This Book Has Balls Page 9

  Teacher: Tyrone, we’re going to have you playing a member of the Lollipop Guild for The Wizard of Oz Friday. Isn’t that great?

  Muggsy: Nah, I’m playing the Lion.

  Teacher: Oh, we don’t have a lion suit for you.

  Muggsy: Yeah, I don’t need a suit. I’m actually a motherfucking lion.

  Teacher: We don’t need to curse, Tyrone.

  Muggsy: Just call me Muggsy.

  Teacher: Okay, well, the Lollipop Guild players are a fun role, Muggsy.

  Muggsy: I don’t even know what the fuck you’re saying right now. I’m playing the Lion, and afterward I might eat a lollipop if I’m hungry.

  Teacher: Okay, well, we have the role of Toto open.

  Muggsy: The fuck did you say?

  Teacher: In our version, Toto has lines.

  Muggsy: In my version, I eat dogs. I’m the Lion, or I’m gonna burn the play down.

  Teacher: Someone’s going to get detention if they keep up this attitude.

  Muggsy: All good—I love detention; it’s where I do my push-ups and box jumps and daydream about playing pro basketball.

  Teacher: You want me to notify your parents, young man?

  Muggsy: Go ahead. They know I’m a lion. They tell me every day, “You’re a lion and a beast.”

  Teacher: I don’t understand.

  Muggsy: I figured you wouldn’t. Now, when are rehearsals? I’m gonna work on my roar.

  I met Muggsy at a Knicks game in 2015. I introduced myself to him, then said these exact words: “Yo, Muggsy, I know you’re a motherfucker. You’re a bad motherfucker ’cause to do what you did in the league is no joke, my man.” When I was next to him, I could feel the man’s presence. And even though I have more than fifty pounds and a foot in height on him, I can guarantee that Muggsy Bogues could whoop my ass. He was giving off some sort of Luke Cage meets Shaft–type of vibe. Like if I said the wrong thing, he would whip around and punch me in the thigh and fuck my whole body up.

  I’ve met a lot of athletes, but meeting Muggsy was something I’ll never forget.

  Muggsy Bogues needs to be on a mental toughness speaking tour that lets anyone know that with the right amount of “fuck what you heard, you can’t tell me shit,” you, too, can be anything you want. Muggsy Bogues is on some Bobby Fischer, Steve Jobs, Richard Branson, “let’s go to Mars for a picnic on a Thursday”–type of shit. Do you realize what kind of forward-thinking imagination and true-blue “fuck the world, don’t ask me for shit” mentality you have to have to be five foot three, 135 pounds, and named Tyrone to play in the NBA? Muggsy didn’t just defy logic; he defied physics.

  Give Muggsy a microphone and a speaking tour schedule and let me know where he is going to be, because I need to hear what he has to say. Who the hell knows what I’ll do after listening to motivational Muggsy for an hour? I might run right out of the place from LA to New York because I think I can and I know I can. I might train only underhanded set shots in my driveway and try out for the NBA next year. Who the fuck knows what I’ll do? And why the fuck isn’t that actor Peter Dinklage not talking about Muggsy in all of his interviews? They’re like two inches apart in size and both killing it in their fields. One is slaying giants on a TV show, and the other one slayed them in real life.

  People say Michael Jordan should replace Jerry West as the NBA logo? Fuck no. It should be Muggsy Bogues. Put Muggsy on the shirt—I don’t care if it’s a life-size iron-on. He deserves it. Tyrone “Muggsy” Bogues needs to be sharing his secrets with the world so Tony Robbins can quit bullying everyone into being motivated. Muggsy’s thoughts should be recorded for future generations so people who are told that they don’t have a shot can listen to him and then conquer their fears. There’s racism, there’s sexism, and there’s classism in this country, but Tyrone “Muggsy” Bogues overcame itty-bitty-ism to be what I think is one of the greatest minds in professional sports history.

  Geno, Go Get Your Shine Box, Geno

  Let me start by saying I love women’s basketball. I don’t have a problem with women’s basketball at all. Fuck it, I’ve played women’s basketball. I get right in. I don’t shy away from competition. I’ve had my ass busted by women in basketball. Let’s get that straight out the gate. I’ve played in celebrity games with Sue Bird, Skylar Diggins, and Lisa Leslie and a bunch of others, and I know where I stand. I have the utmost respect for women who play ball. And I have mad respect for the University of Connecticut’s fantastic women’s basketball team, but they’re straight demolishing teams and it’s getting ridiculous. Now, again, I don’t have a problem with the talented young women on that team. But I have a real problem with the coach. Yeah. I got a real fuckin’ problem.

