Basketball was a sacred game, more than a game, especially to the black guys I played ball with in Dubuque who were from the inner city. My JV coach and roommate D Rog was the champion of this phenomenon, and he was a phenomenal ball player. The required skills and the dedication and the commitment to becoming a great baller were regarded as akin to honing and committing ones self to becoming a skilled craftsman in any trade or art or even in any other sport for that matter. One phrase that I like to use when referring to practicing and becoming a better baller is, "hone your craft". No doubt about it the ballers I met while attending UD had done and were doing just that: honing their craft as ball players. And so did and so was I at the time, just like the most of the rest of them. But to the kids like D Rog and Mo the game was even more than just a learned craft, it was their way out of the ghetto. I'm sure you've heard that same phrase and that same story before. But to see it and experience in the real with them, that changes the story for me from a cliche to something much more real. As for my story and my basketball journey in comparison to theirs: When I turned 18 I was thrown to the wolves by my parents after being kicked out of the house (or at least very strongly encouraged to leave). Luggage was my high school graduating gift. Could there be anything less subtle? I did get some help paying for college from my parents. I was smart in school and I could have studied anything and been successful, but yet not smart enough or wise enough to try to earn scholastic scholarships. I just wanted to play college basketball. The world and the U.S. and the rest of society and the Great American Dream and the corporate world and the grand illusion of it all caused me to want to escape into the game I loved to play and into the world and culture that revolved around it, no matter what the cost. So in a way I had chosen a path that made basketball my way out too, a way out of not confronting all the bullshit I saw in the rest of the world. So it was an escape for me also like it was for the college ballers from the ghetto, albeit my escape was a little more internal than theirs. But also I want to point out that maybe instead of escaping and running away from something maybe I was running to something. In any case what I want to make clear or at least the point I am trying to make is that basketball was more than a game to us, and since it was the way out of the ghetto and a chance at a career for many of the ballers I played with and against, it was a skill set and a real social phenomenon that can be likened to any skill, craft, or art that earns people a living and or recognition in our society.

I feel good inside when I think back to my old playing days. When I replay particular games or plays inside my head it puts my mind in a happy place. I worked hard for about 15 years at becoming the basketball player I wanted to be. During my playing days (except for the last few years or so) I felt like the underdog poor gangly street baller that I was and I never felt like I got the respect I deserved from a lot of folks that were in the local basketball community in the IC. Without the respect a baller doesn't get picked up to play in good pick up games or invited to play in the playing sessions organized by the likes of local b-ball enthusiasts such as Randy Larson (U of Iowa basketball booster and founder of Prime Time Summer Basketball League and a local Lawyer and a former City Councilman and also a restaurant owner), or asked to play on some peoples City League or intermural teams etc... I usually had my own teams and I did get asked to play on a lot of other teams and I did have more than respect from the old school ballers at the rec and from the Des Moines kids and ballers that lived above me in the "Johnson St. Pad II and from the CR crew I hung with... but some of the ballers that played at the Field House, specifically some of the black crowd, and the "referee crowd" (who made up our long time intermural rivals) did not respect my game, even though I don't see how they couldn't in the end considering the success I had against them. When I think back and as I write my stories I realize more and more how much actual success on the court that I had and how I fulfilled many personal lifetime basketball goals, and how hard I worked and how lucky and fortunate I was to have the God given size and skills and coordination to become the baller that I did. If its pride that fuels my writing or my reminiscing than I don't really care. With the isolation and the loneliness I have in my life now anything that gives me a sense of self worth, a sense of accomplishment in my life, and also makes me truly happy inside, must be a good thing. For all the words and the stories that sound overly boastful there are words and stories that I have included and potentially left out but that I still remember (or at least feel) that balance my personal sense of humility with my pride and ego. The broken bones, torn muscles, and dislocated joints; the on court ass whippings and the poster boy getting dunked ons; the thousands of late, late, night shooting sessions at outdoor courts like Dodge Street or Longfellow; the jumping workouts at Shraider Field for years or at Mark Twain when I lived on Pine Street; the giant hill I ran while at Dubuque while wearing my boy Shot's hip weights; all the weight lifting I did for like 10 years; the walking for miles to find a court to work on my game when in high school; the put downs, jealosy, and back stabbings; the attending of schools in far away places and the 100,000$ plus in student loan debts so that I could play college ball; the coaches and their yelling and all that crap; the let downs and the heartaches; all these things and more I experienced and endured during my life as a basketball player. I miss it all actually. The basketball journey I took was to say the least all that I had hoped for as far as the overall experience and its ups and downs and what it taught me and the man and the baller that it helped me to become. So great was this journey that I feel compelled to share it with others. Remembering back on it all as I grow older is a good thing, it is for me the next best thing to playing, and dare I say, or at least I wonder: is thinking back on it all even better than actually living it and experiencing it as it happened? During the playing days the pressure of always wanting to improve or of just winning the game at hand (important not just for the sake of winning but so you and you're team didn't have to sit out and loose court) didn't allow for the time to admire the on the court accomplishments of the day. At the end of the day after a day or afternoon of playing was usually a great time to mentally replay and rap about the events of the day with roommates and peers, but in the later years of playing to go home to an empty house with no one to rap to was a real lonely feeling, a terribly lonely feeling. On one such occasion I was so struck with a sense of grief and a feeling of utter let down in the knowledge that the day of hooping and an era of balling had come to an end for me that it compelled me to write a poem about it (But Who Cares?), and even after that day, some 10 years or so later, I'm still writing about it.

