7

Being Dismantled By an Inner City Hoops Squad

After spending much of the summer between fifth and sixth grade playing basketball in the driveway, I was sure I ranked among the best in my suburban enclave, if not the country. The following winter I was selected for the second-team travel squad, an honor in my youth league. In our third game, we experienced a pummeling of unthinkable brutality at the hands of a team from the city. The honest-to-Christ final score: 128-23.


Nope, not even good enough to be the Washington General who gets pantsed.

I'd like to say I immediately relinquished my basketball aspirations. Unfortunately, any time you lose by 100 points, your evolutionary survival instincts temporarily black out the memory in order to keep you from dying of humiliation.

6

The Most Pathetic Win in Little League History

In the best of three series for the 10-12 age group recreation league championship, I was entrusted to pitch the third and deciding game. I earned a victory and was carried off the mound by my teammates despite giving up 32 earned runs, and 24 walks over six innings, in a game that lasted nearly seven hours and needed to be played over two days.


On-field celebrations are a surprisingly effective way to deliver covert kidney punches.

Some say, "An ugly win is still a win." I would maintain that those people have never seen an 11-year-old on the verge of tears, both physically and mentally unable to throw a strike as he labors to a 34-32 travesty of our national pastime. Looking back now, I might have been the first person to be carried off a field sarcastically.

My Father's Shame:

"This one wasn't so bad. I was happy for you. You were a champion that day, though it was pretty obvious you weren't Sandy Koufax."

5

Automated Gary Carter Tells Me My Swing Is Fucked

4

Turns Out, I Actually Have Negative Tennis Ability

In a stroke of good fortune, one of the best players in my tennis camp needed a new doubles partner, because his regular one contracted a bacterial infection. I filled in and we proceeded to win the camp tournament, earning an invite to the county championships. With each match in the counties, my partner entrusted me with less and less court coverage. By the finals, my assignment was to stand on the baseline and call out, "Let it go," if I believed the opposing shot was long.

3

Exiting the Gridiron Concussed Via Ambulance

By seventh grade, I put my promising future in tennis and baseball on hold, so I could focus on football. I was made a running back, safety and kick returner after coaches found that I was one of the faster players on my team. When league play began, I quickly learned the difference between fast for my team, and actually fast. Our team won two games the entire season, and since my remarkably average foot speed was being protected by teammates who ran like old people walk, this ended with me being taken off the field in an ambulance.

A concussion on helmet-to-helmet contact is not in itself that embarrassing. What sticks with me to this day is that the injury occurred on a kickoff return in which I was attempting to kneel down on the five-yard line--five yards from where touchback is possible.

My Father's Shame:

"When it happened and your helmet went flying off, I was very concerned. Now that you're OK, I can't help but shake my head. In all my years of watching football, I've never seen someone down the ball on the five. What in the hell were you thinking?"

2

Schooled By a One-Handed Baller

The summer before high school I went with a friend to visit his relatives in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. At the basketball courts under the Verrazano Bridge, we found a rigid hierarchy that had new players designated to the scrub courts. To move up to the higher quality games, you needed to be picked. My friend and I were never picked. However, we did compete against a youngster who was missing the bottom half of his left arm. He was selected to move up fairly regularly.

I don't think it's disrespectful to the disabled to reason that if you have two hands and you're not better than a kid with one hand, then you're probably not NBA material.


We actually didn't touch this. The NBA logo is either sporting a nub or it's mocking Anthony.

My Father's Shame:

"I think that's a wonderful story. The sense of pride that one-handed kid's dad must get watching him play--I can't even begin to imagine."

1

I Shame My Father In Front of His Childhood Hero, Johnny Unitas