A Slam Dunk, More Or Less

16 October 2026

2027

R. Linda:

I've always thought basketball was a fairly straightforward game. Two teams, two baskets, and a reasonable expectation that both sides might occasionally score. Or, so I thought, yes indeed.

Apparently, I've been misinformed.

Last evening, Tonya, Mam, and I were invited to watch O'Hare play basketball at his club. Now, O'Hare regularly plays pickup basketball there on Thursday evenings, and judging by the condition in which he sometimes returns home, I've long suspected these games involve considerably more physical contact than the rules permit. He'll come limping through the door at some ungodly hour, nursing an injury and looking as though he's spent the evening settling a dispute in a back alley.

Naturally, I was curious to see what went on.

As it turned out, last night's game was a fundraiser, with the club staff taking on the local police department. A worthy cause, certainly, although by the end of the evening I wasn't entirely convinced the police hadn't been lured there under false pretences.

The first indication that this wasn't going to be an ordinary basketball game came when I noticed the uniforms.

The club staff had been given jerseys bearing their names and numbers, apparently assembled in a hurry. Whoever applied the lettering had overlooked one small but important detail: you're supposed to remove the lint from the fabric before pressing anything onto it (so says me Mam).

As the players began to perspire, their numbers started coming loose.

Police had lost their numbers entirely by the end of the first play

At first, it was just a corner here and there. Then entire digits began peeling away, flapping behind the players like the tails of overexcited dogs. Before long, identifying anyone by his number became an exercise in creative interpretation. A fourteen might have been a seven, a four might have been half a nine, and one chap appeared to have lost his identity altogether.

The police, meanwhile, hadn't bothered with jerseys. They wore black T-shirts with numbers fashioned from tape stuck to their backs. One officer sported what I assumed was meant to be a three, although it looked suspiciously like a backwards capital E. Another had a collection of symbols resembling the Greek lettering outside an American fraternity house.

Between the peeling numbers and the adhesive hieroglyphics, it was less a basketball game than a moving puzzle.

I should explain that the club staff were, for the most part, young men who clearly spent a great deal of time playing basketball. The police officers were, shall we say, somewhat more mature gentlemen whose principal exercise appeared to involve getting in and out of patrol cars.

The difference was immediately apparent.

The staff raced up and down the court, passing, shooting, and generally behaving like men who knew precisely what they were doing. The police did their best to keep up, but there were moments when I wondered whether they might be better served by directing traffic rather than participating in it.

At one point, I leaned towards Tonya and whispered that the club's number fourteen was bloody awful.

It was an unfortunate observation.

No sooner had I said it than the fellow began sinking baskets as though his life depended on it. Every time he got hold of the ball, it seemed to find its way through the hoop. Within minutes, the three of us had abandoned all pretence of impartiality and were shouting ourselves hoarse.

"SOP! COME ON, SOP!"

I don't know whether 'Sop' had suddenly discovered a hidden talent or whether my criticism had somehow travelled across the court and offended him into greatness. Either way, I was forced to reconsider me assessment.

Providing commentary over the loudspeaker was a thirteen-year-old boy who looked about ten and possessed the confidence of a man who'd been broadcasting professional sports for thirty years.

He was magnificent. Mam wanted to run over and pinch his little cheeks, but refrained when I told her he'd probably announce he was being assaulted and the police were there after all.

Precocious doesn't begin to describe him. He knew the players, followed the action, and delivered his running commentary with remarkable assurance. But what made him especially entertaining was his apparent determination to make O'Hare's evening as uncomfortable as possible.

For reasons known only to the two of them, the lad and O'Hare have developed a relationship built almost entirely on mutual mockery.

And the boy had a microphone.

Every time O'Hare missed a basket, his young tormentor seized the opportunity.

"UGH! O'HARE O'SULLIVAN MISSES THE SWISH! UGH! LET'S HOPE HE IS SUCCESSFUL NEXT TIME! UGH!"

The announcement echoed around the gymnasium.

I nearly fell out of me seat.

Nobody else received this treatment. Other players could miss spectacularly and escape without comment, but let O'Hare fail to put the ball through the hoop and the entire building was informed of his shortcomings.

To his credit, O'Hare scored nine baskets that evening, though I suspect the young commentator would have preferred nine chances to ridicule him.

Meanwhile, the score had become rather embarrassing.

At one point, the club staff were leading seventy to two.

Yes. Seventy. To two.

I began to feel sorry for the police. These were men who presumably dealt with all manner of unpleasant situations in the course of their duties. Yet here they were, being publicly dismantled by a group of youngsters whose uniform numbers were falling off.

And then came the chanting.

Whenever the police gained possession of the ball, the staff members sitting on the bench began shouting:

"DEFENCE! DEFENCE! DEFENCE!"

I looked at the scoreboard.

Seventy to two.

Really?

Was there some genuine concern that the police might stage a miraculous comeback? Were the staff terrified that the officers would suddenly score sixty-nine unanswered points?

I thought it a bit unsporting, frankly. At seventy to two, the kindest thing anyone could have done was let the poor fellows have a go at the basket without being treated like an invading army.

The referees, for their part, appeared to have adopted a philosophy of peaceful non-interference.

Travelling? Never heard of it.

Fouls? Only if someone required an ambulance.

Players wandered about with the ball, took liberties with the rules, and occasionally pulled off manoeuvres that would have made a professional referee swallow his whistle.

But nobody seemed terribly concerned. It was a fundraiser, after all, and with the police trailing so spectacularly, I suppose enforcing every rule would have been rather like issuing parking tickets at a funeral.

Still, I couldn't help wondering what sort of basketball I was watching. It certainly wasn't the game I'd seen played in high school gyms or on television.

Perhaps this was a special variation where the objective was simply to have a good time, raise some money, and make sure nobody suffered a serious injury.

If so, it was a tremendous success.

And just when I thought the evening couldn't offer anything more entertaining, Guido and his girlfriend arrived.

They appeared as the final quarter was ending.

Perfect timing.

Apparently, they'd been delayed at McDonald's, where the urgent business of feeding themselves had taken precedence over supporting a family member.

By the time they arrived, O'Hare had scored his baskets, the police had suffered their humiliation, the jerseys had practically disintegrated, and a thirteen-year-old commentator had spent the evening making a public spectacle of me son.

Guido, however, had presumably enjoyed his chips.

I suppose everyone has his priorities.

All things considered, I thoroughly enjoyed meself. The basketball was questionable, the uniforms were a disaster, the refereeing was optional, and the scoreboard suggested the police might want to stick to law enforcement.

Ouch!

But the atmosphere was wonderful, everyone seemed to be having a grand time, and the club had raised money for a good cause.

Besides, it's not every evening you get to watch your son score nine baskets while being mercilessly heckled by a child who isn't even old enough to drive.

And if the club decides to hold another fundraiser, I'll certainly go.

Although next time, I might bring a lint brush.

Gabe

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