The Art of the Finger Roll Lay Up

My slam dunk mentor Shot Blender once said: "Finger rolling is more fun than dunking." I wasn't sure then or now if he was serious or just trying one of his Jedi mind tricks to throw me off. Never the less I liked the concept. I mean I really liked the concept. So much so that I took it and made it my own style, and it was such a unique style that I think it would be hard for anyone else to imitate. The impossible but oh so cool play that I use to day dream about that inspired my finger roll style, think of it as like a shot in the shooting game 'h-o-r-s-e', was to finger roll / dunk the ball at the same time. The shot would be like a dunk done by a player that was so high in the air that they could backwards flick the ball through the hoop with their finger tips below the rim inside the hoop at the release of the ball and the palms up. Of course this is a more or less impossible shot for anyone except the likes of someone like Dr. J, but one of my patented moves came close. On the play I would finger roll the ball coming from the right side and at the front of the rim with a kind of reverse spin on the ball that made it look like the rim was sucking the ball straight through the hoop. On occasion I also liked to act like I was going to thrust the ball through the hoop and then stop and freeze in the air while holding the ball over the rim, and then drop it through the net. I question now if my "style" was actually just showboating. My style was my way of expressing myself through movement and through playing the game. To me it was art. To me it was like something that I was trying to make beautiful. But make no mistake about it, my finger roll was a weapon on the court. It was one of my main weapons. One factor in why I was able to develop the unique style of shooting a lay up was because of the fact that I was a streetballer. Most of or maybe all of the high school coaches I ever met would never have allowed me to use or practice finger rolling on their teams. I have so many stories of former college teammates, and or opponents in pick up games at the U of Iowa Field House or from the rec center, who told stories about not being allowed to finger roll in high school. In pick up games on occasion some opponents acted like my finger rolls were illegal or a joke or something. In those instances I felt inspired and compelled to leave the finger roll haters in awe after a dominating jaw dropping performance in those games. When I played for the Iowa City Central Junior High Little Hawks seventh grade basketball team our coach Don Munson taught us to shoot a layup using the same form as a set or jump shot but off of one foot instead of two. In seventh grade I used a running hook shot for my layup over would be defenders. In my life I ended up breaking all the rules, including the 7th grade coach's lessons about the proper way of shooting a lay up. I did everything my own way. Even now it's not like I'm gloating (o.k., maybe a little), its more like I'm an outside observer just looking back at my career and reminiscing, but not quite. I try hard to be honest in my assessment of my skills and abilities (or at least of my former skills and abilities). As for my seemingly rebellious like attitude I still don't know if it was a good or bad thing as far as how my life turned out or what levels of success I achieved. On the court my rebellious finger roll was crucial to my game and to my identity as a baller. To set up my favorite finger roll coming down from the right side of the court there is a trick I used to use. Actually I kind of long forgot about it and only remembered it upon writing this while thinking back. The trick was usually employed to set myself up for the finger roll that I liked to use at the front of the rim, but could also be used in other situations. I stopped using this deceptive technique sometime when I got older and when the competition became wiser. My trick was to stare at the corner of the backboard as I was dribbling toward the basket and position my body as if the hoop was located at the point where I was staring (and then hopefully the defender will follow suite) . The defensive player is usually taught to stay between their man and the basket (it's instinctive for all ball players to do this for the most part) so if successful in my ploy I would lure the defender way out of position and leave him trying to guard the space at the side of the backboard which allowed me all the extra space I needed to get to the front of the rim. This maneuver left many an opposing player wondering what in the hell just happened to them. Most experienced players know where they are on the court without looking or thinking about it. The lane and the three point line etc... are subconsciously absorbed cues to proper spacing. Of course playing outdoors where there is seldom painted out of bounds lines or any other lines made my little trick even more effective. I'm pretty sure I gave up using this strategy by the time I was in my college ball playing years, but I kind of wish I would have tried it more. The problem became that if the trick didn't work it left me with the only option of stopping and backing out, if I could, or passing it back out. The dilemma of deciding whether or not to try and use the trick on any given play brings up one whole new and most crucial aspect of playing basketball and using a preconceived move against a defender. When I was in high school and still honing my skills and perfecting my craft as a ball player I found that in games I would often times decide what move I was going to try and use as I drove to the basket. This is opposed to how I played in later years where I would just react to the situation and allow my instincts to decide and make the move for me. This concept of just reacting is coached and practiced in all team sports. It doesn't mean that a player should go off and free lance and do whatever, discipline is still required, but a player needs to react to the opposition and to the defense which isn't going to do the same thing or be in the same place time and time again. An athlete practices moves and skills so that in game situations those moves and skills feel natural. Thinking about things takes more time than just reacting, and a player that thinks to much becomes robotic like and often looks disjointed and choppy in their movements. During some college games the contradiction between my instincts and me thinking about what to do (or what coach wanted me to do) caused me to get happy feet. Nothing else feels like the feeling of having happy feet. The conscious mind and the instinctive subconscious mind are in complete opposition to each other during those moments.