  That’s right. Geno Arena, Orama, Oreantique, Aubama, or however the fuck you say your last name. I have a problem, and I think a few others might as well, but they’re too damned scared to talk about it. Guess who’s not scared? Michael Rapaport, the Gringo Mandingo, a.k.a. Milk, a.k.a. White Mike. That’s right, Geno. The shit is out of balance.

  You’ve won one hundred games in a row, and fifty-six of them you won by 40 points or more. Geno, when is enough enough? You look like a fuckin’ girl bully. How about I go get some real girl bully goons from Brownsville, Brooklyn. Some girls who eat fuckin’ hoop dreams for breakfast. Huh? How about I drive a bus around and collect a gang of girls to bully your team? Or maybe they just do a little shove job on you personally, Geno. Would that be fun for you? What I really want to know is why the hell you haven’t moved on. You conquered women’s college hoops, now get on with it. Grab your balls and coach somewhere else—anywhere else. Let’s go. It’s time to step it up.

  When will you finally look around the arena and think, “Maybe it’s time to take my talents elsewhere? I’ve done everything I can in this league. I’ve shit on every program in our division and around the country, and I think I need a real challenge in my life.” Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to play with the big girls in the WNBA. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s time to play with some men! You ever think about that? You want to go down as one of the great coaches of all time? Your record might get you a meeting, but you don’t get a seat at the table. Nope. Sorry. You don’t sit with the Vince Lombardis, Bobby Knights, Phil Jacksons, Popovichs, or the Bill Belichicks, and if you see the ghost of John Wooden, get him some damn water, ’cause the man’s soul is thirsty from years and years of hard-fought competition and constantly challenging himself. You’re embarrassing teams, Geno, and that’s not what the game is about. That’s not what life is about. You don’t get a seat at the Big Boy table, Auramimi. You walk into that room and you try to take a seat, and it’s gonna kinda feel like a scene straight out of Goodfellas. And you ain’t Joe Pesci, my friend. You’re Spider. Remember Spider? He was the kid Joe Pesci’s character shot in the foot for not getting his drink order right. Let me spell it out for you. I know a thing or two about scenes.

  INT. BACK ROOM—ITALIAN RESTAURANT—NIGHT

  Geno Aureemariosta walks in; others take notice. Around the table sit the great coaches of the past and present: Bobby Knight, Vince Lombardi, Phil Jackson, Gregg Popovich, Bill Belichick, and John Wooden. Geno takes a seat. The others look on with disdain. Stunned, even.

  Popovich: Hey, fellas, look, it’s Geno Amorosa. Hey, what’s the good word, Geno, what team you just finish embarrassing this week?

  Geno: Hey, guys. We just beat Central Florida by fifty-five, and Tulsa the night before by sixty. Shit, I’m exhausted from all the ass kicking. We got any beers?

  Bobby Knight: As a matter of fact, we do. Why don’t you head to the fridge and fetch me and Mr. Lombardi a couple of cold ones?

  Geno: You’re funny.

  Bobby Knight: Funny? How the fuck am I funny? What the fuck is so funny about me? Funny like a clown? Do I amuse you, Eugene?

  Geno: No, I was just saying you’re funny. I mean, you tell me to get you beers and all, and I’m blowing teams out left and right; you know, I just thought that was funny.


  Coach Lombardi: You’re blowing out girls, is that right?

  Geno: Yes, Vince.

  Coach Lombardi: It’s Mr. Lombardi.

  Geno: Sorry about that, Mr. Lombardi.

  Bobby Knight: You ever think about maybe coaching men, Auremini?

  Geno: Nah—I mean, I got a good thing going, ya know? It’s Auriemma.

  Bobby Knight: You think you got a good thing going, huh? I split wins with Purdue in ’87 in what we call a goddamn rivalry and then went on to win the title that year. No blowouts. We fought hard. I caught a stress hernia in 1987. I haven’t been the same since.

  Popovich slams his hand down on the table hard. Geno goes wide-eyed, scared of what might come next.

