turned the light off any time Mat left the room, even if he was only going across the hall to pee, but he'd simply turn it back on when he returned.

I didn't know what to do. Mat was intimidating. I must once again stress that he was almost unbelievably enormous. How enormous exactly? Let me put it this way. Early in the semester, the athletic director asked the basketball players for measurements so a warm-up suit could be ordered or, if necessary, custom-made. When it came time for Mat to measure himself, he asked me to write down the results while he wrapped a measuring tape up, over and around his vast girth. The only measurement I still remember is the one for his thighs. They were 34 inches around. For some perspective, that was (and still is) my waist size.

And as if that wasn't disturbing enough, I couldn't help but notice a huge, jagged scar on one of those mammoth legs. It was truly grisly, and I was being entirely serious when I asked him, "How'd that happen? Did you get attacked by a shark or something?"

"No," he said. "I got in a knife fight. The other guys got worse, though"

Guys, as in plural? And they got worse?! Oh God.

He was also a black belt in Judo and claimed to have once been the Dutch National Judo Champion of his age group. (For whatever reason, I never asked what age that was.) He even had a picture on his desk that was taken after he had won some kind of martial arts tournament (or at least that's what he told me it was a picture of.) So here was a gigantic man who was a black belt and got into (and presumably emerged victorious from) brutal knife fights. And I was going to tell him to turn off his damn beer sign?

Since I didn't know what to do, I went to my R.A., Brett, for advice. I hadn't really spoken to Brett after the first weekend. This was partly because he had written me a disciplinary report for something I hadn't done, and partly because my roommate had had sex with his hotty cousin, Shelly. But R.A.'s were supposed to deal with roommate conflicts, so I figured it was time to make Brett earn his free room and board.

Mind you, the Heineken sign wasn't The Problem. It was simply the latest problem. Mat's hours, the rampant sex in the room, the violations of my personal space, and my general lack of sleep because of it all...that combination of things was making me nervous and on edge. Worse, it was making me absolutely hate my life at college. And that's exactly what I told Brett.

Brett's "solution" was pretty much the last thing I wanted to hear. "You have to talk to him," Brett explained. "Sit down with him, explain your position, and ask him to make some changes. He's a great guy, the situation with my cousin notwithstanding. I bet he'll listen to you, and things will work themselves out. If they don't, let me know. But I really think they will."

It was like I'd told Brett there was a lion in my room, and he sent me back to tame the beast without a chair or whip. I figured I'd give it a try, though, but only because I didn't have any other choice. I just hoped the lion wouldn't bite off my head. Or anything else, for that matter.

I spent my evening shift at the dorm's food service rehearsing what I was going to say. In my mind, the speech was powerful and compelling, the kind of oration that no man could ignore. Unfortunately, it ended up being a complete waste of three hours worth of mental speechwriting. My mind went blank as soon as Mat walked in the door from his nightly wanderings. All I could do was improvise.

"Look, Mat," I started, "we need to talk."

He sat down on his bed and stared at me with quiet interest. At least he looked sort of receptive. I continued.

"This, uh, roommate relationship isn't working for me. Some of the things you do, like, you know, having sex in the room, staying up all night, leaving the door open all the time, keeping the Heineken light on, all those things are making me really uncomfortable. I'm not saying, you know, don't do them or whatever. It's just, like, could you not do them all the time? I mean, if you could just, you know, pull back a little, it would be really...help me out. So, uh, like, is that cool with you?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."

I know now I was being incredibly naive to believe it would be that easy, but relief washed over me in an awesome wave. "Wow. Thanks, Mat. I really appreciate it."

"No problem," he said. "Hey, while we talking, I was thinkin' we should bunk our beds."

One thing I haven't yet mentioned is that there was one seriously kickass benefit to rooming with Mat. Many student athletes, basketball and football players in particular, are simply too big for a standard dorm bed. For this reason, most dorms have special, extra-large beds for their special, extra-large residents. And since many residents bunk their beds to save room space, both beds had to be the same size. Therefore, my bed was eight feet long and wider than the standard dorm bed.

The downside, it seemed, was that Mat actually wanted to sleep either directly above or below me. I probably don't need to explain why the thought of that made me exceptionally uncomfortable.

My immediate reaction was, "Uh, why would you want to do that?"

"Well I was thinking," Mat replied, "it would be cool if we got some furniture. Like a couch or sumting."

Here was a dilemma. On the one hand, Mat had just seemingly agreed to some serious compromises in his lifestyle. On the other hand, I in no way wanted my bed coming into contact with his unless there was an explosion or natural disaster of some kind. However, in light of his apparent concessions, I didn't feel like I could say "no" without looking like a giant asshat. If only there was a way to say "no" but make it look like I was saying "yes"...

"Well," I began, mind racing, "I don't want to right now, but if we do get a couch or whatever, I'd probably do it."

That answer seemed to satisfy him. "Okay, cool," he said.

Whew. It seemed like a safe bet. I couldn't afford a couch, and Mat was always complaining that he had no money. It was like I'd perfected the art of fighting without fighting! I felt so like Bruce Lee. You know, except for the whole "not knowing martial arts" and "not being Asian" things.

"By the way," he said, "you got mail today. I put it on your desk."

Mail? Me?!

It turned out to be card from Aimee's roommate, Latrisse. I don't remember what the card said, exactly, but it was one of those noncommittal "thinking of you" cards, and it was filled with glitter and little pieces of confetti. It totally warmed my heart that somebody thought enough to send me something. It would have been even better if Aimee or maybe my mom had thought to do it, but beggars can't be choosers.

As I was looking over the card, Mat left the room and didn't come back for two days. It was weird. I actually got a little worried. At the time, I remember thinking, "Gosh, he gets drunk and uses drugs indiscriminately. He might be dead!" Shelly, who continued to call in Mat's absence, was sure he was fine. However, she let me know that I would have to be her substitute phone buddy until he got back. "You don't mind that, do you baby?" she cooed. Naturally, I couldn't say no to that. Then she said, "So, tell me what Mat does in his spare time? Is he seeing any other girls...?" Great. Now I was stuck lying for Mat, because there was no way I was going to face his wrath for telling Shelly the truth. I felt like such a sucker.

Anyway, this scenario would become a regular occurrence for the rest of my time with Mat: random, multi-day disappearances. Sometimes they happened during the week, sometimes they happened over the weekend. But they were never announced, and I never found out where he had been or what he had done. And I usually ended up covering for him with girls, teachers and coaches.

I did, however, find out at least one thing he'd done during this initial absence. It was around midnight. I was in bed, of course, and the room was mercifully dark and quiet. Suddenly, the door slammed open, and I saw Mat's huge silhouette framed in the light of the hallway. He had something with him. Something big.

He flipped on that damned Heineken sign and I saw what it was: a giant chair. I mean, this chair was so big it was practically a loveseat. Somehow, he had found a Mat-sized chair. I was stunned. Where the hell did he get that thing? Was "Big Chairs 'R Us" having a midnight liquidation sale or something?

Suddenly I noticed that Mat was sweaty and out of breath, two things I had never seen before. He forced the chair awkwardly through the door frame, scraping off paint and breaking off chunks of doorjamb in the process. Then he muscled the chair into the gap between our beds, after which he collapsed into it with a mighty sigh.

"What...where...?" I tried to ask.

"Oh, f*** me," he said with a laugh. "I just stole this chair from a sorority!"

"You did what?"

He let loose a rumbling belly laugh. "I was at a party at dis sorority, and I saw dis chair." He said. "I liked it. I mean, I really liked it. So I just picked it up and walked out with it."

I can only assume my eyes were popping out of my skull. "And...and they just let you leave with it?"

"Hell no, dey didn't let me!" he cracked. "A few girls came runnin' after me, yellin', 'Bring back our chair, bring back our chair!' But you tink sum girls are gonna stop me? Ha! I just kept walkin', and eventually dey stopped chasin' me."

"I...I can't believe it."

Mat just laughed. He was obviously very proud of himself. Then he flipped on the TV and said, "We'll have to bunk our beds tomorrow."

Uh oh.

Next time: Pictures of our room!

Livin' Large: Part 4

2009-07-02T07:42:00.003-05:00

Author's note: If your comment hasn't been published, it's because you correctly guessed the identity of one or more persons and/or places in the story. Congratulations, Scooby Doo. I would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for you and those meddling kids.

Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

The next few days were relatively uneventful. I was busy going to class, working and studying. Mat, for his part, settled into a comfy-cozy schedule that consisted of: waking up around 2 p.m.; goofing off until he had to go to basketball practice at 5 p.m.; coming back to the dorm to eat his weight in dorm food; going out for a few hours; coming back home to call Shelly and/or one or more other girls; watching MTV until 4 a.m. or so; and then finally going to bed. Of course, sometimes the schedule was expanded to include a random hookup or two, but that was his life for most of that first semester. Meanwhile, his books, ignored and unmoving, gathered dust on his desk, slowly but inexorably disappearing under a growing collection of CDs and knickknacks.

I tried to keep up with Aimee by phone, but she was so on-the-go I rarely caught her in her room unless it was really, really late. That didn't keep me from calling incessantly, though. As a result, I started to get pretty chummy with her roommate, Latrisse, who by comparison was almost always available.

I actually had met Latrisse the previous summer when she visited Aimee in Kokomo. They had agreed to meet before moving in together to make the college transition a little easier. The three of us gathered at a McDonald's for burgers, fries and conversation. At one point, while Aimee was in the bathroom, I explained to Latrisse how much Aimee meant to me. I'm fairly certain I used the "L" word at one point. I wrapped up by saying, "It would make me feel better if you'd look after her for me." Latrisse agreed, and during one of our phone conversations, she confided, "You know, asking me to look after her really endeared you to me. You're a pretty special guy, Matt." It seemed like a fairly innocuous comment at the time, but it would lead to trouble later.

People on our floor started referring to us as "Big Mat and Little Matt." Shelly coined that double nickname during one of her many phone chats with my roommate. Mat mentioned it to somebody and it spread like wildfire. Soon people I didn't even know were saying, "What up, Little Matt?" when I passed them on my way out of the building. At 6'2" (6'3" in shoes) and almost 200 pounds, I hadn't been called "little" since elementary school. But now I was becoming universally known as Little Matt. That was...great.

On Thursday, Mat initiated conversation with me, which typically didn't happen unless I was standing between him and the bathroom. "Hey man," he said, "I got dis girl coming to visit me from Connecticut dis Friday cause we got dat extra day. (It was Labor Day weekend.) She gonna be staying here for de weekend. Dat cool wit you?"

I was pretty shocked, but I was also extremely pleased. That one little question was the most consideration he'd shown me since we'd met. To that point, I'd assumed he didn't care about my feelings regarding our shared living space. Or whether I lived or died, for that matter. Maybe he was human after all. "Yeah," I said, "that's cool. No problem."

"You know," Mat said, changing subjects, "I think you need more stuff. Your side of de room looks pretty boring."

He wasn't wrong. In addition to the furniture provided by the dorm, my side of the room had a small CD player (on my desk), a TV and VCR (both of which were sitting next to my bed on top of Mat's unused desk chair), a pile of old VHS tapes, three milk crates and a towel rack. That was it. I literally had nothing else, other than clothes and books.

By contrast, Mat's side of the room was totally pimped out. His desk was covered by house plants and street signs (origin unknown). He had a funky bar stool behind his desk (which is why he let me use his chair). There were posters on his walls, and he had CDs stacked everywhere. He had a mini-fridge (unshared). Oh, and he had converted his closet into a sort of entertainment center. Seriously, his side of the room was totally sweet. In fact, if you had drawn a line down the center of the room, the contrast would have looked like a before-and-after picture.

"Yeah," I said, "I really need to do something about that." I had no idea when, though. Maybe when I got my first food service check. Having no money sucked.

