Hunter, The Bruisader

I was never good at sports, and unless competitive napping catches on, I never will be.

But I have always liked sports. I like them now because sports are an avenue to tell stories beyond what literally happens on the field. I liked them growing up because I had (and probably still do have) a deep and unhealthy longing to be accepted, or in other words, be a part of a team. As a chubby kid who was not yet aware of improv comedy—a team sport for those who are bad at sports—actual sports were the most readily available platform for me to exercise not only my body, but also my neediness.

My greatest contribution to any sports team I was ever on was that I always showed up on time—an admirable quality in a job interview, but a moot point in the realm of athletics. Fortunately for me, I grew up in the “everybody-gets-a-trophy” era, in which being on time was often the only roster requirement. This afforded me the opportunity to participate sans tryouts but that didn’t mean I wasn’t allocated appropriately to my level of skill. For example, I played left fullback in soccer and right field in baseball. These are positions invented purely for the purpose of standing around.

Little did I know, however, that there was a great athletic achievement in my future.

Growing up in North Carolina, two things were inevitable: basketball and church. Not unlike enrolling for World War II, it was expected that any male of suitable age and somewhat suitable strength would play church league basketball. When merged, church and basketball created a league of testosterone-laden teenage males vying for glory. That may sound hyperbolic but I assure you, it is not. To a layman, the use of “church” as an adjective may conjure up the idea of friendly competition, but with Jesus involved, church league basketball felt far less like a game and more like a crusade (but instead of converting souls, you were converting free throws). Also, less violence, but barely.

Since age twelve, my friend Kevin had been out to produce the single most gritty, scrappy church basketball team in the history of Winston-Salem a la First Baptist Church. If it were the early 1990s we would have been the U.N.L.V. of the local church basketball circuit, which operated under the name “Hoops For Him” (church youth associations love alliteration almost as much as they love the Lord).

Seeing as how church ball was the most relevant way to reach teenage boys who were discovering teenage girls, there were very loose regulations for who got to play for which church. The only rule seemed to be attending one youth group event per month. With a pool of guys eager to work on their post moves and Kevin’s promise of Glory, it became an easy sell.

Kevin was diligent and tactful, first scouting at the YMCA and in later years from the last round of cuts at the Mount Tabor High School Varsity Basketball tryouts. He pieced together a group of stellar athletes…and me. This would effectively solidify my legacy as “a warm body.”

While the First Baptist roster had its subtle changes over the years, the mission was always the same: to bring home the championship trophy—which, by definition, could not be awarded to everyone for simply being prompt (though of course, I always was). I eventually developed a decent baseline jumper, but never much of a dribble, and experienced a panic attack whenever receiving a pass (onlookers may have thought I had confused the game of basketball with that of Hot Potato). In my fourth season with First Baptist, a fellow teammate pointed out to me that, “They call it a jump shot because you’re supposed to jump when you shoot.” I guess I just thought “jump shot” was some kind of quaint colloquialism, like when someone would say “straight from the horse’s mouth” or “I run for pleasure.”

Still, even though I was a stand-out player for all the wrong reasons, I wanted to be a team player.

Kevin’s hard-nose mentality manifested on the court as chairs were thrown, cuss words openly exclaimed, and I once witnessed a teammate obtain three technical fouls in a single game (something previously thought to be impossible, seeing as how you are ejected after two). Yet despite his win-at-all-moral-costs approach, Kevin still didn’t have his championship after four years into his crusade, now a Sophomore. The game clock was ticking.

By that time, though, we had become a proverbial dark horse in the league. Sure we were a gang of ruffians, but we also had some real talent: this could be our year. Our main obstacle come playoff time would be College Park Baptist, a team stacked with Seniors and a clear #1 seed. Late in the regular season, I found myself watching from the bench as the clock wound down against our Baptist rivals, and with the game out of reach, I got called in—a gesture equal parts kind and cruel. Once on the court something clicked inside me, and I realized how I could really contribute to the team: I would be the best warm body I could be. I would be a bruiser on a crusade. A Bruisader.

I’m not entirely sure why this thought came over me, as the stakes could not have been lower: a game that we were surely about to lose in a church basketball league where not everyone got a trophy, but did get a playoff bid (and, of course, the redeeming love of the Lord). I was almost certain that I wasn’t going to be putting points on the board, and if I did, it would have no bearing on the outcome of the game. I also knew what this team stood for—and we had a reputation to protect, Goddamnit. And, well, God was certainly about to do just that.

The first guy on College Park to go up for a layup became my target. Effortlessly finessing the low post, he stretched out what appeared to be the arm of an American Grizzly Bear and I… took his legs from right underneath him. He hit the ground. Hard.

A whistle echoed out and with four minutes left in regulation, the game was ended early out of mercy, for who, it’s hard to say. But I have my theories.

After the game, the pastor of First Baptist Church—who I should mention was also Kevin’s dad—reprimanded us. The pastor, Kevin’s dad, was very, very disappointed and informed us that First Baptist Church would be barred from the Hoops For Him playoffs. Any hope for the championship trophy that year had been vanquished.

This was it, I had blown it. I would have been better off picking weeds in right field.

To my surprise however, my teammates were completely supportive, jovial even. They didn’t know I had it in me. My bruisadership was lauded and seen as a shining example of what it meant to be a basketball player for First Baptist Church. I was part of the team.

Two years later, our Senior year, First Baptist won the church league basketball tournament. The championship trophy still resides with Kevin, and all these years later my jersey is neatly tucked inside my sock drawer. Sometimes I throw it on for a workout or a pick up game of basketball, but as you might imagine that’s not very often.

It is, however, very comfortable to nap in.

The championship team, which I was technically a part of.