History Lesson: The Native American word for Indiana actually translates to 'Land of White Boys Who Can Hit Their Free Throws'.
Fun Fact: Did you know that, many moons ago, the Pottawatomie Indians lost their territory to the early settlors in a game of H-O-R-S-E? It's true.
After too much firewater at a particularly rousing peace pipe party, Chief Tecumseh foolishly challenged George Rogers Clark to an impromptu shooting contest. After mistakenly thinking he had won with his eyes-closed, flat-footed bank shot from his wig-wam, the chief began talking all kinds of trash. 'You just got scalped, Paleface,' he unwisely taunted.
George Rogers Clark, undaunted by the chief's moves, proceeded to blow everyone's mind with a left-handed, reverse lay-up while eating an ear of maize. It was sick. So sick, in fact, that all the Indians caught the pox and died.
But I pejoritively digress.
So although I'm technically a transplant (O-H-I-O), I consider myself a Hoosier. After all, I'd rather be identified as an ambiguous etymological anomaly than a nut.
Even if that nut is also the inspiration for a ridiculously tasty chocolate-peanut butter confection:
Having forsaken my delicious Buckeye heritage for a state that considers itself 'The South of the North', I have come to accept the importance of all things hoops. So it is with that cognizance that I subject myself to humiliation every Sunday afternoon from 4-6 in the church gymnasium.
Honestly, for being someone who is as impossibly wide as he is tall, I'm not that bad. This is because I don't play with people my own age. I am in a 35-and-over league. I'm nowhere near 35 or over, so this gives me a bit of advantage. My knees don't give out after the first game and I don't have to quit early to take my teenager to afternoon soccer practice.
I can't shoot, dribble, pass or play defense, but I can throw an elbow with the best of 'em. And that's how you play old-man basketball. Where I play it's all sweaty-pits, knee-in-your-groin, elbow-in-your-throat, poked-eyes, chipped-tooth, if-it-doesn't-bleed-you-don't-call-foul goodness. And those guys just don't care if you don't catch that 95 mph. fastball outlet pass they just threw at your face. They'll just throw it faster next time.
These guys play basketball like rugby. They tease me for not being able to touch net, but they envy me for my low center of gravity. Nothing gives me more pleasure than undercutting a 6'8 dunking showoff on a fast break sending him sprawling to the hardwood.
So we basically spend two hours beating the crap out of each other. The scores are low, the floor burns are high, and the soreness the next day is ridiculous. But at the end of our time together, we help each other up, clap each other on the rear, and say, 'Good game'.
You'll find none of this behind the back, no-look, ball-hogging, between-the-legs dribbling garbage. Every once in a while, one of those guys shows up. They don't come back. We leave that nonsense for the types of folks looking forward to the Memphis-Kansas NCAA final tonight.
So while it's not pretty, and certainly not graceful, I wouldn't trade one bloody nose for all the baggy shorts in the world.
That's Indiana basketball.
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