Mat wasn't finished. In what turned out to be the high point of our roommately camaraderie, Mat produced a box full of practice shorts and jerseys the school athletic director had given him. "You want one of dese?"

"Hell yeah," I said, taking one pair of shorts and a jersey from the box.

Naturally, the outfit was huge on me. I'm talking laughingly enormous. There was no way I could wear them to work out or play basketball in, but that shorts/jersey combo became my favorite lounge-around gear. One notable feature was that the school name was emblazoned on the butt of the shorts. Mind you, this was before it became en vogue to put words on the ass-end of a pair of shorts...which meant it was okay for guys to do it. You never see that these days. Butt-lettering is now the exclusive province of women's shorts. It's similar to the evolution of belly-exposing shirts. They made their debut in the 80's, and, originally, straight men were the ones who wore them. I'm serious. Go watch the movie Hunk if you don't believe me. Eventually, that type of shirt became "sexy" on women and "gay" on men.

Anyway, it was turning out to be a pretty good night for our roommate relationship. Then Mat lowered the boom.

"By de way," he began, "de girl who's visiting me, she's bringing a friend. I said you'd sleep wit her."

I skipped a beat. Then, "Huh?"

He looked confused, but answered, "I told her you'd sleep wit her friend."

Although I was pretty sure I understood the implication, I played dumb. "Like, you said she could sleep in my bed?"

"No," he said slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a retarded child, "I said you would have sex wit de girl she's bringing wit her."

Okay. I was starting to freak. "Why did you do that?"

Now he was getting irritated. "What the hell else she gonna do while I'm hanging out wit her friend?" By "hanging out," I could only assume he meant "banging her five feet away from you."

"Uh, look, Mat," I said, the top of my head starting to sweat, "I don't think I can do that. You know, sleep with some girl sight unseen. I don't even know her."

His huge brow knitted. "Why does that matter?"

"Well, I, uh, you know that I love Aimee, right?"

"So?" He was definitely irritated now.

"So...I don't think I can do it."

He shook his head. "You'll do it." That was it. End of story. No more debate. No more conversation. What had started out as a bonding session devolved into a tense, brooding silence. Shortly afterward, I went to sleep while Mat sat down to watch MTV in the dark.

The next day, I avoided our room between classes. While sitting in the Memorial Union, I saw an ad for Alpha Phi Omega. APO is a national, co-ed, community service organization. You don't live in a house or anything, but there's an office for socializing, parties for more socializing, and of course events centered around performing community service. The ad said something like, "Meet new people and help the community!" I liked the idea of helping the community, but I was really stoked about the idea of meeting new people. I immediately walked over to the APO office, which was, in fact, full to bursting with happy, friendly peeps. Oddly enough, when I filled out the pledge application form, I listed soccer as a hobby instead of basketball. I have no idea why, since I was obsessed with basketball and hadn't played soccer since the eighth grade. The mind can play funny tricks, I guess. At any rate, that seemingly meaningless decision would have long-term consequences. More on that later.

Around 3 p.m., I gambled that Mat might be awake and out scavenging for food, so I went back to the room and called my mom, who usually got home from work around that time. I said, "Mom, is there any way you can pick me up and bring me home for the weekend?" When she hesitated, I decided to use a college freshman's greatest weapon against their parents: emotional thuggery. "I'm really, really homesick, and I miss you." That did it.

I threw some clothes in a backpack and called Aimee, leaving a message with Latrisse that I was going home for the weekend. Then all I could do was wait. An hour passed. Two hours. I kept listening for Mat, afraid he'd come back and find me preparing to ditch him. Finally, my mom showed up at the door. We hugged, and then I practically ran to the car. A little over an hour later, I was home.

I met my friends Gauvin and Greg -- both of whom had decided to attend classes at the local community college -- at Pizza Hut. It was like old times. I felt like myself again. It's funny looking back at those first few months away from home. All I could think about was my old life. Once I hit my groove at college, I rarely ever wanted to go back to Kokomo for any reason. But from August through the first of November, I yearned for that dirty little town.

At it turned out, Aimee came home on Saturday. She wasn't happy about it. It turned out that she was having way too much fun at Butler to waste time in Kokomo. And while I would totally get that a few months later, at the time I was hurt and resentful. I wanted her to see the brief trip home as an opportunity to spend time with me. She saw it as time wasted while her budding social life was standing still. When Monday came and it was time to return to our respective schools, our relationship status remained unchanged.

I arrived back at my dorm around 5 p.m. The timing was consciously chosen because I figured Mat would be at practice. When I got to the room, it looked like a tornado had blown through. And it wasn't just Mat's side that was wrecked. My side was in shambles too. And just like The Story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, somebody had been sleeping in my bed. Unfortunately, sleeping wasn't all they'd been doing. The sheets, which were wadded into a tangled mess, were soiled (to say the least), and there were lipstick smears everywhere. And while I didn't have much in the way of decoration, I had brought a few creature comforts to school with me: a case of Coca-Cola, a couple bags of chips, some beef jerky, a few boxes of fruit snacks, and a box of Kleenex. Now, my modest little stockpile was gone. All of it, down to the last tissue. (They left the empty box, though.)

For some reason, this violation of my things crushed my spirit.

I stuffed my bed sheets into a laundry bag. As I did so, a handwritten note fell out of the pile. In what was clearly a girl's bubbly cursive script, it read, "Sorry we used all your stuff. We're coming back in a couple weeks and we'll replace everything!" The message was signed with a little heart that had a smiley face in it.

They were coming back in a couple weeks?!

I took the sheets downstairs. Fortunately, the linen lady was working, and she exchanged that nasty mess for a fresh, clean set of sheets. I returned to my room, made my bed, and sat down to study. It had been dark for hours -- and I was still studying -- when Mat finally returned. I wasn't even afraid of whether he was mad at me for ditching him anymore. I was pissed. Not pissed enough to tell off the seven-foot giant, but pissed.

He must have sensed it, too, because his initial silence wasn't as brooding and intimidating as usual. Finally, he said, "Hey, sorry 'bout all your stuff. I'll buy you new stuff tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it," I said, not even looking up from Selected Essays from the Middle Ages. The evening passed in complete silence, except for Mat's beloved MTV. I called Aimee and went to bed. When Mat received his nightly call from Shelly, he actually pulled the phone out into the hall, presumably so his dirty talk wouldn't bother me. Maybe he really did feel bad.

The next day when I got back from class, there was a case of Coke, a box of tissues (generic) and a bag of Ruffles on my desk. When I saw that, I actually thought that things were going to be okay between us. However, my feelings did a 180 that night when he showed up with a new girl, turned on Sade's "No Ordinary Love," and told her, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen..."

Livin' Large: Part 3

2009-07-01T07:29:00.003-05:00

Author's note: Once again, I'm not including the last names of the people involved or identifying the university at which these events occurred. Feel free to make guesses, but understand that I will not publish comments that contain the exact names of the people or places in question. I'm just trying to avoid any...Imperial entanglements...so to speak.

By the time Mat finally woke up, Brett had already taken Shelly to the airport. This caused Mat to be unusually bummed out all day. I say "unusually" only with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, since I didn't really know much about his habits at the time. But he was dispirited enough to make small talk with me, much of which had to do with Shelly and what I thought about her.

"She was pretty f***ing cool, wasn't she? Man, dat woman is fine. You thought she was fine, right? Damn, I miss her already. This sh*t sucks. I wish she was home already so I could call her. Maybe I should wait, you know, be cool. You think she'll call me? I can't believe I met her right before she was leavin'. Can you believe dat? Aw, man, f*** me." ("F*** me," I would soon discover, was Mat's go-to phrase for virtually every situation, good or bad.)

Eventually, he got around to asking questions about me. Sadly, I had little to tell that he would care about or understand, so he focused on two things: my interest in basketball and my love life. Unfortunately, his knowledge of the NBA wasn't that broad. He knew Rik Smits (who was a fellow countryman) and loved Michael Jordan (which was something of a gimmie). That was pretty much the extent of it. I asked him about his prep school career, and all I got out of him was that he was "really good" and hit "about 80 percent" of his free throws. He claimed not to remember his rebounding numbers, which I found bizarre. The dude was seven-plus feet tall and weighed 300 pounds. I expected him to boast Wilt Chamberlain-esque boarding stats...and the fact that he didn't probably should have told me something.

The discussion of my love life was pretty uncomfortable. I tried to explain the fact that I loved my not-quite-girlfriend Aimee despite her refusal to have a committed relationship with me. ("Shit,man" he said, "you need to tell dat ho what up.") And when I admitted that we hadn't had sex -- that we hadn't, in fact, so much as kissed -- his eyes nearly bulged out of his giant head. ("What the f***? How you love somebody who don't even have sex wit you? F*** me. That's some f***ed up sh*t.") I don't know if we were bonding, but the conversation certainly earned me his rather unique form of sympathy. It also made me feel like a gormless stooge.

"Look," he said, waving off my explanation about how sometimes loving someone means waiting for little things like physical intimacy, "here's what you gotta do. Tell dat girl, 'You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.' I'm telling you, dat sh*t works every time."

I was certain he was right...assuming the line was clumsily delivered by a physical freak who appeared to be -- based on his size alone -- a mortal lock for the NBA. But for me? All I could see was a pathetic, perhaps even lethal dose of fail. When I expressed my skepticism, he suggested I enhance the line by playing Sade's "No Ordinary Love" in the background. He wasn't just paying lip service, either. The "most beautiful woman" line/Sade combination would go on to become a staple of Mat's many hookups, which is probably why, to this day, "No Ordinary Love" makes me want to punch myself in the groin until I pass out.

I was able to hold Mat's interest for only so long, and eventually he simply got up and wandered out of the room. He was gone for several hours, during which time I copied my schedule into my daily planner and mapped a route to each of my classes. I sharpened pencils, packed my backpack...you know, all the things a good little freshman nerd does. Once I ran out of preparations to make, I called Aimee. She had moved into her dorm room at Butler University the day before, and she had been having a blast ever since. She dug her roommate (a nice but socially awkward girl named Latrisse) and had spent the last 24 hours partying and making friends. It made me feel angry and jealous.

When I told her my first couple days at college had been lousy, she was incredulous. "How can you not be having a great time?" I told her I didn't know anybody to have a great time with. "Go out and meet people then!" was her answer to my problem. If only I'd known it was that simple. After a while, I tried to turn the conversation to our budding not-relationship, but she dismissed it. "You know how I feel about that." Maybe Mat was right. Maybe I really did need to "tell dat ho what's up."

Talking to Aimee did nothing to improve my mood. It only turned it from "black" to "blacker." Then one of those strange "only in college" things happened. My door opened and in walked a fat guy with thick glasses and an even thicker belly. He was wearing nothing but a towel that was about 50 percent smaller than it should have been. He took three or four steps into my room before he realized his mistake.

"Oh," he said in mild surprise. "I don't live here. I'm sorry." Then he offered me the hand that wasn't holding his too-small towel closed. "I'm Ron. I live...next door, apparently. Nice to meet you."

I shook Ron's hand and introduced myself. "Well," he said, seemingly in no real hurry, "I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other. Hopefully I'll be wearing more clothes next time. If you ever need anything, feel free to stop by. In fact, feel free to stop by even if you don't need anything. I'd be happy to have you over, and I'm sure my roommate, Nathan, feels the same way." I couldn't help but wonder if this guy was for real. On the one hand, this was the closes I'd come to making a friend so far. On the other hand, he was weird and mostly naked.

After Ron left, I sat down to do the only thing I had to do at that point: watch an old basketball game. I really needed to get off that crazy rollercoaster of fun.