  Popovich: You’re on easy street, Geno. I’ve seen the freakin’ Lakers seven times in the playoffs in my life. You know what that feels like? Huh? You know what the fuck it feels like to NOT know what the hell is going to happen in a game? You don’t think challenging yourself makes any sense!

  Geno: I mean, we’re really killing these teams, and I like the feeling of it—and, you know, we did just lose for the first time to Mississippi State during the tournament—

  Bobby Knight: Thank fucking goodness!

  Geno: Well, I was trying to tell you guys—

  Bobby Knight: You trying to impress us with all that killing you’re doing, Geno? You a killer?

  Phil Jackson: My shoulder’s got a fuckin’ knot! Come rub it out, will ya, Geno? I got a knot from sitting too long during meditation and thinking about the Jordan Rules that the goddamn Detroit Pistons implemented when they took my title in 1989! Who’s got the Epsom salts?

  Popovich: Try to relax, Phil. Geno, you heard him. He’s got a meditation knot, now get at it.

  Geno: I don’t think I really—

  Belichick: Rub the fuckin’ muscle, Geno. Shit! Now look what happened over here.

  Belichick spills hot sauce on his ripped hoodie. No one moves. Knight pipes up.

  Bobby Knight: Now this. The man spilled on his favorite sweatshirt, and Phil’s all knotted out. Bust through the knot, Geno, will ya? You do massage, don’t you, Geno?

  Geno: No, no, I don’t really do massages.

  Bobby Knight: Oh no, you don’t do massages? You blow out women’s basketball teams by fifty, that’s what you do? You win one hundred games in a row and no one comes close to beating you and you’re happy about that?

  Coach Lombardi: He’s happy with that. Lifetime I’m 105 to 35 and 6. I know what it is to lose. Not much, but I know. It made me strong. [Coughs.] Excuse me.

  Bobby Knight gets up from the table and hurls a metal chair against the wall.

  Bobby Knight: See what the fuck I do now?

  Coach Lombardi: The man’s angry.

  Geno: Well, I mean—

  Belichick: Get my sweatshirt, Geno. You’re embarrassing me. You never even had to make a comeback. You ever watch the Super Bowl, Geno? It’s a big game played by men.

  Geno: Come on, Coach, of course—

  Belichick: Grab my hoodie before you give Phil a rubdown.

  Geno: Come on, guys, I was just trying to sit down and have a drink and talk shop.

  Phil Jackson: Roll me a joint and rub my toe, too! The shit hurts.

  Geno: Guys.

  Bobby Knight: Don’t “guys” us. Step up your level of competition, Geno. You’re not earning. Put a Purdue in your life. Put a Kentucky in your world. A team that challenges you game after game, season after season. Earn it.

  Coach Lombardi: Man needs to earn.

  Popovich: You disgust me right now, Eugene.

  Bobby Knight: Be a man, Geno.

  Phil Jackson: Step it up.

  Coach Lombardi: You’re such a winner, huh? Well, it’s time to take your talents elsewhere, Aureemama.

  Geno: It’s Auriemma.

  ALL AT ONCE: The fuck cares what it is?

  Geno: But, fellas, I thought we were all friends.

  Popovich: You thought wrong, fuck nose. Leave the women alone, Geno.

  Bobby Knight: It’s embarrassing for all of us.

  Coach Lombardi: The streets are talking.

  Geno: I’ll work on it. Why are you breakin’ my balls?

  Bobby Knight: Geno, if I was breakin’ your balls, I’d tell ya to go get your fucking shine box.

  One by one the coaches slowly get up from the table, leaving Geno to contemplate his future alone. Geno hangs his head while Lombardi’s soul dissipates into the thin air, Phil gets up with a cane, Bobby Knight mumbles something under his breath about the Republican party and hurries out, Popovich takes a last swig of his beer and heads for the door, and Belichick keeps scrubbing the stain from his weathered hoodie.

  FADE OUT

  * * *

  You made it through that scene the same way you make it through every one of your seasons, Geno: unscathed. But unscathed is no way to go through life, my man. If you expect your players to step up to the challenges they face every day on and off the court, then maybe you need to challenge yourself in another endeavor, Geno, and if that’s not something you’re willing to do, then, seriously, go get your shine box and . . . I’m kidding, Geno, I’m kidding. Take a leap of faith, man. The worst that can happen is you win a few games by two points and not fifty. Or maybe your team goes on a four-game losing streak. It happens to the best of them. Bouncing back is part of the process. It doesn’t feel as bad as you might think, Geno.

