Web Exclusives: From the P-Nut Gallery
a column by Nate Sellwyn email@example.com
April 21, 2004:
out on top
One last shot at intramural glory
Here’s the rotten thing about firsts: You don’t always
know when they’re happening. Sure, when I eventually step
onto the ice for my first game as starting goaltender for the Montreal
Canadiens, I’ll know it’s a big day. But, say, for example,
the first time I met my best friend at Princeton. I didn’t
know who he was, or where he was from, or what was going to happen
to the two of us during the four years that have followed. I just
knew his stuff was in the hall, and my stuff needed to get by his
stuff so my Dad could hurry up and drive back to Montreal already.
The rotten thing about firsts, most of the time, is you don’t
have a chance to make them memorable.
Lasts, though, are just as bad. Sure, for the most part, you know
they’re coming. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you walk
in on your significant other and the guy with the geeky haircut
going at it in the broom closet. Sometimes you blow out a leg and
all of a sudden you have to do your farewell tour on crutches. But,
generally, you know when something is winding up, and you can prepare
for it. Problem is, things don’t always go as planned, and
that can be worst of all.
An example: I played four years of varsity basketball in high
school, mostly due to my poor institution’s dearth of real,
gentile athletes. So, as I believe I’ve mentioned before,
with varying degrees of honesty, for four years I trooped it out
on the hardcourt. I wasn’t good, but I wasn’t horrible,
and I played with every bit of the little I had. For one, mercifully
brief season, I even wore protective goggles.
My last, magnificent game came – surprise! – at the
conclusion of my senior year, in one tiny corner of the Men’s
Provincial Championship Consolation Bracket. It was an exciting
match, and the victor would hold the envious position of an 11th
place finish in the province. The loser would drop, screaming, to
the black depths of 12th. You can imagine the pride on the line.
Despite my low point production, I was then captain of the team.
I can remember the night before, sleeping in my uniform, dreaming
of how I would eclipse my previous career high in points (21, in
the opening round of the Collingwood Invitational, mostly on free
throws) and carrying my Southridge Storm to victory.
We won, but not thanks to me. I remember well one specific moment
near the end of the game. Due to my defensive intensity / fortuitous
positioning, I stole the ball at half court and had an easy, undefended
path to the looming basket. At that point I had about four points,
so I put my head down and dribbled like a baby on his bib towards
In addition to the usual crowd of six or so onlookers, all the
relevant figures of my adolescence were in attendance. My then-girlfriend.
My school principal. The guy who ran my comic book store. Everyone
I missed. Open lay-up, and I put if off the backboard at about
the speed of a car colliding with a raccoon. And it looked just
as bad. In fact, I think there was a collective groan from all in
attendance, although the bang of the ball whipping off the backboard
nearly drowned it out.
So, the problem with lasts is that, although you know you’ll
remember them, you certainly can’t script the memories.
Last week, though, in what will likely be my last game of organized
basketball, I won. Well, my team did. In double-overtime of the
Men’s C League Intramural Championships. After the other team
hit a three at the buzzer to equalize in regulation, and both teams
missed the front end of one-and-ones to keep things tied after the
first overtime. Although I didn’t hit the winning basket –
or any, I think – I was certainly on the floor the whole time,
due to that “defensive intensity” I was only sort of
lying about earlier. I had the winning steal, or at least the tap
of the ball that knocked it away from them and into the hands of
our leading scorer.
And he scored, no problem. Dribble drives, pull-up jumpers, step
back threes. He won us the game, and that was just how I wanted
it. To end on a great note, and conclude my pathetic athletic tradition
here at Princeton victoriously, if not gloriously.
You can reach Nate at firstname.lastname@example.org