Mat got back around 10 p.m. and immediately called Shelly. (So much for being cool.) She had only just made it home and was unpacking, but they still sweet-talked each other for the next 45 minutes or so. It was weird to hear this monster of a man cooing like a lovesick teenager, but I found it kind of endearing. By the time he hung up the phone, I was getting ready for bed. "Good idea," he said. "First day of classes tomorrow. Gotta be ready." I asked him if he had his schedule. "Yeah," he said, glancing around, "it's here somewhere."

Then he collapsed into his bed with a huge grin on his face. "Dude, she told me she loves me."

"No kidding?" I said. That seemed pretty fast to me.

"Yeah, she loves me." Then he heaved a deep, self-satisfied sigh.

"So, what, you guys are dating now?"

He thought about that for a few seconds and then said, "I guess so."

So the girl I'd been friends with for five years and had bent over backwards for on more occasions than I could count had never said she loved me nor would she even consent to dating me seriously, but this goon meets a girl, sleeps with her immediately, and then gets an "I love you" the next day? I was pissed, but I played it off.

"Good for you," I said.

A few minutes later, we killed the lights and went to bed. Despite my bitterness over his luck with women, I thought things had gone pretty well between us that day. We'd talked and gotten along. He was apparently in a long-distance relationship, which I took to mean he wouldn't be banging a different girl every night of the week. And he was even going to bed at a reasonable time. I smiled. It looked like this was going to work out okay after all.

The next day was a blur. I had three classes and a seminar for my scholarship group. Even though I'd already picked up the books listed on my course schedule, a couple of my teachers gave us another list of additional books we needed to pick up. I was immediately assigned a couple hundred pages worth of reading, a term paper and a huge Calculus assignment. After my classes, I had to work an evening shift at the dorm's food service, which lasted a grueling four hours. (I was tasked with restocking the dining room, which included a large salad bar, a soft drink station, a tea/lemonade machine, a milk machine that dispensed three different kinds of milk, and two ice cream machines. I also had to clean up any messes. In case you didn't know this: men are sloppy pigs. That is all.)

When I finally dragged ass back to my room, Mat wasn't there. I settled down at my desk and dug into my homework. I was at it for three hours before taking a short break, during which I went down to the grill for a hamburger. When I got back to the room, "No Ordinary Love" was playing because -- you guessed it -- Mat was in the middle of sexing up some girl. She was squealing and laughing like a 12-year-old, and the festivities didn't stop when I came back into the room. Mat had dimmed the lights for obvious reasons, so I stooped down at my desk and quietly munched on my hamburger. Once they finished -- mercifully, it rarely took long -- the girl got dressed and left.

A few minutes passed before I said anything. "So," I finally said, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice, "I thought you were seeing Shelly."

"I am," he said in a casual voice.

"Well, uh, who was that then?"

He glanced toward the door as if trying to recall the girl's name. Apparently, he either didn't know or didn't care, because he said, "Just some girl."

"I don't think Shelly would be real thrilled," I said.

Mat rolled his eyes. "Man, she a long way away, you know?"

I didn't "know," but I kept that to myself and got ready for bed.

Shortly after I crawled under the covers, Shelly called. After the perfunctory greeting, she and Mat began talking dirty, discussing all the naughty things they'd like to be doing to each other. It started to sound a little too much like phone sex to me, so I pulled my pillow around my head and tried to pretend I was alone, in a cave, on the moon. With some effort, I was eventually able to drift off.

Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2.

Livin' Large: Part 2

2009-06-30T08:07:00.007-05:00

During college, I had my fair share of adventures and (more often) misadventures. I climbed a 16-story clock tower while it was under construction, participated in a few intramural sports championships, had a 50-pound stereo speaker shatter my nose during sex (seriously), helped design and build potato guns, successfully snuck into various sorority houses, got kicked out of bars, woke up in random places (and with random people) I'd never seen before, so on and so forth. But I'm not going to lie: My first day at college was painfully, even embarrassingly lame.

After my roommate disappeared, I wandered around campus and got lost. I tried unsuccessfully to track down some fellow freshmen from my hometown. I went running and got lost again. I made a handful of mopey phone calls to friends and family. I took a nap.

That evening, my dorm held a beginning-of-the-year dance in one of the two dining halls. I got spiffed up in my own dorky way -- button-down shirt and khaki shorts -- and ambled down to meet and greet. Unfortunately, after only one lap around the dance floor, I got intimidated and left. Armed with my Walkman and a copy of Joe Satriani's "Surfing With The Alien," I took a walk and got lost yet again, after which I vowed to stop going on walks altogether. Defeated, I went to the dorm's after hours grill, bought a hamburger and shuffled back to my room. And even though I usually have only ketchup and mustard on my burgers, that night I added some mayonnaise too. After all, I was in college now. It was time to take chances.

I spent the rest of the night watching old Celtics games. I was in bed by 11:00 p.m.

At around 6:30 a.m., I woke to the sound of dozens of voices. Singing voices. I scrambled to the window and looked down. Our wing of the building was being serenaded -- poorly and somewhat profanely -- by our sister wing from the all-girl dorm across the street. I sleep hard, and I wake harder, so I was still trying to take make sense of this odd tableau when a giant pillow flew past me and slammed against the window.

"SHUT THE F*** UP!!"

My roommate was home. He was pissed. And he wasn't alone.

Mat was in bed on his back, and on top of him was a girl I'd obviously never seen before. Since the sheets provided by the dorm were barely big enough to cover Mat's hulking mass, I quickly realized they were both naked. The scene was...an eyeful. To say the least.

I flopped back down onto my bed and turned away from them, assuming they wanted a little privacy. Mat spent a few minutes yelling at the serenaders to go away, but they ignored his profanity and sang outside our window for almost an hour. Shortly after they finally left, I heard Mat utter a line I would become very familiar with in the coming months: "Baby, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He and the nameless girl then proceeded to have noisy sex for the next five minutes or so.

I was shocked. At the time, that was pretty hard core for me. I'd watched Cinemax After Dark, sure. I'd even shown a stag film called Grind My Groin at a going-away party I threw for my buddy Dave D. before he'd left for the army the previous June. But I had never been five feet away from a couple furiously making the beast with two backs. Even after they finished -- or, rather, after he finished -- I didn't know what to do. I waited a couple minutes, then sat up and tried to act as if nothing had happened. Turned out that was impossible.

Mat had pulled most of the sheet over himself, so the girl's body was almost fully exposed. I couldn't help but gape, less out of lust (although there was a little of that) than surprise and near-panic. As I goggled at his girl, Mat said, "Hey, you want sloppy seconds?"

Following a moment of stunned silence, I said, "Wh...what?"

"Sloppy seconds," he replied, like he was offering to let me borrow a pencil. "Me and the guys at my prep school always shared sloppy seconds."

I was terrified that the girl was going to start freaking out about being offered around like a plate of five dollar hors d'oeuvres, but she didn't look the least bit offended. In fact, she adopted a complacent, "I will do whatever he tells me to do" look.

"I'll pass, thanks."

Mat shrugged. "Suit yourself." Then he rolled over and fell asleep almost immediately. The girl maintained eye contact with me for another few seconds to make sure I really didn't want those sloppy seconds, and then she rolled over and fell asleep herself (or pretended to), an amazing feat considering she was clinging to the outter edge of the bed.

I got up, changed into shorts and a basketball jersey, and left posthaste. Fortunately for me, the co-recreational gymnasium was directly across the street from my dorm. I wasn't there five minutes before getting into a pickup game. Finally, I'd found something that made me feel halfway normal. Under the circumstances, it felt like the happiest hour and a half of my life. But one by one people started to leave until I was the only person left on the court. I berated myself for not trying to get a phone number, or asking somebody to hang out. Something.

By the time I got back to the room, Mat and the girl were gone.

For the next few hours, I just sat in the room watching old basketball games. Eventually, the phone rang and, surprisingly, it was for me. Zach, a semi-friend from high school had just moved into a dorm nearby and wanted to hang out. I probably left skid marks on my way over to his place.

Zach and I hung out for most of the day. We went to Taco Bell, stopped by some book stores, bought a couple posters, tried (and failed) to figure out our way around campus, shared a Papa John's pizza. We didn't like each other all that much, but there was a certain sense of relief in just being with someone familiar.

I had heard about a dance being held at the Memorial Union. Because dancing usually means girls, we tried decided to give it a try. However, after an hour of wandering, it became obvious that we were totally lost. "Zach," I said, totally frustrated, "where exactly are we going?"

"What?" he asked. "I was following you."

Fail.

It took a good deal of backtracking and guessing, but we made it back to my dorm and staggered up the stairs to my room with the intent of ordering another pizza. However, when we got there, my roommate was waiting. And he had a different girl with him this time.

"Uh, I gotta go," Zach said, and he left without another word.

The stereo was blasting "Rat Race" by Bob Marley. I have no idea why I remember that, but I do. As I edged cautiously into the room, Mat lifted a beer to me in salute. "Hey der, roomie!" he blared. "Dis is Shelly."

There's no other way to put this: Shelly was hot. Fit, tan, brunette, huge...tracts o' land. And, most importantly, a really gorgeous smile. She leaped off the bed and hugged me like I was an old friend she hadn't seen in years.

"Hey baby!" she half-yelled as she planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

I had no idea what to say, so I just sat on my bed and looked at them. Mat sucked down the rest of his beer and then produced what I could only assume was a the world's largest joint. "Dude," he said, "you ever been high?"

"No."

"Well, then dis'll be your first time." In case I hadn't mentioned this before, Mat sounded like a reggae version of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I shook my head. "Nah, that's okay."

Shelly grabbed the joint, then came over and crawled onto my lap. She held the joint up to my mouth and whispered in my ear. "C'mon, baby. Get high with us." Man, my teenage hormones nearly exploded. I know that's probably not even physically possible, but I swear it almost happened. I was really close to doing it, and anything else she suggested short of a devil's three-way, but with a titanic effort I collected myself and said, "No, really, I don't want any."

"Whatever," she said, bouncing back to Mat's bed. They then proceeded to get very high and very drunk. I sat in bed reading a book and feeling like the biggest dorkwad the world had ever known. There were a couple times I considered asking for some beer or a hit off the joint, but I felt too stupid and ashamed.

By 11 p.m. I was exhausted, the extreme lameness of my day having worn me out. I went to the bathroom to change clothes and brush my teeth. When I got back to the room, Shelly was topless and straddling Mat. She turned to me, breasts swaying, and said, "Like the view?" I'm going to guess I was blushing, because my face felt like it was about to burn off.

Mat and Shelly went on to have sex while I taught myself to sleep with a pillow wrapped around my head. That skill served me very well for the rest of the semester. Eventually, mercifully, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

At around 6:30 a.m., I again woke to the sound of voices. And pounding. Only this time, it was outside my door.

"GET UP!" the voice screamed. "TIME TO GO SERENADE THE GIRLS!"

Ah, I thought, revenge. I'll pass.

I was about to roll over and go back to sleep, but the door -- which Mat (as would be his habit for most of our time together) had purposely left unlocked -- swung inward. In walked our R.A., Brett.

"Are you guys coming alo..." he started to say. Then he noticed beer cans littering the floor. And the girl in bed with my roommate, which was a clear violation of the overnight guest policy (i.e., you couldn't have any).

Brett grimaced at me and walked over to the huge mass of human flesh on my roommate's bed. He gave the girl a few quick pokes on the back and said, "Ma'am, wake up. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

When she rolled over, Brett cried out out shock. "Shelly?!"

"Brett," she said in a hoarse voice. "Wha'sup?"

I know what you're thinking, but Shelly wasn't Brett's girlfriend. She was his cousin, who was visiting him from California. Only she'd slipped away during an orientation meeting Brett had to attend, and on the way back to his room she had run into Mat. And, well, yeah.