One play that happened time and time again while I was playing at UD was when after I would get a steal in practice and head off racing down court there was always one player, the same player every time, the kid from Morton Ill. affectionately known as "Boulder head", would be back on defense waiting in the lane to try and take the charge. He hated to do it but had to because it was a practice with coach watching and yelling etc... On the plays Coach blew his whistle and called a charge on me every time whether it was one or not. Boulder Head would always fall down in the classic charge taking position whether I made contact with him or not, and coaches always reward a player for hustling back on defense and getting in position to try and take the charge (that crap - someone trying to take a charge - never ever happens in streetball or even in pick up games). So many times I found myself racing down the court after a steal with Boulder Head back on defense and thinking about what move I should try and make on him. I feel I can or could beat anybody one on one in most cases, but in practice and with coach calling an offensive foul on me every time that Boulder Head flopped made me question what play I should try to make. On almost every occasion I just took it to the hoop regardless of the outcome. I started just running into and slamming Boulder Head to the ground since I was going to get called for the foul anyway. By the way Boulder Head and I would talk and laugh about our head to head encounters after practices, we both understood the circumstances of the other. We had to try to please and impress the coach if we wanted playing time. This whole tangent has precisely to do with my trick of staring at the side of the backboard, and a big question that floats around in my head is whether or not I ever tried to use the trick against Boulder Head. My guess is that I tried it at least once early on but since it did not work I just abandoned it all together. I am pretty sure I never finger rolled after I dropped Boulder Head off like an old timer waiting at a bus stop as I drove by. He would have fouled me or did foul me before letting that happen.

Another move or a set of moves that presented an option for me to use on a drive involved beating my man baseline and doing one of three things. These set of moves are all used from the right side of the hoop and done using the right hand to shoot while jumping off the stride. The first option is to twist to the left while coming up under the rim and using the right hand and the ball's momentum raise up and dunk the ball or drop it in, or sometimes even just flip it in off the glass. The other options I used which are distinctly my own style and my own inventions is to drive hard from the baseline as I passed under the basket while driving the defense back under the hoop and instead of twisting to the left I would create enough space so as to twist to the right and while cupping the ball (ball held between wrist and hand) and using a windmill motion while bringing the ball up and around in a clockwise motion from the right hip and up next to the chest and over the head and then either unraveling the cupped wrist so as to finger role the ball up and over the hoop on the release as I passed under and then by the rim, or unraveling the cupped wrist and releasing the ball off the glass as I slapped glass while floating under and then away from the basket (a cup slap). I've never seen anyone else do this move. I could generate lots of upward momentum using the cupped ball method, and I could even do an impressive windmill like dunk from the front of the rim using this style. These are some of the tangents and options based on my finger rolling style of play that I developed and they served me oh so well for the 15 years or so that I practiced and used them.

2009 age of 39 dunking workout update: way to busy to focus on specified jumping workouts but I have been biking everywhere, walking and running up mountains, dragging and carrying large logs around, and stretching when I can. As long as my back doesn't go out I would say so far so good. I must be getting stronger in my legs and everywhere else, which is good, even though it is a consequence of the life style choice I have made and the position I am in of moving my goat herds and building fences on and near small mountains. Springtime is a busy time of year for a farmer, and any silly goals of playing basketball or of dunking need to take a back seat to the reality of making a living and surviving.

Yesterday was a good day. As was usual I flipped on the radio in the morning as I was waking up and started listening to the Jim Rome in the Jungle sports talk radio show. In the third hour of the program a caller named Brad from Corona (Cali.?) called in with an all time great call which included a Tasmanian devil / Troy Palamaulou (an NFL champs Pitt. Steelers defensive player) impression. I was laughing so hard. This cat Brad is the next "big new thing" to play his way into the Jungle's annual smack off. Continuing into the day the weather was incredible and the temperatures kept climbing as the day wore on. Later that night the Vancouver NHL hockey team ended an 8 game loosing streak and their new star and 10 million dollar player Mats Sundine finally played a good game and won the first star honors for the game. Right after the game ended I indulged in one of my guilty pleasures by watching a reality tv show. What made it so entertaining was the fact that I know one of the contestants in the show and she received major attention and lots of coverage in this particular episode. The show and especially my friend that is in it had me laughing really hard once again on that fine day. Laughing truly is medicine for the soul.

