STEPPIN' RAZOR: PART I
(Silverback’s Note: As we celebrate the brand’s sixth birthday, we’re excited to add these pieces about winning and friendship to the Silverback narrative. Please enjoy reading the Steppin’ Razor series.)
The St. Edmund varsity basketball team was down at halftime and it was clear we had not played our best basketball against Cardinal Hayes.
It was the city championship game and none of us were in sync. When Coach Mullen entered the locker room after that first half, the air was sullen, and our heads were down.
“WE CAN WIN THIS FELLAS!” Coach Mullen encouraged us.
He was furiously scribbling set adjustments on a chalkboard that was generating a small cloud of yellow chalk dust.
“WE GOTTA PLAY WITH A LITTLE BIT OF THIS,” he pointed to his skull.
“A LITTLE OF THIS,” he pointed to his left chest.
“AND A LITTLE BIT OF THESE,” as he juggled the crotch of his pants.
The team was hyped by the coach’s energy and began clapping our hands.
“NOW C’MON, LET’S GET AFTER IT!” he said as he raised a single arm to bring the team in closer to end his halftime talk.
We continued clapping louder as we came together in the center of the room and all began hollering.
“Andy, you're guarding Noah for the rest of the game. Count us down, big man.”
“ONE, TWO, THREE!” I roared. “TOGETHER!” we boomed in unison.
We were facing one of the premier basketball talents in New York City, Joakim Noah.
Standing at six foot and eleven inches, Noah would go on to win national championships at the University of Florida and have a long career in the NBA.
We hit the hardwood for the second half with renewed energy and a focused fury.
Our starting five ran a vertically challenged but fierce lineup and I was our team’s lean undersized center. What I lacked in height, I made up for in tenacity, determination, and a knack for finding the basketball.
Chris Bernard was the team's superstar shooting guard. Having played on the varsity team for four years, he was a gifted scorer and could quickly elevate into his jump shot. He was a pure scorer.
Matt Irwin was the team’s point guard. He was the youngest of three brothers who had played at the varsity level for St. Edmund and could dribble the basketball like he had it on a string. A surgically precise handle.
Barry Brown was the team’s second guard. He was the squad’s source of energy and our most verbose senior whose speed afforded him the ability to get the rim at will. He was the type of defender who would grind down opponents and could beat players to their spots.
Tyrell McCloud was the team’s small forward. He was the unit’s best athlete and his leaping ability enabled him to play above the basket. His skill set and bounce could impact the game on both ends of the floor.
By my senior campaign, I had shed the yellow Rec Spec goggles for contact lenses and the chubbiness in my midsection had been replaced by muscle.
I often compare basketball players to jazz musicians. In essence, a basketball game is one jazz quintet versus another quintet. Every player brings their instrument to the arena and the beauty of the game is found in the unity of players achieving a cohesive sound.
Like most jazz ensembles, our team was diverse. We were teenage Brooklynites with an eclectic mix of ethnic backgrounds and skill sets.
We were equally diverse in skin tones as we were in playing styles. Black, Caribbean, French, Italian, and Irish American descendants coming together to play a game that has brought millions of basketball ensembles together.
When the ball is seamlessly moving around the court with the right timing, pacing, and spacing, I can hear the swinging style of a cool jazz band playing in a smoky underground room.
Bippity-bop, bop, bop, bow.
Our brand of basketball had an experienced sound. Taking a charging hit to the chest or doing the dirty work of diving on loose balls.
My instrument of choice was the rebound. Like a drummer anticipating the next beat, I loved to predict where a miss was going to land. A little slip in tune or a short shot and I could clean rebounds off the plexiglass and get us another opportunity to score.
It was St. Edmund's ball to start the second half. Tyrell was waiting for the clock to reset to inbound the ball.
Before the horn sounded, a Cardinal Hayes forward snuck a forceful forearm into my ribcage without the referee seeing.
“That was for that hard foul in the first half,” Noah whispered.
After grabbing my side to massage away the bruise, a devilish grin peeled across my face.
Suddenly I transformed into the silverback. Like a teen wolf, but the teenage gorilla version, with a purple headband and styled curly hair. A purple beast of no burden.
The hair on my neck and shoulders stood straight up. I had become a primal bully baller of the court's domain where I could prance, prowl, and peacock all over the floor.
All I needed was a little physical encouragement to give me the motivation that I needed to get me going on a hot streak.
Short by hoopers standards, I had played against much taller opponents most of the time. I held my own with my elite footwork which propelled me to slide laterally with a quickness. However, because of the combination of my nimble moves and strength, none of them could dominate me.
Like my father who worked a construction job, I put on my proverbial hard hat to show up to play against opponents and do the small things right. I played every game with the intent to throw myself into the work and prove my worthiness. Observing how the ball would careen off the rim and anticipating where the missed shots would land was a delight.
Unlike my dad, I was a vocal leader and performer — more like my mother. I took pleasure in talking behind the defense and calling out the plays as the offensive players ran the baseline from corner to corner. I’d score on a putback layup and amusingly play up the fans by raising a single finger skyward as I ran back to defend.