"Jesus," Brett said, slapping his forehead. "You've been drinking," he blurted out, glancing at the remains of the joint in the ashtray, "and doing...other stuff. Do you realize it's my job to keep this stuff from happening here? Do you realize how bad this looks for me?"

"I'm sorry, Brett," she croaked. "I's jus havin' a good time."

"Come on, I'm taking you back to my room, you can sleep this sh*t off there," he said. He grabbed her by the arm and started leading her out. But before he did, he turned to me and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to write both of you a disciplinary report."

"Wait, what? Buh, both of us?" I stammered. "I didn't even do anything."

"Again, I'm sorry, but those are the rules. You're at fault for not reporting the activity to me."

Great. I had managed to resist peer pressure and avoid drugs and alcohol, but I was getting busted anyway. Fan-freaking-tastic.

"Do me a favor and explain that to your roommate when he comes to, okay?" Brett said.

"And tell him I'll call him!" Shelly rasped out as Brett dragged her away.

All the while, Mat lay there snoring. Sometimes unconsciousness is bliss.

Previous installments: Part 1

The new banner: A note of thanks

2009-06-30T07:31:00.005-05:00

Most of you have already noticed the new Basketbawful banner. I'd love to take credit for its wicked-awesomeness, but it's actually the work of loyal bawfulite Stephen Robbins. And to tell the truth, I made very few suggestions. Stephen simply used his own estimable talents along with what he knew about Basketbawful's rich and Ostertag-laden history to design a graphic that pretty accurately represents what this site's all about. Stephen: You rock.

What's that, you say? You wish Stephen could do something similar for your Web site, blog and/or bar mitzvah? Well, you're in luck. Stephen is a graphic designer for hire. Check out Stephen's Designs for more information. Feel free to tell him Basketbawful sent you.

The Great Wall: Broken

2009-06-29T13:08:00.004-05:00

Bad news for the Rockets. And I'm talking "You know, it's funny, these people, they go to sleep, they think everything's fine, everything's good, they wake up the next day and they're on fire!" bad. It turns out that Yao's broken foot isn't healing properly -- or at all actually -- which means the Great Wall will probably miss all of next season. Or maybe even (gulp!) forever.

The Rockets and Yao's reps are frightened over his future, and the concern is the most base of all: Does Yao Ming ever play again?

"The realization has hit them that this is grave," one NBA general manager said.

For now, the Rockets have privately told league peers it could be a full season before Yao might be able to return to basketball. Multiple league executives, officials close to Yao and two doctors with knowledge of the diagnoses are describing a troubling, re-fracture of his navicular bone. Three pins were inserted a year ago, but the foot cracked in the playoffs and isn’t healing.

"It sounds like he’s missing most of next season, if not the entire 82 games," one league executive who has had recent discussions with the Houston front office told Yahoo! Sports. "That's all that [the Rockets] will concede quietly, but they know it's probably much worse."

Houston general manager Daryl Morey refused comment on Monday and a team spokesman said the Rockets will not have further comment until Yao undergoes additional medical tests.

There's no reason for the Rockets to disclose the severity of the injury, nor the uncertainty over Yao’s future. Before the Rockets go public with a dire diagnosis, they plan to send him to three more specialists this week, a source said. For now, the Rockets have season tickets and sponsorships to sell. For now, the Rockets will publicly decry these doomsday revelations as premature, but this is the reality that they’re working under within the organization.

Poor Yao. His body just can't stand up to the rigors of NBA action. Kind of like how Pauly Shore's career couldn't stand up to an industry that requires actual talent. And assuming they don't waste another $40 million on re-signing Ron Artest, the Rockets will only have Knee-Mac left to lead them. So this seems as good a time as any for a Transformers:Revenge of the Fallen-inspired Optimus Prime facepalm.

Jesus Christ. Tracy McGrady is as useless asWheelie, Blur and Rodimus Prime put together.

Livin' Large: Part 1

2009-06-29T07:53:00.002-05:00

Note: This is the first installment of a multi-part story about the first semester of my freshman year in college. During that semester, I lived with a member of the men's basketball team. That team was nationally ranked and featured a future NBA All-Star. Some of you already know where I went to school, others may suspect, and still others might figure it out over the course of this narrative. Nonetheless, I don't plan to divulge the name of the school, players or coaches involved. Other names might also be changed to protect the innocent.

Prologue -- Mid-July, several years ago: It was a lazy summer day, and I was at home doing something utterly meaningless. I can't remember exactly what that trivial activity was, but it might have been watching TV (probably old Celtics games I had on VHS), playing Super Nintendo (possibly Street Fighter or NBA Live), or maybe reading (I'm guessing Unfinished Business by Jack McCallum). Anyway, whatever I was doing, my time-wasting was temporarily interrupted by a phone call from a student assistant who was working for the dorm I would be moving into next month.

The reason for his call was to determine whether I would be willing to live with a student athlete. He said the possibility of that actually happening was remote, but the dorm had to have a contingency plan in case the student in question -- a Dutch-born basketball player -- couldn't be placed with another student athlete. I was mildly wary, but I said, sure, I'd do it.

He said, "That's great. But, uh, there are a few things I need to talk to you about. According to your housing form, you requested a roommate who's a non-smoker, who doesn't typically stay up later than 2 a.m., and who won't have more than four guests in the room at a given time. In order to put you on the list of prospective roommates for student athletes, I need you to waive those requests."

Honestly, I didn't remember making those requests when filling out my housing forms. Maybe my mom had done it. I had no idea. But I shrugged my shoulders and waived the requests without really thinking about it.

The student assistant thanked me and that was that. A week later, I received my housing contract in the mail. My new roommate was named Chad Riggle. Chad wasn't a student athlete. He was a sophomore engineering student from a couple towns over. As it turned out, Chad was the cousin of my soon-to-be girlfriend, Aimee, who described him as "quiet and harmless." Chad and I talked on the phone once. He told me in an exceptionally nerdy voice that he had a couch, mini-fridge and a microwave...which was fortunate, because I had nothing.

Late-August, several years ago: My first trip to school wasn't pleasant. I was in a car with three other people -- my mom, my aunt Peggy and Aimee -- and all my worldly possessions. And this particular car happened to be a two-door Buick Somerset. The car looked like this. Pretty small for four people and a lifetime's worth of possessions, right? Oh, and the air conditioning didn't work. It was 97 degrees that day.

My mom was entering the first stage of empty-nest syndrome, so she was angry and on-edge. My aunt, understanding my mom's volatile mood, was deathly quiet. Aimee, meanwhile, was reminding me why she didn't want to have a committed relationship with me (we were going to different schools, freshman year was hectic enough without a boyfriend, etc.). For my part, I was nervous to the point of near-illness. It wasn't that I didn't want to go away to college. I was more than happy to leave my hometown -- a teeny speck of burg known as Kokomo, Indiana -- in the rearview mirror. But I'd never been away from home before -- I'd never even gone to camp as a kid -- so I was a wee bit high-strung. So much so that, when we stopped for lunch, watching Aimee eat some pintos and cheese from Taco Bell almost made me throw up.

We got to the dorm and went through all the requisite check-in procedures. I filled out some forms, had my picture taken for my dorm ID card, and I signed up for my very first collegiate job...with the dorm's food service. Once we had all that squared away, my mom suggested we go find the room before pulling the car around.

Room 329 was located on the third floor of the building's northeast side. The dorm had opened in 1958 and was built to mimic military-style barracks. It was an all-male housing unit, and the combination of age, heat (remember, it was 97 degrees), lack of ventilation and dozens of sweaty dudes made the place smell like the world's largest locker room. The walk wasn't pleasant for me, and even less so for my female companions, each of whom looked like someone had pulled a dirty jock strap over her head.

When we got to the room, it was unlocked, which I found strange. (Upon check in, I was informed that Safety Rule #1 was "Always lock your door, even when you're in the room.") I walked in and immediately turned to my mom, told her to wait, and closed the door. I wasn't prepared for what I was seeing, so I was pretty sure she wasn't ready for it either.

There was a man laying in one of the two beds. Actually, he was more man-monster than man. He was a giant. And, within the confines of this tiny little room, he seemed beyond enormous. The best way to put it is he was Shaq-size: 7'1", almost 300 pounds. I think sometimes, as an NBA fan, it becomes all too easy to take for granted the sheer bulk of a muscled seven-footer...but not when they're right in front of you, and certainly not when you're trapped in a room the size of a large closet with them. To make matters even stranger, he had a shaved head (something that I had never seen in my hometown) and he was wearing nothing but a pair of bikini-brief underwear.

It was too much for me to take in. I just stood there, staring at him for several long seconds. He was reclined with his hands behind his head, and he didn't seem remotely alarmed or even interested in my arrival. Finally, I stammered out, "Uh, hi. Er, are you, uh, Chad Riggle?"

He sat up slowly and it was like watching a glacier move. He stuck out a hand the size of bucket and, in a low, booming voice, said, "No. I'm Mat [only one "t" because he was Dutch]. Are you Matt McHale?"

Ye Gods! The beast knew my name!

I shook his hand and admitted that I was indeed Matt McHale. He said, "Cool. I'm your roommate."

"No, you're not," I said, almost reflexively.

"Yeah, I am," he said with an air of complete finality. That settled that.

"Uh, okay," I replied, not knowing what else to do. "Well, I'm...going to move my stuff in now."

"A'ight," he said, and began to lay back down.

I took him in again and, noting the exceptionally tiny underwear, said, "Uh, my mom, aunt and girlfriend are going to be helping me." He said nothing. "Yeah. Three girls." Still nothing. "Do you understand what I'm saying? Three girls are helping me move in."

Finally, he said, "So?"

"Could you, you know, put on...something."

He heaved a deep, irritated sigh and pulled on a pair of shorts that were barely bigger than his underwear. But it was an improvement, and likely the best I could hope for under the circumstances.

I walked back out into the hall and closed the door behind me. My mom looked irritated and demanded to know what was going on. I said, "Well, my roommate is...not Chad Riggle."

"What?" my mom asked. "Who is it?"

I didn't know how to explain it, so I said, "Just come in. You'll see."

And they saw. But they could hardly believe it. Mat, though, was apparently used to people staring at him. He once again sat up and, to my great surprise, greeted them kindly and introduced himself. He even offered to share some of the Dutch marshmallows he was snacking on. They declined the marshmallows, but they were all very taken in by his presence, which kind of annoyed me.

Then we began the not-so-fun task of moving all my stuff in. I'll never forget this: While three women helped me carry my things up several flights of stairs, this huge, muscular guy just sat and watched. Not once did he offer to help, although he did flirt with Aimee every chance he got.

Fortunately, I owned almost nothing, so the moving-in process was mercifully brief. After finishing up, we all stood around making a little idle chitchat. Mat hadn't been interested in lifting or carrying, but he was more than happy to talk. He looooooved to talk, mostly about himself. I don't know whether it was his size or some natural charm I wasn't picking up on, but the women seemed to love him, and when I finally escorted them downstairs, they couldn't stop talking about how neat he was. Even my mom, who had been a total grump all day, repeatedly said, "Yeah. Yeah. He's really cool."

We exchanged the official tear-filled goodbyes, after which I watched them slowly drive away. Then I was alone...except for my new, titanic roomie, who was waiting for me upstairs. Only he wasn't. By the time I trudged back up to NE3, he had disappeared, like he was the world's tallest ninja or something. I didn't see him again until I woke up the next morning. And he wasn't alone.

The 2009 NBA Draft: All you need to know

2009-06-26T08:38:00.001-05:00

While the Shaq and Vince trades had us wondering exactly what lengths teams will go just to save a buck, a new round of youngsters were selected to have their hopes for NBA stardom crushed in the next three to five years. Let's take a look...