The Jim Rome show helps me feel connected to the sports world and culture I left behind when I headed for the north lands some seven years ago. During my 7000 mile journey to Alaska by myself (save for my two dogs) I listened to the radio of course and during some stretches I got no stations at all on any AM or FM frequencies. Static across the dial. But there was a long stretch through parts of Nebraska and Wyoming and Montana where there was nothing but one station and The Jungle could be heard coming through loud and clear. It was awesome. It actually gave me goosebumps. The listeners to The Jungle are called the clones, and they will be the only ones to catch any inside jungle jokes or references, so when I say that I hope I don't make Marty from Detroit jealous with my story revealing my admiration for Romie the clones know exactly what I am talking about. I started listening to Rome when I worked a state job driving around in a truck all day by myself (like Marty). I hated on Rome for a long time because of the "Chris" Everit incident and like the New York Jets I thought Romie did mostly negative interview with athletes. After the 9-11 World Trade Center attacks talk radio entered my life even more and during that time I listened to NPR all day waiting for the next thing to happen. After a few weeks I went back to listening to the Jungle. One thing about Rome that finally clicked for me: You have to realize and recognize his southern Californian accent and attitude, and then his often satirical and sarcastic style makes way more sense and then he and the show is much funnier. Being isolated for seven years now its great to know that on five days a week I can just switch on the radio and feel connected to the world I left behind. And a small world it is. Every now and then I hear interviews from people I know and met and used to see on a regular basis and its about the only time I ever get to hear anything about my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes (which is a rare thing actually). I have written many a letter or e-mail which I never sent to the Jungle - they were all way to long and way to wack for that sort of medium. My vocabulary most definitely includes what I call "Rome-isms" so I thought I would give a shouts out to the Jungle Crew for bringing a little humor and entertainment into my life, and to the "next big new thing", Brad from Corona, in this years smack off!

The Old Fool Wants to Fly High Once Again

The time has arrived, so let this new journey begin. I must stretch every day now. That is my number one daily task. I need to stretch daily anyway to help and try and keep my bad back as limber as I can. I have been riding my bicycle daily, with a few longer rides every now and then to the south end to my mailbox and to get beer etc... at the Corner Store, and I have been walking my goats out to graze and so forth every day so my body is in relatively good health. The bad back is a permanent weakness that I just have to deal with, and it may be the thing that ends up prohibiting me from obtaining my goal of slam dunking on a 10' rim. Or maybe my attempt at achieving my goal will be what ultimately heals my back. I'd like to date a hot young female yoga instructor. I would be her very best student and she could show me the proper positions and exercises to strengthen and stretch my tight and twisted body. And there are even a few girls around here that meet all of the proper qualifications and expertise I am looking for. It never hurts to dream. Included on tomorrows agenda is the job of putting up the new basketball net (1 of 2) my moms sent me this winter. If the weather is nice I'll most definitely shoot a few baskets. I need to check the mail and I ran out of tea (my usual source of caffeine for the past 3 years) so a bike ride south is probably in the works, hopefully tomorrow weather depending. Its hard for me to wake up without tea or coffee and I hate to ride my bike on these narrow roads while in a sleepy daze. With all the chores I have to do everyday and with the short winter days its hard to find time for everything I always want to do. I am hoping the passion will give me inner strength to do what I have to do to give a full effort in an attempt to achieve my goal. Waking up early everyday for a year is one possible example. Stop drinking beer? Never. It is a secret to my power. Big B. and Hammer and I sometimes used to refer to it as "8 Drunkard Style" after an old Kung Fu movie. My blogs may be more like regular blogs (following my year of recommitting myself to the art of slam dunking) for a while as I let the old Dubuque and ICE stories brew in my head.

Inspired by a grueling day of work

My present is so hazy. My mind travels from thought to thought to thought etc... isolated and alone... I choose to write in an attempt to try and stave off insanity (there, I just made myself crack up at my last comment and it was very therapeutic, but also a bit worrisome because of its truth). As far as my loneliness like the pro wrestler Rick Flair and my friend Eric Witt used to say, "I might not like it but I better learn to love it!" What other options do I have? So I just write. I met a hunting guide in Shoshoni National forest just outside of Yellowstone Park on my 7000 mile journey up to Alaska and there abouts during the summer of 2002 and we spent one night sharing our views and philosophies on the world. He made the comment that writing is for losers who don't have anything better to do. My last words to the guy was that I planned to write 'my story'. So here it is and if I am a looser with nothing better to do so be it. I write for many reasons. Are they good or bad reasons? Its all just some letters and words on a screen or paper, how much power could it possibly have? How much power does the writer of a story have? Power to make a positive difference in the world? I met another dude in my travels that said he believed a person could achieve such a state of enlightenment that they could meditate and vibrate themselves to the point where they start spinning around like a top and then shoot off into the sky like a UFO or something. I wish I could do that right now (as long as I can take all my animals with me). After a long day of work and realizing the long grueling road that lies ahead I need to give a shouts out to the James gang for the help I received today.