To be seen and lauded as one of the standout players in the city for a unique combination of talents that I worked hard to improve was my dance with the divine thrill of what it felt like to experience self-love — to be human.
“You’re gonna pay for that, asshole,” I replied to their forward.
We ran our first play to start the half and it resulted in an open jump shot that missed long.
As the shot went up, I threw my body into the closest player to me and got lower to the ground to seal him off from getting to the ball.
Seeing that I would not be able to get two hands on the rebound over the bigger Noah, I tipped the offensive rebound to myself in the corner so I could get to the ball before him.
I gripped the basketball tightly and passed the ball back up to Barry on the perimeter.
Barry spun away from his defender and was zipping toward the middle of the lane, drawing the attention of giant Noah with his dribble.
His lightning-quick head fake drew the giant off of his feet and he ducked underneath his extended arm to step past him beneath the foul line.
Noah rolled around to recover and Barry jumped off two feet into contact with the oncoming center and double-clutched the ball back and over his shoulders as he rose toward the orange cylinder.
They collided at the rim and Barry’s floating layup rattled into the rim and through the bottom of the net.
Barry stood up from the ground, leaned his head backward, and screamed upwards to the ceiling with his fists clenched.
“SCORE THE GOAL!,” the referee motioned to the table with emphasis. “Foul on number thirteen, Hayes. One shot.” he signaled with his hands.
Sharing in the excitement of the moment, I chest-bumped Barry as the players lined up for one free throw.
“I told you that I got us, bro!” he exclaimed with joy. “We gotta stick together.”
Dribble, ball-twirl, dribble. Swoosh.
Barry drained the free throw.
That play had given Noah his fourth personal foul early in the third quarter. One more foul and he would be out for the remainder of the game.
With Noah on the bench, the middle lane was cleared for the taking. It was time for us to go on the offensive attack.
I added an extra wiggle to my shoulder shimmy and flexed my biceps as I back peddled back down the court staring down the Hayes defender with a menacing look.
Suddenly the referee stopped at midcourt.
“Technical foul, number 20, St. Edmund!” the referee shouted at the scorer's table pointing toward me.
“That's bullshit, ref. Where’s the foul for the elbows?” I angrily retorted.
I couldn’t be stopped and had just scored on two consecutive possessions.
Both times, I backed down the Hayes defender in the post with an up-and-under jump-hook spin move that got the crowd on their feet.
I hadn’t forgotten about his previous cheapshots and I flexed on him the next time I got the ball in the high post and scored.
I was fuming at the call and struggling to calm down. The Hayes defender had just elbowed me in the face for a second time.
“Compose yourself, Andy” my mentor Craig Holiday mouthed to me from the stands. “Use your head,” he tapped on his noggin.
A former collegiate basketball player himself, Craig had begun guiding me years earlier since my father lacked interest in being involved in my athletic pursuits.
Craig had stepped into my life as a big brother shortly after I had punched a hole into the wall at home during a heated quarrel with my father. He had seen the mistakes that uncontrolled anger could drive a person to and was there to support me from the stands.
Barry attempted to reason with me after picking up two quick fouls.
“Come on big fella, you gotta chill, we need you in the game,” he pleaded.
All my anger was bubbling to the surface and I was sweating profusely. I hated being bullied or taken advantage of. I loathed when guys got away with dirty plays.
I couldn’t drop the anger. Strangely, I couldn't help but think about my father and how he wasn't there — how he's never been there for moments like this — and my blood continued to boil.
“Dis’ is my house! I’m a beast, y’all!” I snarled to the stands while Hayes was shooting their free throws.
I sauntered to the opposite end of the floor, took a deep inhale as I interlocked my fingers over my head, and closed my eyes to try to collect myself.
Coach Mullen had seen enough of my act and sent a substitute to the table to get me out of the game.
“Cool him down!” Coach Mullen said to assistant Coach Patrick Foley. “Help him get his fuckin’ head together.”
Coach Foley was always a sound source of motivation and a calming voice to balance Mullen’s fiery temperament.
“Don't lose yourself, Andy. They can’t stop you and Chris in the pick and roll.” Foley said in a deep tone. “Stay ready, you’re a big factor in this game.”
A short time later, Coach Mullen waived for me to reenter the game. I reported to the table more composed and tucked my jersey into my shorts.
Chris brought the ball up the court and raised his arm to initiate the action for me to set a screen.
I crossed my arms downward and planted my feet to set a solid screen on the burgundy and gold letters on the defender’s jersey.
Chris continued to drive left of the circle at the top of the key and quickly rose up for the mid-range jump shot as I rolled open to the basket. His release was so quick that the defender could not stop his forward momentum and crashed into him.
The referee raised his arm with a balled fist and blew his whistle as the ball was in flight.
The ball swished through the net as Chris’s white shorts hit the parquet floor and slid backward.
Chris was quiet and not showing much emotion. He was locked into the moment and stoic.
I extended my hand to help him off the ground.
Chris knew that the game was far from over. He had made it to the championship game the year prior as a junior and suffered a heartbreaking last-second loss.
He could score in long waves and that and-one score capped off a fourteen-point scoring run for the team.
We were locked into the task in front of us: winning.
Steppin’ Razor, to be continued…