Blake Griffin: There's no question that Blake Griffin is a great athlete and a big-time scorer in college. The big question would be is he capable of rising above the faces of failure, i.e. the Clippers frontcourt. Which actually isn't a sure thing. Kaman has size, Camby is a better defensive presence, and Zach Randolph is (gasp!) a more polished scorer. Also, with Oklahoma, playing D was optional for Griffin. How will he fare on that end in the pros? Can he one-up Zach's "non-existent" D with a "not a liability" of his own? If so, he's primed to be the Clip's most successful draft pick since, um... The Clippers Expect: A savior. Statbuster Expects: Carlos Boozer 2.0.

Hasheem Thabeet: If the NBA season is a war, Thabeet is a player you want by your side in a foxhole. Unless the only way out of said foxhole is making a 15-foot jumper. It's easy to forgive his non-existent offensive skills due to the fact he's 7'3", 265 lbs, and averaged over 4 blocks a night for UConn. And, as a bonus, Darko Milicic becomes immediately expendable. And by "immediately" I mean they traded him an hour later. The Grizzlies Expect: Dikembe Mutombo. Statbuster Expects: Tree Rollins.

James Harden: Late last season, Thabo Sefolosha was the Thunder's ~~only~~ best defender. Although OKC needs scoring and James Harden is unquestionably the more talented of the two, if Harden can't defend in the pros, he'll create as many problems as he solves. That's OK though...they'll have another shot at this whole lottery thing next year. The Thunder Expect: Brandon Roy. Statbuster Expects: A poor-man's Jeff Hornacek.

Tyreke Evans: I was really hoping we wouldn't see a boner tonight, especially this early. The King's already have a 20 ppg scorer at SG in Kevin Martin, and needed help at the point, AND Ricky Rubio was still available. Evans actually is a solid ball handler and passer, and could run the point in spot minutes. But a 220 lb guy with an assist/turnover ratio under 2 isn't someone you want defending opposing PGs or running the show for 40 minutes a night. Somewhere, Beno Udrih is giggling maniacally while de-listing his house on Realtor.com. The Kings Expect: To piss off a lot of fans. Statbuster Expects: Larry Hughes.

Ricky Rubio: Rubio brings a court vision that can't be taught. It's everything else that's suspect. With no fewer than 3 PGs on the books for next year, expect 15 minutes a night, a sub-.400 FG% and no fewer than 50 brilliant no-look passes to go ricocheting off the likes of Ryan Gomes and Brian Cardinal. The Wolves Expect: A poor-man's Pete Maravich. Statbuster Expects: Kenny Anderson.

Jonny Flynn: Apparently the Wolves hired the guy from Memento as their GM, as five minutes later, they draft a 2nd PG with their 6th pick. Flynn is more mature than Rubio, and less terrible than Sebastian Telfair, and should get the nod in the short term. However, neither Flynn or Rubio (or Telfair for that matter) are great shooters, so the Wolves' PGBC (point guard by committee) experiment will resemble some sort of masonry convention. The Wolves Expect: Mookie Blaylock. Statbuster Expects: 50 losses.

Stephen Curry: In drafting Curry and dealing Jamal Crawford, the Warriors' opening night backcourt will be comprised of a 6'3" shooting guard (Monta Ellis) and a point guard that doesn't pass (Curry). Which wouldn't work on any other team, but remember, this is Golden State. The laws of basketball fundamentals don't apply to them. The Warriors' Expect: Mike Bibby. Statbuster Expects: Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf (minus the Tourette's and the national anthem protest).

Jordan Hill: The fact that the Knicks drafted a PF sums up what the team thinks of Al Harrington and Eddy Curry (and the fact that David Lee will bolt via free agency). Hill will hopefully win over NY fans with hard work and defense, but, when Chris Duhon and Larry Hughes are logging 40 minutes a night, you'll wonder if another PF was the real need. The Knicks Expect: Chris Bosh. Statbuster Expects: Antonio Davis.

DeMar DeRozan: The word "project" popped up when the Raptors drafted DeRozan. Which means a player is big and/or athletic enough to use a lottery pick on despite the fact they have no discernible skills outside of being big and/or athletic. It's hard to ignore the fact that DeRozan basically had no stats (51 assists, 31 steals, six 3's in 1168 minutes) while there were still players on the board that could contribute immediately. The Raptors Expect: Another Vince Carter. Statbuster Expects: Harold Miner went to USC. I'm just sayin'.

Brandon Jennings: Jennings skipped college to enjoy one fairly horrendous year in Europe (38% FG, 6 PPG), but that wasn't enough to scare off Milwaukee from bringing him on as a project (Also see: DeRozan, DeMar). Jennings does have blinding quickness in his favor, but to run the point in the NBA he might need to shoot better and improve on a near 1:1 assist-turnover ratio. The Bucks Expect: Tony Parker, of course. Statbuster Expects: Keyon Dooling.

Terrence Williams: Williams is rare in that he does everything well except score. He was 1st among SGs in rebounds (8.6), 3rd in steals (2.3), 5th in assists (5.0), and 6th in blocks (0.8). Unfortunately, his jumper is somewhere in between streaky and non-existent (43% FG, 58% FT), although he did muster a 38% on 3s his senior year. Although, after watching Vince Carter the last few seasons, I doubt the fans will notice. The Nets Expect: Andre Iguodala. Statbuster Expects: Darrell Walker.

Gerald Henderson: The Bobcats are hoping Henderson will replace Raja Bell as their SG of the future, although I'm not convinced his offensive game will translate to the pros. While he has a great first step, he's a shade undersized (6'5"), and is only an OK ball handler. That along with meh 3-point range (34%) could work together to neuter his offensive game. While at Duke, he showed some solid defensive skills. So, in a worst-case scenario, he'll be a defensive role player, just like that Raja Bell guy he's replacing. That should be awesome. The Bobcats Expect: Latrell Sprewell. Statbuster Expects: Fred Jones.

Tyler Hansbrough: The Pacers came into the draft needing shot-blocking and a point guard to replace Jarrett Jack and/or T.J. Ford, and got neither. But Hansbrough should be a better defender than Troy Murphy, and is already better offensively than Jeff Foster. If Indiana signs one more white guy, they'll have to hire Gene Hackman and Dennis Hopper to coach them to an improbable championship run via a series of inspirational montages. The Pacers Expect: Dave Cowens. Statbuster Expects: J.R. Reid.

The Steal of the Draft: DeJuan Blair, who was pegged to be a lottery pick in most mock drafts, fell to the Spurs at 37th. Some people pointed fingers at ACL injuries he had in high school. I'm pointing the finger at Mike Sweetney and Sean May. By whipping themselves into shape for the Draft, then immediately eating their way into irrelevance, they may have ruined the NBA for fat post players everywhere. Although that's probably what Blair will do too.

Pre-Draft after-party in Las Vegas!

2009-06-25T10:40:00.003-05:00

Note: This post is the word of semi-regular contributor AnacondaHL. What follows is the unedited e-mail he sent me late last night.

Bawful, go ahead and cancel whatever you were going to post tomorrow, because do I have a story for you. To be honest, I didn't think there would be enough content for a post when this all started, but with the way things happened, well, you'll have to see for youself. I've got a buddy who moved to Las Vegas to work in a club, and I recieved a text message from him tonight. Said buddy is incredibly sports-unknowledgeable, but he can tell in an instant if you (male or female) are wearing anything from Express. I'm going to post the whole conversation un-edited, minus some comments in parenthesis by me, but you can feel free to edit it however necessary to protect the innocent *snicker*.

(21:40) Las Vegas: There a whole bunch of nba players coming into the club right now. I have no idea who they are u would appreciate this so much more

(21:44) AnacondaHL: The NBA draft is tomorrow holy crap that's hilarious. You are in for a busy next 30 hours

(21:50) LV: Its a private party for the players association. I'm talking to lots of tall people. And managers/owners/important folk. I wish u could switch brains with me cause I don't care about any of these people

(21:58) LV: Who is dr harry edwards?

(22:01) AHL: Never heard. Google says he works for the Golden State Warriors.

(22:16) LV: He asked me to send him a very tall 140 pound woman lol

(22:17) AHL: O. M. G. You need to document all of this so I can post it on BasketBawful.

(22:50) LV: Rashaw mckay?

(22:54) AHL: Uh, Rashad McCants maybe? He's an NBA player oh God please let it be Rashad McCants

(22:57) LV: It's a player. That's probably it that's just what my ears heard

(22:58) LV: Lots of people were recognizing him anyways

(23:02) AHL: Oh God please make sure. I'm emailing you a link to his website, including his poetry/rap.
(insert link here to us discussing it prior on this blog)

(23:05) LV: No data plan I can't use that. Somebody said to him "u were great in north carolina"

(23:08) AHL: OMG. STAY AROUND HIM SOMETHING HILARIOUS IS BOUND TO HAPPEN. REPORT BACK TO ME ANYTHING. GET HIM TO FREESTYLE.

(23:08) LV: There's another guy here too people were talking about. All star won a dunking comp dwight something. Or something dwight

(23:10) AHL: ...No. You are lying. It can't be Dwight Howard. It can't. You liar.

(23:11) LV: I'm not allowed inside I'm working lol. if I try to go in and openly socialize I'll be assassinated by my managers.

(23:12) LV: That's it. How could I be lying I don't even kniw his name. His manager or agent or something was telling he's a huge clown though
(At this point I punched myself in the face)

(23:19) AHL: Yea that's him. I'd send you an MMS, but I'd feel stupid since he's such a recognizable face and name. Ask the agent how much of a jerk Stan Van Gundy really is

(23:23) LV: He's inside now. Nobodies hanging around front with me anymore lol

(23:25) AHL: I want hourly updates on all the NBA groupies going in and out, who their with, 10 scale hotness rating, and percent chance they are prostitutes.

(23:27) LV: Very few women have gone in actually. I'm very surprised. Its all hotshots with admission badges. Although agent manager guy was telling me about the girls they have up in the suites

(23:29) AHL: YES THIS. More tall 140 pounders!

(23:36) LV: Lol I know one of the girls is an employee at tao. Scandalous, but expected

(23:47) LV: Some tall thick black woman just strolled in w/out creds. Nicely dressed and mannered tho
(me, scrambling to load up my computer)

(23:56) LV: Derek fisher? Richard lerner?

(00:00) AHL: Derek Fisher is on the Lakers, who just won the championship, beating the Magic, who's star is Dwight Howard. This is such a confusing list you're giving me

(00:02) LV: Apparently its a commitee. There are player reps here from all the teams

(00:04) AHL: Damn. I knew dreaming for a club confrontation between Vujacic and a thick woman was too good to be true. Ask who's here for the Suns!

(00:11) LV: Lol lemme see
(at this point, I've found this on Google)
(disappointed at finding a lack of thick women in the brochure)

(00:16) LV: My manager doesn't know

(00:25) AHL: Well at this point this event is probably old news on Twitter. F'in scrubs. Let me know if anything/anyone else happens. Plz don't get shot.

(00:30) LV: Lol

(00:31) (Shaq just got traded to the Cavs. Haha now you're stuck in Ohio!)

(00:31:03) (For Sasha Pavlovic and Ben Wallace. Fuck.)

(00:35) (And the Amare trade rumors begin again. Yay economy!)

[Author's note: you may link to the "Haha now you're stuck in Ohio" picture, and the Ben Wallace inflatable defender here in their respective places. I would, but I'm getting calls from funeral services throughout Phoenix, wanting a cost estimate on my crying myself to sleep.]

The Big Ego: Moving to Cleveland

2009-06-25T08:57:00.003-05:00

"...for Wallace and Pavlovic. Don't laugh, I think it could work."
I had plans for today. More Worsties. Maybe a post about fighting in pickup basketball. But I scrapped those plans when I heard about the Shaq-to-Cleveland trade. The deal might help Cleveland bust through their championship wall. Meanwhile, it means nothing short of utter and absolute destruction for the Phoenix Suns. In the short term, anyway.