I come to a very difficult point in my writing and storytelling process. For the past 15 years I have been thinking about whether or not I was going to tell the whole story of my lifestyle and memories during the Dubuque basketball years, especially the one year spent back in the ICE before "The Return." I decided to leave a lot of information out about the girl friends and the basketball player's courting habits. I think its understood that in writing memoirs or an autobiography that the author is not putting in every detail or description of every memory of every event that happened. There is a filtering process. The idea of me putting the story on the blog was so that it would give others a chance to comment, respond, set the record straight from their point of view, or even the chance and a forum to tell their own story. But what if some people don't want their story told? Do I have a responsibility or an owed loyalty to my former teammates and coaches and friends and family? First of all these are just letters and words on a screen. They tell a story. It is just a story, that's all it can ever be. What ever happened in the past occurred in their own moments, and anything else, like a story about the past, is not the event itself but just words inspired by or describing those moments in the past. Some might say I "sold out" by revealing so much, or that I sold my teammates and friends out by writing a book while looking to get paid. My response to such an accusation is that we all make decisions in our lives, and we all have to live with those decisions. I believe we need to "own" our past actions. In my life I have made some bad decisions and have done some stupid things and I have included some of those stories in my blog, and some stories, especially revolving around really personal things like relationships with girlfriends, have been excluded. At least, as I have mentioned, if a person knows about the chance they have and how to respond they are encouraged to do so. And if I was requested to do so I would take any information out or change names completely or what ever was necessary to appease any unhappy former teammates that I write about. I told everyone back while I was still playing college ball that my plan was to write a book that included the whole college ball playing and lifestyle experience. And most important, what I am saying: the stories, the descriptions, the smack, the exaggerations (I really did see the bottom of G Money aka Brag Havatake aka Air Par's shoes on his dunk at Mt. Mercy) are all done so in an effort to pay tribute to everyone I ever played with or against on the hardwood. As an author and a storyteller I think I and my story would be a sham if I didn't tell the whole story in the most honest and best way I could. In my current life while writing this I went down to the pub the other night for the first time in about three years and I had a conversation with this older guy who is an aspiring writer who wants to tell his story about his travels and adventures to and through such places as Africa and Australia, some 70 countries in total, and about the soccer and the ladies and the week he spent in a Kenyon jail etc... During our conversation the guy brought up the issue of whether or not he wanted to include the stories that might inhibit him from getting a job or something like that down the road. My response was that his story, and mine, were about things and events that happened 20 years ago or so... and they happened in different countries than where we are now both living and that as writers we get a free 'get out of jail card' when it came to storytelling or reporting.... How did or do guys like Hunter S. Thompson get away with it? And I should have mentioned my favorite documentaries as further examples: "Hoop Dreams" and "Dog-town Z Boys". Those stories can't be told without having certain cultural issues of everyday life being a visible crucial component to the story. In "Dogtown Z Boyz" the writer and director of the film, Stacie Peralta, is an important member of the crew that he is telling the story about, which is exactly the same position I am in when writing about my basketball stories. Peralta was sort of the 'good' kid in his crew, which made him the outsider, and Jay Adams, one of the other legendary members of the original Z - Boyz, is portrayed as a kid gone wrong who got into gangs and dealing drugs and who blew it all (his skateboard career) for the street life. I watched and analyzed the documentaries about the making of the documentary and realized that in many ways I am writing about a much similar situation. Telling as much of the whole story as an author can, albeit in an artistic manner (or thats how I tell stories and try to somewhat avoid any blatant blasts or remarks that may incriminate someone in an all to obvious fashion) is necessary for making a film like "Dogtown Z Boyz" what it is, an authentic peak back into time and into the life of those kids growing up in the ghetto beach slums of Santa Monica and Vennis during the 1970's and finding skating as a place where they could express themselves and display their talents to the world. The California lifestyle and the '70's drug counter culture were central to the story of those guys lives. Their story in many ways parallels my and my basketball crew's story. My favorite part of that film is the story of Jay Adams. His story has the most dark elements in it. I get goosebumps every time I watch that part. Maybe it was because I see a bit of Jay Adams in myself. I see a bit of myself in all the big three from the Z Boyz crew (Tony Alva being the third member) that were highlighted in the movie. Surfing and skating is what bonded that crew together, and basketball is what bonded me to my crew. In one of the making of the docs either Tony Alva or Stacy Peralta made a comment about the fact that for Jay Adams it was all about the skating, and never about the money or the competition. I can relate to those sentiments. In my conversation with the other aspiring writer at the pub the other night I also said something about the fact that we all make mistakes in life, and we learn from those, and if we tell others about our experiences maybe they can learn from our mistakes and also from our successes. As writers we have to stay true to form. Living in Canada and in BC do we have to be scared to tell a story about things that happened so long ago in places like the neighboring country south of the 48th parallel? When I was playing ball I was caught up in the culture, which included college life, basketball, and hip hop. Part of that culture included smoking herb. Who went to college and didn't try it at least once? Over time smoking became more of a spiritual action for me. I am not proud of everything I did, and I'm not telling the story in order to say, "Hey look at me, I'm cool, if you want to be like me then do what I did". I have to write about some of the non-related basketball things that if I left out then the whole story wouldn't make sense, there would be a big obvious whole in the story. These potentially controversial issues makes for a better and more interesting story too. So all that being said I need to tell about some things that happened during the year that I had moved back to the ICE before returning back to UD for one last semester of playing college ball and living at the low end. I mentioned in my last post that after moving out of the duplex where my old mates Shot, Dodger, and Doc were living, I moved into the green house on the corner of Johnson Street and Burlington Streets with Big Swan. We moved into the upstairs apartment with Big B, Big A, and a couple other dudes living below. Swan had moved back to the Quad Cities for a couple of years after his brief stint in Dubuque. While there he had got into some trouble and wound up on probation. He transferred his case to the IC where he was assigned a new probation officer. I came back to the ICE that same year. A perfect storm was brewing with Big B, Swan, and I and a few others all moving back to the ICE after being away usually either traveling or off going to college somewhere else for a few years. We partied hard that year back in the ICE. I became obsessed with closet gardening during those years, an idea that Big B. had planted into my head years earlier(pun intended), but I certainly would have gotten around to discovering it or trying it eventually regardless of anyone else's influence (remember that I grew up in the 70's in a very liberal town with a huge University and for 5 years I lived right down the road from the U. on Iowa Ave. in an apartment with all college students... what do you expect?). While back in the Quad Cities Swan had rekindled some old connections, "organized endeavor" connections, and since he was facing a huge fine regarding his probational circumstances, using his connections Big Swan and I set up shop so to speak and attempted to start our own home business from our basement... rrr.... or closet... rrr... or you know what I mean. One of the problems with our lack of financial success had to do with the sack slinger principle number one: Don't get hizzzigh on your own supplizzzie. During my year back in the ICE I can best describe myself as an angry rebel. There are many a story where I would come home to the duplex where Shot and the rest lived and I would walk in the door with two cases of beer, usually Rhinelander, slam them on the kitchen table, break open the flaps, pull a beer out, and slam it home all in one gulp all in front of the roommates looking on in half disbelief, all in an attempt to inspire the fellas for a crazy night of drinking and partying and storytelling and adventuring out to the bar scene where the ladies were... That trick worked at least a few times and one time Shot and our friend Brandon K (x-skate boarder back from going to school at Humboldt State in Northern Cali. where he played La Crosse and smoked dank ganj.) got hammered and then road their bikes downtown to the pentacrest that was across the street from the bars where they then attempted to camp and spend the night, only to be awakened early in the morning by a large number of University public safety officers with flashlights. I was crazy but not that crazy or stupid to head off downtown to spend the night outside while being so wasted. While I'm thinking about those days I got to give a shouts out to Wally coming over after the bar scene every night to our Cedar Street pad near Hickory Hill Park and hanging out and listening to the great hip hop tunes that were coming out that year (1993) and blasting out of my old Peavey speakers and 200 watt. stereo. Actually before moving out of the Cedar Street pad Big Swan had already received a shipment from Arizona that put our little business on the map, and that particular batch went down as one of the best stuff ever to come through us and into the ICE. Swan was the man behind the scene, I was the front man and therefore received the credit and the rep, which I really didn't want. I would rather have been the man behind the scene, and attention for being 'the man' or something like that is not necessarily a role I was comfortable in or something that I was good at or even accustomed too (some may argue that point - maybe I grew into it over time). The potency from that one batch became legendary (so many stories!), and Wally and I used to toke up back at the pad after a night out and listen to those base heavy sounds that rocked the airwaves in the old Cedar Street crib and tell stories about old Longhorn and Little Hawk days gone by. Big Swan and I made some very memorable trips up to Dubuque during that year. Those stories and more will come in time. The time for the one year of trying to regain a shimmer of those old hops is drawing near. So like an old shirt I once had I must 100% commit myself with "No Fear!"

