No More Buzzer Please

Last night I attended a high school girls basketball game, where I was able to see a fantastic thrashing of Syracuse High School.  Past State Champs?  Yeah, right. Try more like, past crappy champs.  (That sounded funnier in my head.)

Anyway, as I was mocking 16 and 17 year-olds for missing free throws, the sound of the buzzer began to ignite some PTSD from my past high school basketball career.  With a slight cold shiver I remembered the time I attempted to drive on a rather large girl in the paint, hoping to draw a foul, when all that occurred was me slamming into her and then slamming my head against the floor.  After a few moments of lying on the ground, I got back up, continued playing, got a pass from my teammate and shot the ball directly into the stands.  As the ball landed in the lap of an innocent spectator the buzzer rang and so did my head.  Apparently, I was, how do you say, suffering from a brain concussion....so that was pretty awesome.

And then there was the time as a freshman, when the buzzer signified the end of my personal humiliation.  What do I mean?  Well, as a freshman I made varsity - which, before you get all impressed, actually meant I scored myself a prime seat at the end of the bench.  So, there I sat, watching our team, who happened to be one of the best in the state, destroy opposing schools again and again.  At first I used to love the smack down we, sorry I meant, they, would inflict on other teams, but then I started to dread the fourth quarter because inevitably it would go like this:  We would be up by twenty of thirty points and my coach would start to sub.  EVERYONE would be given some scrub time to run up the score and cause some meaningless fouls.  And then, just when there was about 14 or 9 seconds left on the clock, my coach, Mr. White, who is actually a black man, would finally lean down the bench and grunt, "Soulier get in."  Get in?  And do what exactly?  Stretch the refs and make sure they don't have any pulled muscles?  Sweep the floor?  Oh, wait, I know...inbound the freaking ball.  I swear, it was like the guy waited for just the right moment to ensure I was going to be completely humiliated.  And my poor parents.   What were they supposed to do? Clap for their daughter, who's greatest contribution to the game was throwing the ball into play?  You know a monkey could do the same thing?

So, there I would go - kneel next to the scorer's table, wait for the buzzer, point to some other idiot, who had to feel like a complete moron for getting taken out by the "inbounding girl," carelessly take the ball from the waiting ref, and just like a mindless zombie, throw the ball to another sad teammate.  And then it would come...just as I was walking up the court...the buzzer...ringing like a shout of freedom from the rafters.  Sometimes it would take 6 seconds for it to ring and other times my misery would be slightly prolonged, but when it came, oh how sweet the release of my humiliation it was.

So, beware friends.  If you find me with my head between my legs during a basketball game, just know, I'm carrying some baggage.