Look, kiddies, the fact is this: Times have changed. The United States economy is sucking so hard that it could choke down Oliver Miller AND the World's Fattest Man in one huge gulp. Of course, the reality is NBA basketball never has been about winning. Well, it is sometimes, but only inasmuch as winning typically means making more money. That's just good business. But other times, and this is one of those times, good business means losing. Just ask the Minnesota Timberwolves and Milwaukee Bucks. And losing is what you can expect from the 2009-10 Phoenix Suns. And I mean a lot of it.

In return for the Big Brad Daughterneze, Phoenix is getting the decaying shell of Ben Wallace (which is the same as getting nothing), Sasha "The Invisible Man" Pavlovic (ditto), the 46th pick in Thursday's draft (double-ditto) and some cash (which is actually something). They'll also save money in salary and luxury tax (about $10 million, according to some reports). This was nothing more or less than a cost-cutting measure. They need to save greebacks, and they will...at the expense of winning basketball and the happiness of their fan base.

And to think, ESPN's Chris Broussard said: "The Phoenix Suns are not going to give O'Neal away merely to save money." Sucker.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't the Shaq of the early 2000s we're talking about. He wasn't great. However, he certainly was good last season: 17.8 PPG (on a league-best 60.9 percent shooting), 8.4 RPG, 1.4 BPG and a PER of 22.3 (which put him ahead of guys like Pau Gasol, Chris Bosh, Danny Granger, Devin Harris, Kevin Garnett, Deron Williams, Kevin Durant, Amare Stoudemire, Carmelo Anthony, etc.) He came close to setting a career-high in free throw percentage (59.5 percent). Cav-a-Shaq was an All-Star and even made the All-NBA Third Team for the first time since 2005-06. I guess all those things make him one of the best players in the game.

And yet he wasn't making the Suns any better. Meanwhile, he was chewing up $20 million worth of cap space. When you can't win with someone AND you can't afford him, well, it's probably time to bid him adieu. Normally, a team will try to get actual basketball talent in return. One trade I heard bandied about was Shaq to the Bulls for a package that could have included Luol Deng (finally a small forward to replace Shawn Marion and spell Grant Hill), Kirk Hinrich (finally a backup point guard to give Steve Nash a blow), and maybe some draft picks and cash. That move might have restocked some shelves and allowed the Suns to run free again. Or maybe not. But what does it matter now? The deed is done. Steve Kerr's failure is now complete. Or it will be once he gets rid of Steve Nash and trades Amare for Tracy McGrady.

On the other end of the trade spectrum we have a Cavs team starring LeBron and LeBrawn. Think about it for a second: Cleveland added Shaq -- a Shaq who proved last season he still has some Power Thirst left in the tank -- to a team that won 66 games and has the league's reigning MVP. AND THEY GAVE UP NOTHING. Wallace and Pavlovic were D-U-N, done. And if Shaq doesn't work out, so what? His contract comes off the books next summer...and the Cavaliers will be waaaaaaay under the cap. (Right now, they're committed to only about $36 million in 2010-11.)

Look, there are plenty of reasons to suspect that Shaq will be a bust in Cleveland. But it's a worthwhile gamble for the Cavs. It's not like when the Suns traded for Shaq and had to give up one of their key players. The only thing we have to figure out now is who's championship piggybacking off who? Because let's face it: King "Check My $tats" James wants the world to bow to his basketball supremacy...and so does Shaq. The Big Cavalanche can play kissy-face with Kobe all he wants, but unless I know "jack" and "sh*t" about human psychology, he'd love to earn championship numero cinco while cock-blocking Mamba's quest for a fifth.

It'll be interesting to see how this trade works out for Cleveland, and what moves the Eastern Conference Elite (Celtics, Magic) will make to counter it, if any. (Due to salary constraints, all Danny Ainge will be able to do, I think, is to watch helplessly and maybe pee himself.) As for the Suns, well, watching them is going to become exceedingly depressing. But I'll take some comfort in knowing that Robert Sarver will be saving some money while Steve Kerr is (presumably) saving his job.

The 2008-09 NBA Worsties: November

2009-06-23T20:27:00.006-05:00

Brian Scalabrine: The Official Mascot of the 2008-09 NBA Worsties.
That's right: It's time for the NBA Worsties, a month-by-month recap of the best of the worst of the 2008-09 NBA season. Here's Part 1:

The Iverson-for-Billups trade: Under Joe Dumars' careful stewardship, the Detroit Pistons made it all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals six consecutive times from 2003 through 2008. They also reached the NBA Finals twice and beat the Shaq-Kobe-Mailman-Glove Lakers for the 2004 title. There were some knocks against this team, though, particularly when they fell apart in the 2006, 2007 and 2008 ECFs. The naysayers said they lacked a killer instinct, tended to coast and/or underestimate their opponents, and perhaps were "only" good enough to be one of the best teams in the league...but not The Best.

But Joe Dumars had the answer: Blow that sh*t up. On November 3, Billups, Antonio McDyess and Cheikh Samb were traded to the Denver Nuggets in exchange for Allen Iverson. This is what I had to say at the time: "AI to Detroit for Chauncey Billups and 'Tony McDyess? Because the Pistons need a ME-ME-ME-FIRST!! scorer handling the rock? Bad trade. Baaaaaaaaad trade." As usual, I would turn out to be right about that. But more on that in the upcoming Worsties.

Shortly after the trade, it came out that Joe Dumars might have made the deal in hopes of clearing cap space for the Summer of 2010. I'm sorry, but if the plan really is to make a big run at Bosh, Wade or James in 2010, it's a flawed plan. I guarantee that Bosh and Wade are going to re-sign with their teams, and LeBron is either staying in Cleveland or bolting for New York. But hey, what do I know? At least we got a little high comedy early on.

Shawn Marion: Going into the season, things were looking up for the Matrix. He was healthy, and he was ready to play Robin to a healthy Dwyane Wade's Batman. Oh, and it was a contract year to boot. I'd be willing to bet Marion went pretty early in many fantasy basketball drafts. But the people who drafted him probably never really watched him play, or perhaps they simply didn't fully grasp his game. Or lack thereof. Without Steve Nash feeding him a steady diet of gimmies, Shawn's game regressed. In November, he averaged 11.4 PPG, 8.6 RPG and shot a crummy 18 percent from long distance. Mind you, this is the same guy who was genuinely disgusted to be the third option (behind Steve Nash and Amare Stoudemire) and the highest paid player on some darn good Suns teams. Memo to Shawn: This is why Robert Sarver didn't want to throw bags of money at you. Speaking of disappointments...

Mike James, worst backup PG in the league: He was supposed to, in the words of Tommy Heinsohn, give Chris Paul a blow when Paul needed a blow. But the only thing that blew was James himself. Byron Scott lost faith in "The Amityville Scorer" almost immediately, and Mike ended up playing only six games for a total of 56 minutes in November. His averages for those six games were: 2.3 PPG, 1.2 APG, 33 percent shooting (6-for-18) and almost as many personal fouls (5) as total assists (7).

From CP3's primary backup to DNP-CD, just like that. Why? Well, coach Byron Scott provided a few hints last week: "In this offense, what [James] needs to do is really look to get everybody the ball. I don't know if he can do it or not. I think Mike has been programmed his whole career to be a score-first point guard. On this team, that's not what we really need right now. So he has to try and change his focus and do a better job running the team and getting guys involved. Obviously, the first seven games have not been the best for him."

Ouch. And here was James' response: "If I'm out there for two minutes or out there 20 minutes, I'm going to play my game. I'm just going to do what got my name and credibility in this league. I'm just going to be aggressive, make plays, score or pass. It's freedom of mind." At the time, I said: "With that attitude, Mike, it's going to be less 'freedom of mind' and more 'riding the pine.' Good luck handing out Gatorade during timeouts, Mike." Little did I know that James would soon be traded to the league's most pathetic team...

The Los Angeles Clippers: On the surface, it looked as though the Clippers actually made some good moves during the summer of 2008. They signed Baron drafted Eric Gordon, signed Baron Davis to a free agent contract, and traded a whole lot of nothing for Marcus Camby (the Clippers gave Denver the option to swap second round draft picks in the 2010 NBA Draft). But let's face it: They are who we thought they were. The Other L.A. Team finished went 3-11 in November, while scoring about 92 PPG and giving up close to 100. To make a bad situation terribly, terribly worse, on November 21 they traded Cuttino Mobley and Tim Thomas for...Zach Randolph. And it's really saying something when trading two players whose careers are basically over for a 20/10 guy is an awful trade for the team getting the 20/10 guy. Oh, and did I mention all this happened in the wake of Elgin Baylor's forced resignation and the promotion of Mike Dunleavy Sr. from coach to coach AND general manager. Worst. Franchise. Ever.

Starbury's newfound appreciation for Larry Brown: Even as Donnie Walsh and Mike D'Antoni were doing all they could to banish Stephon Marbury forever, Marbury came to adore the coach he once despised. Stephon Marbury: "Looking back at the last two years, I kind of liked Larry Brown," Marbury said with a laugh. "I kind of liked Larry Brown. I'm like, 'Man, I wish this guy was here to drill me now.'" Who knew that Stephon liked to be drilled, let alone by Larry Brown. But looking past the rather obvious homoerotic overtones for a sec, just think about that statement. Considering the way Larry Brown got run out of New York, that would be like the villagers from Frankenstein saying, "I kind of liked the monster. Man, I wish that creature was here to strangle me to death right now!" Here's the rest of what Starbury had to say.

The Spurs' slow start: Minus Manu Ginobili, the Spurs began the season 0-3. Two of those losses took place in San Antonio, where the Spurs have been nigh-invincible the last 10 years. It was the team's worst start since opening the 1973-74 ABA season at 0-4. For the sake of perspective, that was their first season in San Antonio after playing in Dallas as the Chaparrals. (The Spurs joined the NBA in 1976.) And here are some factoids from that third loss. Matt Bonner (zero points, 0-for-5 and 5 boards in 20 minutes) started at center last night. Michael Finley shot 1-for-3 and finished with 3 points. Ime Udoka was 0-for-4. George Hill was 3-for-7. Kurt Thomas played 12 minutes without scoring a single point (he was 0-for-1) or snaring a single rebound. The Fabulous Oberto returned to play 14 reboundless minutes. Frankly, if it wasn't for Roger Mason, the Spurs might have lost by 30 instead of "only" 17.

Steve Francis, fashion guru: Guess who showed up for a Rockets home loss to the Boston Celtics: Stevie Franchise, a guy who was only nominally on Houston's roster. From the game notes in the AP recap: "Houston guard Steve Francis, out with a knee injury, arrived at the arena wearing a red velvet sport jacket with 'Barack Obama' spelled on the back in sequins. Francis said he would try to attend Obama's presidential inauguration. 'Today is a transitional day in my career and everybody else's career,' he said before the game." The only transition his career made was from "showing up to random home games" to "never to be seen or heard from again." Nice jacket, though. I imagine it's what a pimp would have worn to the Democratic National Convention.

The Magic of Mike and Marv: These guys have a terrific on-air chemistry, but let's face it, they've been broadcasting together for decades. Sometimes they get board, sometimes they act like an old married couple, and sometimes...it's both. That's when this kind of stuff happens:

Marv Albert: It's time for our J&R Music and Computer World Upcoming Schedule. Following tonight, the Nets will finish up the home stands...that's, uh, very lovely. On friday night against Allen Iverson and the Detroit...what is that?

Mike Fratello: It's a car.

Marv: Oh, Motor City, oh I got it.

Mike: It's a car.