After my second full season at UD I moved back to the ICE and moved into a duplex with some members of the old crew I used to play ball with. My roommates were Shot (my old dunking mentor), Dodger (the fastest kid on the planet), and my old AAU Junior Olympic coach affectionately known as Doc. Without going into to much detail and to make a long story short those roommates and my lifestyle didn't mix, so I moved in with Big Swan to the upstairs apartment in a house just up the street from my old stomping grounds known as the Robert A. Lee Community Rec Center. Swan and I moved in above where Big B. and some other old high school buddies lived. That street corner in Iowa City, at Johnson and Burlington Streets, is one of the most centralized and well recognized cornerstones of the college age residential district in the ICE, and years later I moved into the big house across the street where I lived downstairs from my friend who played on the Iowa Grey Squad. There was a huge flood that year while living above Big B. and while I was working for Big B and my friend Jonas' parents cleaning up the old sand bags leftover after the flood resided I started experiencing lower back pain. I did see a chiropractor or two and a doctor about it, but basically I just learned to cope with the pain. I still played basketball and I actually had one of the best years of long range shooting in my life (I think of it as the summer of 'Cream', my Wu Tang Clan long range shooting theme music). I have lots of stories from that summer about some Dodge Street Park basketball wet dreams (as we used to call them), some legendary noon ball stories, some Field House stories, and stories about leading one of my old friend's team to the men's city league tournament title in the 1A league held at Southeast junior high. Those are all ICE basketball tales which I have probably already written in my ICE collection which includes my personal slam dunk life history. That same year I signed up for some cheap classes at the local community college but the old Buick Regal my parents gave me finally broke down for good and the JC was all the way across town so I just stopped going to class. I'm mentioning all this stuff in order to explain what I did between the time I left UD after my sophomore year and the semester I went back for one last run at playing college ball. The old UD coach was no longer the coach and had been replaced by one of his former players. The new coach played on teams with Mo and D Rog when they were freshman and or maybe sophomores, and he too was from Gary Indiana. Prior to getting the head gig at UD he had been an assistant coach for Scranton University in Pennsylvania, the same school where the ladies team from the Mexico trip came from. I named my last UD comeback as "The Return". I was living in a fog, so to speak, during the year I lived back in the ICE, and I was hoping returning to UD would force me to get my life back on track. There were always lots of old and new demons I had to deal with living in the ICE. I thought getting back to playing basketball for the Spartans would be enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Things did not go exactly as I had hoped. For one last semester I graced that old river town with my presence, living down on the low end by myself at first and then with a puppy dog named Blunt. If there was one really significant thing to come out of that experience during that final one last semester it was adopting Blunt the Pit Bull. That dog would become a lifelong companion that lived and traveled with me for the next 11 years. I often tell people that Blunt my dog saved my life more than once. The Return in many ways is mostly about life for me on the low end.