  Fuck Spin Class

  My wife actually looks forward to working out every day. She’s one of those people who can wake up at 5:30 a.m. sharp with a smile on her face, ready to seize the moment. She hops straight out of bed and is at a workout class before I’ve even hit the snooze button a second time. She’s an animal with it.

  Bae’s always pushing me to stay in shape, too, and work out with her, so I’ve been going along and trying to find a class that doesn’t suck. She’s worth it. First, it was spin class. It didn’t work out because of the fact that I had severe chafing and broke out in a rash within the first three shitty songs the spin leader played. I don’t like bike riding in real life, so why the fuck would I enjoy being in a dark room spinning with disco lights and a whacked-out, overly aggressive fake Lance Armstrong screaming at me? The guy had a hit-or-miss playlist that weaved right into twelve god-forsaken minutes of EDM for the momentous “Big Ride” death fest. They actually refer to it as the Big Ride? Well, guess what? We ain’t going anywhere on the Big Ride, so cut the bullshit, pal. We ain’t going anywhere. We’re spinning in circles like a gang of circus monkeys all looking around to see who’s gonna faint first and which of you guys got convinced to show up by your girl, too. Spin wasn’t for me, but then my wife got me into cross-fit for a while. Another batch of exercises that have no relevance in life.

  I honestly was enjoying cross-fit until I tweaked a hammy doing tire pushes. Tire pushes are when the “cross-fitter,” in this instance me, is supposed to flip a three-hundred-pound tire over and over up and down the gym. It’s some real gooned-out ultra-man-strength shit you saw thirty years ago on Wide World of Sports, but it was only done by giant Swedish monsters and Russian assassins who made side money by lifting cars.

  That day I was doing great for about three flips, and then being Jewish happened. I fell into the middle of the fucking tire headfirst and wound up getting rescued by two rough and rugged cross-training ladies who thought the whole thing was hilarious. I suffered aloud making real fucked-up noises with my head in the tire. It was like a whine that echoed in the tire. I didn’t know if anyone heard me. It was lonely inside that tire. I was injured, and I couldn’t have been more Jewy and broken. It was some Larry David–type shit for real. I cut my forehead, and my left hamstring had no feeling. I thought I snapped it. I needed to take a cross vacation for a while. My girl was embarrassed, and the people she knew looked at her like they were saying, “He’s really nice, but he’s not built for this shit.” The trainer put me on injured reserve for ten days so I co
uld heal up and get my head straight.

  During my cross-fit sabbatical, I started questioning how I got injured in the first place. Did I overthrow the tire? Were my legs too long to bend and lift? Was this shit really made for shorter people who didn’t have to bend so far to reach the tire? Chuck, my cross-fit guru and cock diesel-ed hipster trainer convinced me that the exercises were basic and functional and there was no reason for me to fall headfirst into a tire that was already on the ground. I started thinking about the word functional. Chuck loved that fucking word. Functional? How functional is flipping a three-hundred-pound tire down the road? It’s 2017 right now. They have tow trucks and all sorts of services that can help with your runaway truck tire. Functional, my ass. Do I own a truck scrapyard? When the fuck would I ever need to use this skill? I don’t live on a farm. The tractor I don’t own is never breaking down in the middle of the cornfields that I’ve never seen. There’s nothing functional about a forty-seven-year-old man doing tire flips in a Silver Lake cross-fit gym with a gang of dudes with beards and no body fat.

  My next “Fuck Cross-Fit, It’s Not for Me” epiphany hit me during my injury break while looking at my severely callused hands. They looked like I had spent years building skyscrapers and used sandpaper for lotion. I didn’t wear gloves for a little while, and I regret it. The Cross-Fit Community, which I love and respect, will never admit this publicly, but they look down on people wearing gloves when they work out. Well, I have the hands of a fucking ballerina, and I always have. They’re soft, and I’m proud of it. These hands ain’t made for power lifting. My hands are big, soft, and fragile and wanted to play piano at the same time I was playing ball. I need gloves to protect these puppies, but out of respect I went gloveless for a bit. I had been doing pull-ups and motherfucking burpies gloveless for three months, and my hands looked like they had committed heinous crimes. They felt fucked up, too. I was glove shamed every time I asked Chuck for my construction gloves for the thick “no reason to do this either unless I’m climbing down a building during a fire” rope-climbing class.