Marv: So clever. You think about this for long periods of time? And then at Miami on...at Indiana on Saturday, I'm sorry.

Mike: I didn’t want to throw you off.

Marv: I, I know.

Mike: Okay.

Marv: All right. Indiana, what do they get? What's that? That's very creative. What is that? Is that a building?

Mike: It's a building.

Marv: For Indianapolis?

Mike: It is.

Marv: And then at Miami on Monday night.

Mike: You know Miami gets, they get another, ohh yeahhh.

Marv: Oh very cute, yeah, all right and then back home for the Pacers next Wednesday. but frankly we've seen enough.

Mike: Okay.

Marv: The J&R Music and Computer World Upcoming Schedule. The Nets playing four games in five nights.

Mike: I was trying to think of how to draw a hurricane for Miami, not sure how to do that.

Marv: I'm sure you'll come up with something. Iittle box for the city of Indianapolis.

Brian Skinner's awful missed dunk: As Wild Yams said: "Here's a video of Brian Skinner from the Clippers blowing a wide-open dunk against the Lakers, which he then follows up by grabbing Derek Fisher in frustration or embarrassment." Well, in all fairness, Brian has a lot to be frustrated about. He was a Clipper, after all. Still, watching him blow a dunk when there isn't anybody within five feet of him is pretty funny, and it has the added benefit of making Yao Ming feel better about himself. So, you know, win-win.

Amare Stoudemire, flop master: Serious sad face material here. As Basketbawful reader Garron put it: "You are NOT allowed to have a major dunkage, go to the whole King Kong chest bump, then fly half the width of the court after a backup point guard touches you. 49 points was great for Amare. Flopping, is not." Agreed. But hey, let's face it, just think about all those years the Suns were humiliated by the Spurs. Amare learned from The Masters.

Chicago Bulls drama: One of the reasons the Bulls fell from grace last season was that many of the players had their own agendas and therefore tuned out Scott Skiles. And even after Skiles was canned (on Christmas eve), they didn't exactly kill themselves for interim head coach Jim Boylan. All that stuff was supposed to be ancient history...but it's not: Ben Gordon and Luol Deng are already making subtle criticisms to the press. "Starters have to get off to a good start; that's their responsibility," Gordon said after Sefolosha went scoreless and starting forward Tyrus Thomas had one point against the Cavaliers. "They have to step it up. Maybe Coach needs to mix something up a little bit." Translation: Coach needs to start me.

Deng, on the other hand, seems to think his slow start is the fault of the team's offense. "I still don't feel I'm playing how I want to play. We have to find sets that we're productive from and try to give teams different looks. We stayed with similar sets, especially in the fourth quarter. We have to switch it up a little bit." Translation: Coach needs to call more plays for me.

But Vinny D isn't changing for nobody, nohow: "No, no, no; they're the players, I'm the coach," Del Negro said. "The easiest thing is to look from the outside in and say we should do this or that. But when you go through it, it's a lot different. We're trying to put everybody in the most successful area we can. Sometimes it's not the system; sometimes it is. Sometimes it's the familiarity of everything."

Del Negro then put the onus right back on his players. "It's probably frustration talking. [Deng] got good looks [Wednesday], just like a few other guys. At times I thought we played pretty well moving the ball, but [we're] still shooting the ball too quick. Guys [are] a little bit unsure and thinking too much instead of playing. What happens is, sometimes [players] get a little bit out of sync and they start forcing things and try to do things they're not comfortable with. That hurts them even more. You just have to be patient and understand where you're going to get your shots."

It's always good to have everybody on the same page...

Brandon Roy's game-winning celebrations: I'm happy for the kid. I am. He hit a 30-foot bomb to give his team a two-point win over the Houston Rockets. But I don't want to see him posing like this unless he's in the middle of some kind of gamma ray-induced transformation.

"Bloargh!!
Elton Brand and the Philadelphia 76ers: Shortly after the Philadelphia 76ers signed Brand to that $80 million contract last summer, Elton said: "I'm prepared to do some big things this year." In November, those "big things" included scoring 16 PPG and watching his team -- a squad that was supposed to challenge Boston for Eastern Conference supremacy -- go 6-9 for the month. Fail.

Basketbawful History Break!! On November 9, the term suck differential -- officially coined by AnacondaHL -- officially enteres the Basketbawful lexicon. And there was much rejoicing.

Yao Ming, worst nine-foot tall dunker ever: Poor Yao. He spent a lot of time in the early part of the season either blowing dunks or getting them stuffed, somtimes in spectacular fashion.

This led to an early-season "Yao Watch." Here's one example of it: "I did a little box score review, and I discovered that Yao had four of his shots rejected this weekend (once by the Lakers and thrice by the Clippers). That brings Yao's season total of "blocks against" to 14 in seven games. That's right: The gigantic Yao is having his shot stuffed an average of two times a game. In addition, some research at 82games.com uncovered the following "stunning" revelations: Yao's effective field goal percentage on dunks is only 50 percent. Just as damning, if not more so, are the following stats: 22 percent of his "close" shots are getting blocked, 19 percent of his inside shots are getting stuffed, and 17 percent of his flush attempts are being returned to sender. Also, you can officially add Kobe to the list of things Yao can't dunk over or against."

Oh, and by the way, it didn't end with Kobe...

Dirk Nowitzki's Ass of Doom: The mad German made a four-year-old boy cry when he crashed into the tyke while trying to save a ball from going out of bounds. But no worries. Jason Terry -- who missed his first 11 shots and finished 3-for-15 -- ran across the court from the Mavericks' bench to give the brat his sweaty headband. I'm sure you'll be able to find it on eBay as early as right now. Anyway, here's the first shot of Dirk's ass-attack on the front-row youngster.

Now take a look at his face. He's being absolutely traumatized by Dirk's butt. NBA action: It's FANNY-tastic!

LeBron James cold start: Before he hit 4-for-7 from downtown against the Bulls on November 8, James was 1-for-19 from beyond the arc. After his hot game, he was 5-for-26 (19 percent). And according to 82games.com (at the time), LeBron's effective field goal percentage on jump shots was 17.9 percent. Did the terrorists taken his jumper hostage? How much did they want for it? I'm sure Nike ended up covering the ransom. Or...did they...?

Joey Graham: Normally, lacktion figures like Joey don't make it into the Worsties, but he gets special mention for both going by "Joey" and receiving a Code Red from Super Mario West!

The Washington Wizards' slow start: They dropped about $160 million on Gilbert Arenas and Antawn Jamison during the summer of '08. Then, when the season started, knee surgery had reduced Agent Zero to just plain zero, and the Wizards began a season of epic suck. One winless weekend included a home loss to the Knicks and an embarrassing blowout in Orlando. Those two losses dropped them to 0-5, and Jamison wasn't happy about it. "Anytime you lose like that you definitely don't approve of it. But it's extra disappointing when you are in the position we're in, and for us not to come out with the energy and focus that we needed for this game. We're 0-5 and we need people to play basketball." It's funny you said that, Mr. "I just signed a $50 million contract extension over the summer." The team report said: "Jamison seemed disinterested during the late stages of a blowout loss, something that was evident when he did not join a team huddle during a timeout in the third quarter." Nice team leadership, Antawn.

Kevin Garnett, hardwood bastard: Who knew that finally winning an NBA championship would transform KG into a Batman villain.

Sasha Vujacic's chest bump fail: So awesome you'll pee.

The Suns-Rockets Brawl: It was a catfight in Houston. And here's Slasher 14 with the call: "T-Mac set a screen on Nash where Nash appeared to hurt his shoulder. Next time down the floor Rafer Alston went to set a screen on Matt Barnes, who just pushed him out of the way. Alston ran over after Barnes and a scuffle broke out. When it looked like everything had been cleared up, Nash, who was running over to try and break the fight up, appeared to slip and fell into Alston. McGrady saw this and probably thought he was after Alston, so McGrady pushes an off-balance Nash to the floor. Then Shaq comes in and clears T-Mac out of the way and then gives Yao a push for good measure. It's kind of funny watching Yao fall over: He falls at about half the speed of a normal sized person. Maybe the laws of gravity have a different affect on Yao, which is why he is having trouble dunking this year?" Slasher's right about Yao. Watch and laugh at his slow-motion fall. It kind of reminds me of Bela Lugosi's slow, stumbling Frankenstein monster in Frankenstein Meets The Wolf Man.

Reggie Evans: Mercilessly owned. By Andrea Bargnani. I can think of few things more humiliating than being in Bargnani's poster.

Joey Crawford, pure officiating evil: Joey strikes again! The ref with the infamously itchy whistle-finger hit Kenyon Martin with a flagrant 2 foul, which meant an automatic ejection. Good call? Bad call? Ridiculous call? I'll let you be the judge.

Martin was understandably indignant after the game. "It's basketball, man -- it's a contact sport. It's not bowling or table tennis." No, it's certainly not. Fans can actually stay awake through most NBA games (assuming the Spurs aren't involved). What made the call even more ridiculous is that Dahntay Jones and LeBron got into a shoving match earlier in the game...and nothing was called. Not even a tech. Ah, NBA officiating: A model of inconsistency.

Boobie Gibson's super haircut: Gibson unveiled his latest masterpiece of hair-cuttery: A Superman-style symbol with a big "B" in it. He explained the hieroglyph thusly: "I talked to my Dad the other night and he said he hadn't seen my smile in a long time. I guess I was being 'Daniel' out there on the court, so I got the 'Boobie' symbol to remind me that I need to be out there having fun and enjoying the game again." Hey, who cares if you look like an idiot as long as you're having fun! I don't have a picture, unfortunately, but here's one of his previous hair-stravaganza: Bat-Boobie.

Kenyon Martin's lip tattoo: The tat's an homage to his hottie girlfriend Trina...but my question is this: Why choose such a fruity tribute? He might as well have gotten a tattoo of a penis or Richard Simmons. But who knows? Maybe Trina made him get it to keep all the NBA groupies away, because I'm pretty sure he'll be getting the John Amaechi treatment from now on.

Shaq the Detroyer: He was called for a flagrant 2 foul and ejected after nearly killing Rodney Stuckey. The Big Excuser tried to explain it away (see below), but seriously, this foul would have gotten Shaq charged with attempted manslaughter in some states. (But remember, you can't have "manslaughter" without "laughter"!) Actually, this play kind of reminds me of the Kevin McHale / Kurt Rambis clothesline, only if McHale was a giant gorilla and Rambis was a frail midget.

Jerry Sloan's venomous tongue: Considering they were without Deron Williams, Mehmet Okur, Andrei Kirilenko and Matt Harpring, the Jazz put up a pretty good fight on the road against a surging Cavs team. But Jerry Sloan got pretty riled up over his team's "defense" on LeBron James, who scored 16 of his 38 points in the fourth quarter. "We didn't even get close enough to guard him at times. You have to compete against the guy. If you say, 'I'm not going to touch him,' you'll be saying that 20 years from now. You might as well get an autograph and go home." Wicked. When asked if his players backed down a little bit in guarding James, Sloan said: "A little bit? It was like we were afraid to even touch him." You know, Jerry's been around for such a long time. I wish he would just open up and tell us what he really thinks.

Basketbawful FUN-tastic extra!! Fun with Names: Starring Luc Richard Mbah a Moute.

George Karl, President of the Allen Iverson Fan Club: Karl had some rather unflattering thing to say about the recently-departed Allen Iverson: "There are less bad plays, more solid plays. I think the wasteful, cheap possessions that we used to have 10 to 15 a game, they don't exist very much anymore. We have contested-shot charts, bad-shot charts and cheap defensive possessions. I would say that when A.I. was here, we had most games in the teens of contested, tough shots, sometimes in the 20s. And I don't think we've had a double-digit one since (Billups has) been here." And more: "I don't think there's any question coaching a team for many minutes, without a passing and point guard mentality, is frustrating for a coach. Sometimes I saw something, but I couldn't get it done on the court because I didn't have a playmaker out there."