Epiphany time out: What makes my story special? The city I was from (a great city to grow up in and play basketball). The talent I and my friends had. And what we did, or did not do with it (especially including Shot, myself, and Big B.).

Next day of writing(actually it is night, around 4am to be precise - closing in on 4:20) tangent thoughts about my life: high school: B. Bristol, Charlie Rorex, Shot getting punched in the mouth at rec. and going to Happy Joe's Pizza and Shot holding his finger over his fat lip, and seeing Charlie's dad there who worked at the bus depot across the street which was next to my step grandparents old store. He was my old little leage baseball coach and cub scout master who used to let us play kickball every scout meeting and took us to get ice cream at the Dairy Queen by the Sycamore mall. Defending Charlie in the lunch line at City High, truely one of my better moments. Matt Bractal the bully, confrontational run-ins leading to pencil stabbings and a black eye (which I secretly loved - I thought it made me look real tough) and trying to avoid him in the hall way at SE, went to pizza joint near SE w/B. Bristol, witnessed Bractal showdown w/Mark Fay (Bractal commented years later that he wanted to fight him that night - he looked scared as hell to me). I was not very wise to the social scene in high school - I hated school and didn't want to be there, I had better places to be, like the Robert A. Lee and noon ball, or even at the Field House and Armory courts working on my game. Or fishing somewhere, or sleeping-in hung over from drinking 40 ouncers of Old English 800 at Ron and Mike Simms crib and staying up late crack'n on each other all night. Wow, I used to just show up at Ron's every night and sleep over without even asking. They were either to polite (what?) to shoo me away or they actually liked it. Or at Doc's shop (I should have been there everyday to help take care of the animals-ferrets and Duke), too hungry and too far to walk - virtually no help from parents with transportation - except a ride from my step dad home from the rec. once in a while. I loved to play basketball. I couldn't stop. The following things could not keep me off the court: Broken bones and arm casts and black and blue and yellow swollen ankles and broken and dislocated fingers and school and parents and thugs and ballplayer haters and the older guys and the law and the gangs and the doctors... until the broken back did me in, almost... the dream is still alive... a tiny little ember burns red hot, but only on the inside at the very most inner core... there it sits and lives and breaths and pulsates... waiting... or sometimes contemplating to just let itself burn out and end... but for now it still glows, and it knows that with just a little care, a little attention, a warm and soft yet steady breath to bring the little amber to life once again where it could ignite a new fire, a fire that could burn so hot and so bright that the world can see it from near and far... Did I hear something about an old basketball player trying to make a comeback while listening to the radio? Ah, do I long for the gardens of Cordoba...rrrr... I mean... I long for the days of watching M.J., and the whole year of retirement and then the comeback and the TV commercials with 'Johny Killroy' looking like the stunt doubles from the movie, "I'm Gonna Get You Sucka." There was an old jam I used to listen to, and I even have it on tape here and I even played it for my buddy R.C.A. one time in the past year or three; it was a catchy tune called, "Return of the Mac". My last stint in Dubuque I have always called 'The Return'. I loved the title and concept of the Star Wars title, "Return of the Jedi." Maybe living in this rain forest and spending my days trudging through swamps while building fences for my goats and so forth is like my own "Degobah". One difference is that I seek no Jedi master, only the master inside. And only if I ever return to the ICE will such a return to somewhere be worthy of comparisons to and of borrowing the term 'The Return of the Jedi' . But as Jabba the Hut's personal attendant mumbled in the movie, "He's no Jedi." The Return. A return. Another return. 'Return of the Mac' > 'Return of the Mats... Sundine', to Vancouver. 'Return of the Matt'... to slam dunking a basketball... and of playing the game he loves (?)... Story to be continued...

