Matty the Mainer was in town the other day with Good Times, his two-year old son that he erroneously adopted from the Cote d'Ivoire. He had a bruise under his left eye and some scrapes on his elbows. Matty, not his kid.
"What the hell did you do?" I said.
"Well, remember when I told you that I've stopped playing Ball in urban areas because I can't really be me: a slashing five-foot-seven two-guard?"
I did remember that, and it was true. One time I watched him play a half-court four-on-four game, where he compiled 6 points, 8 boards, 7 dimes, and 2 steals, while covering the shortest guy on the other team, a dude six-feet tall. A slightly undersized center who played Div II college Ball that was on his team got all the credit for their win, but Matty definitely did all the dirty work.
"So what was your solution?"
"Upper class neighborhoods."
"You beat up on rich guys?"
"You bet. They look at me and think that at my height, I'm the one guy they've gotta be better than. I can lose them all day with my up-fake, break their ankles with a simple hesitation dribble, and I straight kill them with my deceptive speed to the hoop. Not only that, but these low-rent business cats don't know how to block out. I find the nearest slightly doughy guy whose balding and rocking the knee brace, and I pop him in the gut with my forearm."
"So if you're so dominant, why the battle wounds?"
"The shiner came when I ducked a steal attempt. The guy's hand was at my cheek level, and I just plowed through it. The elbow scrapes came from when I took a charge; the guy felt so bad he knocked me over, he stopped in front of me every time after that to avoid another collision."
Good Times got a hold of the lemon I was putting in my tea, and he bit it and made a funny face.
"I know, Good Times, that's what I think of your daddy too."
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