The Return of Knee-Mac: You'd better sit down for this, because it's going to be quite the shocker: On November 17, T-Mac left a game against the Thunder in the opening minute of the second half after hurting his left knee, which was sliced open during the summer to have "loose bodies" removed. And, even more shockingly, he didn't return.

Said McGimpy: "Tonight I went back to square one, even before surgery, is how my knee is feeling right now. I want to play, man. I want to play. Just to get off to this start, for me personally this is a bad start. To have to play your way through an injury that I've never had before and a surgery that was my first surgery is very frustrating. My game is really based on athleticism, and that's something that I don't have right now. I've never had any relief because I've just been trying to work my way into playing shape and strengthen my leg. I've never been 100 percent. I've just been trying to play, hoping that playing on it will take me over the edge and I don't have any more pain. It hasn't worked in my favor. It's sharp pain. It almost just seems like I never had surgery. I'm feeling the same pain."

I went ahead and checked with science, and science says this event shocked -17 people, which is an unofficial world's record.

A comically stupid Nuggets fan: Our buddy Ben Q. Rock of The Third Quarter Collapse provided the following write-in: "It's pretty ridiculous for a guy to hold a sign saying 'Iverson Who?' while wearing an Iverson jersey. It's like, dude, just check your own clothing if you've forgotten who the guy is. God." And here's the idiot in question:

The Sacramento Kings: On November 18, they made it official: The Kings are worse than the Memphis Grizzlies. They let the teddy bears shoot 54 percent (62 from beyond the arc) and outrebound them 46-33...a solid effort on the Fail Scale (I give it a 7.6). Rookie forward Jason Thompson, who had two of his shots blocked (a game high!), said: "Some of the stuff [the Grizzlies] were doing, it happened so fast that we weren't reading our coverages, and guys were missing assignments." When the Grizzlies are moving faster than your senses can accurately perceive, you really need to have those senses checked by a licensed medical practitioner. They did hold O.J. Mayo to only 11 points, though. Sometimes it's the little victories that count, even though they aren't real victories. Oh, and a special callout goes to Quincy Douby, who went 0-for-9 off of Sactown's bench.

Quentin Richardson, super tough guy: After the Knicks-Celtics game -- which Boston won 110-101 -- Quentin Richardson said: "I'm just real curious to see what those guys will be saying if we weren't in a basketball league and didn't have referees. I mean, it wouldn't be the same story. I mean, they are the world champions and rah, rah, rah, but the tough part I don't factor. I come from a neighborhood where you can say what you want to say, but until you do something, it don't mean nothing." Seriously. Put the dumb pills down, Quentin.

A few more if Q's choice words: "I think a few of those guys know they can’t just say anything to us.... Some of those guys are happy to get a ring, but you ain't been in the league long enough to talk to people like that. I don't have a lot of respect for that. Like I said, I'd be curious to hear what they have to say in a different setting. I'd be very curious to see that." I'm sorry, but really, when did Quentin Richardson become a "tough guy"? Did I miss something? Does he suddenly think he's all manly and stuff because he plays in New York?

Andray Blatche: Bulletproof (real nickname) released a foul wind on the Washington bench...from which there was NO ESCAPE. People in Chicago are always doing that on the elevator. Just FYI. You can see stills of the entire odorous incident as it went down at Truth About It.

Man versus Machine: Poor Sasha Vujacic. First Trevor Ariza almost kills him with a chest bump. Then he got all up in his face. Rough season for the Machine. (The spat is at the end of the video.)

LeBron James, ego-machine: On the one hand, the King tried to say all the right things. To wit: "We hear it every day, we see it every day on TV about 2010 all the time, we still go out and take care of business. We don't worry about what's going on. Me the leader, I can't let that faze me because I'm leading these guys onto something that we want to accomplish, and that's win an NBA championship."

But on the other hand, he also made comments suggesting that he's looking ahead just as much as anybody else. "If you guys want to go to sleep right now and not wake up until July 1, 2010, then go ahead because it's going to be a big day. July 1, 2010 is going to be a very, very big day."

He also let the NBA world know that he'll be willing to listen to anybody with the money to pursue him. "It's not just New York and Brooklyn. It's not just a two-team race." Presumably, his own team will be allowed to join in the LeBron Lottery...but that's quite a bit different than saying "I'm a Cavalier for life." I'm sure that's got to make the people of Cleveland feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Newsflash: Basketbawful to invade Europe

2009-06-23T08:04:00.005-05:00

On July 9, Evil Ted and I will depart for Italy, a.k.a., Europe's Boot. No, this isn't a guys trip. If it was, trust me, we'd be going somewhere like Amsterdam. No, our company has decided we're important enough to send to Pisa for two weeks of extensive training. What kind of training? ARMY TRAINING, SIR!!

Just kidding. We'll actually be honing our technical writing skills. Assuming the boredom of said training doesn't finish us off, Mortal Kombat-style.

We'd love to get some pickup ball in while we're there, but...we have no idea where to go, or even if they play pickup in the Boot. Sadly, the almighty Google has failed us. So if you or anyone you know has played at or heard of pickup courts in Pisa or, hell, anywhere else in Italy, let us know.

Serious nightmare fuel: The latest Kobe product

2009-06-22T14:22:00.002-05:00

Here's an item you'll never, ever, ever see on my annual Christmas List: A life-sized Kobe Bryant bobblehead doll. I am not making this up. For a mere $13,000. That's actually cheaper than the Shaq, Allen Iverson and Yao Ming life-sizers they came out with a few years ago. Those babies were $27,000 each. I guess the economy is even affecting the life-sized bobblehead market.

Anyway, the Kobe-doll is available for pre-order and will be shipped out in September. I wonder if you can order one that's fitted with a custom t-shirt...

[Hat tip: Deadspin, via Chris.]

Oliver Miller: Looking for work

2009-06-22T07:44:00.006-05:00

First it was Greg Ostertag, and now this: Oliver Miller wants to make a comeback. In an article that was appropriately titled "Fat chance? Humbled Oliver Miller eyes the NBA again," Miller admitted that he has a burning desire...only this time, it has nothing to do with cheese fries or random foodstuffs covered in delicious frosting and/or gravy. Well, mostly nothing.

Said Miller: "I miss [playing in the NBA] a lot. But I hate watching. I can't watch it. The first thing you hear them talk about is the lack of a big man. Here I am a big man and I'm unemployed."

Yeah, well, there are reasons for that. Miller -- who's weight had ballooned to 415 pounds before he started watching what he eats and acting as (don't laugh...actually go ahead and laugh) his own personal trainer -- is 39 years old and a slim 330 pounds. Oh, and he hasn't set foot on an NBA court since May 31, 2004, when he submitted a 5-minute, 4-foul performance against the Lakers. (He also had 1 block, 1 turnover and 1 missed shot.)

This is the same guy who was released by the Harlem Globtrotters for having "no appreciation for what it takes mentally and physically to be a Harlem Globetrotter." If Miller isn't qualified to spin a basketball on his finger or maybe headbutt it into a hoop, he's probably not ready for NBA action. (Even if he did win an ABA title with the Arkansas RimRockers in 2005.) But don't tell him that.

"I am better than ever," Miller said. "I am in better shape than I was when I was last in the league. I am moving around quicker. I feel a lot better. I can give you 25 good minutes and a double-double. And I am a whole lot better mentally, maturity wise. ... What motivates me is that people don’t believe me," Miller said. "I love challenges. My challenge right now is to lose more weight and get back in. I ain't trying to look like Dwight Howard. I know what I need to do. I would just like to get back in the game."

Good luck with that, guy.

2008-09 NBA Bloopers

2009-06-18T09:56:00.006-05:00

Since I'm busy putting together material for this year's edition of The Worsties, why not tide yourself over with a few NBA blooper reels? They have zero calories and freshen your breath while you watch. (You know, assuming you're also chewing gum or sucking on a breath mint.)

LeBron and Kobe: Most Valuable Nike Puppets

2009-06-17T22:59:00.010-05:00

Check out this post that ran on TMZ today. Alternate title: "LeBron gets totally owned."

Oh snap! Not too surprising, is it? This is pretty much the kind of pompous assery you'd expect from a man who speaks in third person and doesn't shake hands when he loses. The money shot, of course, is the direct comparison dis: "For the record -- you won't see Kobe Bryant wearing a shirt with his individual accomplishments plastered on the front of it during his championship parade today -- he's gonna let the trophy do the talking." (Note the wording "his championship parade." Because it's for him and not the entire team, right?) Uh, yeah. There's just one problem with that slam. Take a look at the shirt Mamba was sporting during said parade:

Whaaa...?! Let's take a closer look at that "I'm so team-first" t-shirt.

Why, I do declare! That looks like a puppet hand with four rings. Oh, and you'll notice in the parade pic that Kobe's holding up four fingers. Huh. I guess he wasn't content to "let the trophy do the talking" after all. Kobe wants -- perhaps even needs -- the world to know he has not one, not two, not three, but FOUR championship rings...one for each finger of his puppet's hand. Impressive. Most Impressive. But it's still all about him.

And please, please, pretty please don't try to use the "he's celebrating a team accomplishment" defense. That would fall somewhere between the Chewbacca defense and the Twinkie defense. The fact is, if the shirt was meant to celebrate a team achievement, it would have had 12 hands, or caricatures of him and his teammates, or whatever. No, this was Kobe saying, "I've got four rings," not "We have four rings," or "Phil and I have four rings together." I mean, when Phil held up his 10 fingers after the Lakers won, do you really think he was saying, "Me and Michael, Scottie, Shaq, Kobe, Jud Buechler, etc. have won 10 rings together."? Hardly.

Plus, let's take a peek at the official description of this t-shirt: "In celebration of Kobe Bryant's achievements during the 2009 NBA Finals, his 4th NBA Championship Title, and his first ever NBA Finals MVP Award, Nike created a limited selection of graphic t-shirts, including the 4 Rings Tee seen above." That doesn't exactly scream "team achievement," does it? In fact, I don't see the word "team" or any of his teammates names mentioned or even alluded to there. As always, I'm just sayin'.

Thanks to Wild Yams, Buck Nasty and chris, all of whom were all over this issue in the comments.

Update! To be clear, I don't have a problem with Kobe's shirt. Or LeBron's, for that matter. People wear things that celebrate their achievements. If someone earns honor cords when they graduate from college, they wear them. Many college grads prominently display their diplomas. When people finish marathons, they usually put on the medal or t-shirt they get at the finish line. I once bought my grandpa a "World's Best Grandpa!" coffee mug, and guess what? He drank out of it! It's really not that big of a deal. I wrote this post because I was amused by three things in order: 1) TMZ using Kobe's "selflessness" to mock LeBron, 2) Kobe immediately doing exactly what TMZ said "for the record" he wouldn't do, and 3) the auto-Kobe defense that his puppet hand shirt was a celebration of team rather than self...which is ridiculous.

Update, Part 2! As Jundi noted, TMZ owned up to their goof.

Update, Part 3! From Wild Yams: "For what it's worth, the announcing crew who covered the parade yesterday for Fox Sports West (including Rick Fox and Norm Nixon) were saying that when the players all gathered in Staples Center before coming out to board the buses, there were corporate sponsors down there giving them shirts to wear for the parade (just like the NBA passes out shirts and hats at the championship celebration). That's why Kobe had a white shirt on under the puppet hand one, it's why Fisher had the same shirt Kobe did, and it's why every other Laker was either wearing a Nike/KB24 "Carpe Diem" champagne cork shirt or a 2009 Champions "caricature" shirt."