Let me tell you the story of how I got 30 sorority girls to hate my guts within 15 minutes.
You may have read in Monday's Daily about Saturday's Swishes for Wishes Charity Basketball Tournament, run by the Chi Omega sorority. Of course, I entered with a squad of five.
When Saturday finally came, visions of basketball grandeur danced though my head. You can call me a loser for getting jacked up for a one-day charity b-ball tournament, but opportunities for hardwood glory are few and far between for erstwhile high school ballers such as myself.
The games were to be five-on-five half-court, making open play very congested. Each game went for the duration of 15 minutes instead of to a certain score, and the time remaining was announced erratically by the tournament organizers.
We found ourselves in a battle with our very first opponent, up one point with some undetermined amount of time left. My opponent suddenly slipped past me for an offensive rebound, hit a layup to put his team up one, and held the ball while he and his teammates celebrated. A good 10 seconds later, the game was declared over.
We would have had ample time to score and win the game had we known the circumstances.
People who know me realize that I am a huge goofball and am extremely laid-back - except when it comes to basketball. Nothing gets my blood boiling like losing a basketball game. Needless to say, I was irate because not only had we lost, but we had lost in part because of the unorthodox tournament structure.
I stewed in my frustration for 45 minutes as we awaited our second game in the double-elimination tournament. It was soon announced that we would be playing the Chi Omega girls, my perceived antagonists. My teammates saw the fire in my eyes, and they looked extremely worried that I was about to do something stupid. I did not disappoint them.
Before the game, each of the girls cordially introduced themselves. This is basketball, ladies - we don't do that kind of stuff. I was prepared to wreak havoc. On the first play of the game, my opponent received the ball in the corner where I ferociously ripped it from her hands, lowered my shoulder, and drove straight to the basket for a layup. I caught a disgusted look on the face of the referee as we checked the ball.
"Can he even do that?" she shouted.
Can I? Yes. Should I? Probably not.
The rest of the game was a massacre. I swatted, drove by, and boarded over perfectly sweet, polite girls who were at best half of my size. A considerable spectator section formed with many champions of Chi Omega's civil liberties.
These chivalrous knights jeered me relentlessly with such gems as, "Oh you're real tough," and "Come see if you can pull that stuff on me."
Their barbs only fueled my fire, and I began to relish the role of villain. I topped off my act by throwing the ball behind a girl's back only to bring it back and cross her up again. We had won the game but were now the undisputed heels of the tournament.
Our bad-boy squad eventually bowed out in the semifinals, losing by two points, but we had left an indelible imprint on everyone at that tournament.
I feel like I should apologize to the girls of Chi Omega, who were doing a great service to the community by raising money for charity, but I really don't want to. In the immortal words of P. Diddy, "You can hate me now, but I won't stop now."
