Going For A Spin On A Basketball Roadtrip

Several years ago I coached a boys’ high school varsity basketball team.  I was surprised to be the head coach since it was my first year at the school and had offered only to assist.

My squad of basketeers that year was rather large.  When I say “rather large,” I mean corn-fed huge.  They were an experienced bunch of hoopsters, however, so having me sitting on the bench yelling something incoherent didn’t hurt their game at all.

On one blustery, winter road trip that season, our strongest player Al (#42 in photo, his head shaved as bald as Mr. Clean’s) thought he would check to see how much he could dead lift.  Not finding a barbell within reach, he snatched up a dumbbell.

My feet left the ground before I could scream like a ninny.  Hoisted airborne (similar to the folks at Midas having a ’94 Toyota suspended on a rack), my poundage began spinning as Schwarzenegger Jr., turned round and round and round and round on his shoulder.

Al thought his exercise to be extremely funny.  What the not-so-little delinquent didn’t realize was that I was bordering on barfing down Al’s extremely thick neck.

The two of us resembled a figure skating pair as we performed the spectacle on ice.  I glanced down (a colossal mistake), and thought everything consumed the last three weeks was going to project out my mouth.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too long before Al felt the burn of a good lift and put me down.  Staggering toward my car, I not so silently prayed for gravity to keep me vertical.

At home that night I made a monumental mistake of mentioning the little incident to the little lady.

On the return trip to the gym from the next road game, I witnessed my wife whisper something to “Mr. Clean and Jerk” in a Burger King parking lot.  His face lit up with a smile as he sauntered toward me.
“C’mere, Coach.”

“I don’t want to c’mere, Al.”

As Atlas lumbered toward me, I realized the inevitable:  I was once again going to resemble a hefty piece of human laundry headed for the spin cycle.

Mr. Clean once again hoisted me on his shoulder and began to pirouette at roughly two hundred miles per hour.

“Al…if…you…stumble…and…drop…me…

I’m…going…to…(gag)…land…on…you…and…

you’ll…never…(gag)…play…again.  (gag)  Ever.”   

“Don’t worry, Coach. I got you.”  

A whiff of a Whopper slowly began forcing its way up my throat.  I swallowed.  I hoped a large order of fries would stay settled.  I swallowed a second time.

Every turn had me looking directly at my wife for a split second.  Even though the image was blurred, I could detect she was crying from being upset at what devious thing she had just accomplished.  No, wait.  One more turn and I could now see she was crying tears of joy–nothing but pure joy.   My wife laughed as she reveled in every revolution as Al spun her spouse like a rump roast on a runaway rotisserie.

Finally, with the spin cycle complete, Al placed his coach on terra firma.

I wobbled left and right all the way back to the car and fell into the driver’s seat.    The front-seat passenger was still having a hard time controlling her laughter.

My thrill ride gave new meaning to, “Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us; all we ask is that you let us serve it your way. Have it your way. Have it your way at Burger King.”

Later that season, a team party was held at Al’s house.  Players and parents gathered together for food and fellowship.

It was winter in Michigan, so someone felt obliged to get stuck in a snow bank.  A few of us kind souls left the warmth of the house to assist the snow-bound vehicle.  After numerous grunts and groans, the mission was accomplished, and then we made our merry way back to the soiree.

Suddenly, I was lifted from behind and into the air.  A menacing voice said, “Coach, you’re going into the snow bank face first.”

It was Mr. Clean, and I knew his words were going to ring true.  I had no defense against this sneak attack; instead of munching on party snacks, I was prepared to eat some serious snow.

Al was in full extension and I was the dead weight, when a voice rang out in the darkness.  “Alexander, put Coach down!”

I thought the words came straight from heaven, but it was actually Al’s dad saving me by declaring the down signal.  Judging by the use of the full first name, I could tell the voice meant business.

“Oh, Dad.”

Immediately I was dropped like a bad habit.

While shaking, I turned around, smiled really big, and said,  “Thank you, Mr. Nunham.”

He laughed (probably thinking it would have been fun to see me submerged in his yard) and replied,  “You’re welcome, Coach.  Go in and get something to eat.”