OK, just after completing and going over the above rant (now around 5:20 am) I decided to look up the word 'Epiphany' in my trusty old dictionary to see if I used it correctly. Definition one read something like an appearance or manifestation of a god or other supernatural being. The second definition was about a yearly festival in the Christian church held on Jan. 6 commemorating the revealing of Jesus as the Christ to the Gentiles in the persons of the Magi at Bethlehem, also called 'Twelfth Night'. I tried to look to see when (what day) I wrote the 'Epiphany time out' comment, and I think it was on the 6th of Jan. I will find out after posting this entry (I hope I don't loose it from here to getting it on the web). I guess I used the word incorrectly, or did I? I have never heard of "Twelfth Night" or what ever, unless maybe in Christmas carols? I must have read about it in the bible, but I do not remember anything about it. Pure coincidence that I used the term on the 6th of Jan? I thought the word meant something like 'revelation' or the moment or a moment of enlightenment. When referring to my writing I like to say sometimes that 'the spirit moved me', and when I do say that I mean it as a figure of speech mostly. But not entirely. Does being moved by 'the spirit' count as an Epiphany? If it does than maybe I used the expression correctly. The timing of using it is incredible, 1 in 365 chance that I used the word on the day it represents. This is not the first time things like this have happened regarding what seemed like other real life Epiphany moments; there is one story in particular from my time at the low end during my last return to UD. Maybe it won't seem too strange to anyone else or maybe it is so insignificant or possibly too unbelievable that no one else can relate? That story is yet to come, in the meantime I pay homage to the positive forces in our universe, and now I need to sleep.

Gary Indiana

My former coach D Rog invited me to go home with him to Gary over easter break one year. Big Moe and Rue were also invited. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see more of the world and see where D Rog had came from. They rented a car and Moe was the designated driver. It was the four of us at the start, but Rue asked to get out about half way there at some town along the way outside of Chicago where one of his kids and the baby's mama lived. D Rog and Moe said that that always happened when Rue came along. I respected and even admired Rue for making the right decision even though I too wished that he would have came along with us. We smoked a few jizzoints on the way and had some deep discussions and did a little smack talking, and then D Rog brought up what I thought was just too funny. He warned me about his friend Blizzo who was going to bring up stories of some old basketball showdowns that occurred between the two once the smack talking would start and once we were around D's old friends from home. When we reached Chicago the sight seeing began for me. I love that old city and the feeling and the energy that it gives off, that all large unfamiliar cities give off, but there is something special about the windy city. We had to travel through the south side of Chicago and past the huge project housing which was right across from the White Sox Stadium. That stadium looks like the seating goes practically straight up, straight vertical, like you would have to climb a ladder to get to your seat. We crossed over what is known as the skyway, which is a giant interstate highway bridge that travels across the railroads and abandoned steel mills that line the shores and the vicinity around lake Michigan and connect East Chicago to Gary. I never saw so much garbage and wasteland. For many miles I saw nothing but rusty smoke stacks and giant deteriorating brick buildings. Railroad tracks for miles, one set lined up next to another, for ever they went on. No houses, no people, just smoke stacks and coal and railroad tracks and garbage. Again, I have never seen anything like it, not even in a movie. D Rog said he used to be scared to drive across the skyway when he was a kid. For me the scary part wasn't the massive size of the bridge or of the incredible height, but what we were driving over. Some of those factories were the size of giant skyscrapers with broken glass windows from end to end. I wondered what the hell was inside of such buildings? Some of the smoke stacks were like 100 stories high it seemed. Some even had smoke coming out of them. It looked like the biggest industrial wasteland on the planet, and maybe it was (and still is). We went to D Rog's grandma's house when we got into one of the residential sections of Gary. We had passed a road sign that said 'Hammonds' on it earlier, which is where D Rog played his high school ball. D Rog's grandma owned an adobe style brick apartment building. It looked like a home for Jawa's (of Star Wars fame). Apparently the adobe was water proof, highly insulated, and most important it was bullet proof. You know when your in a rough town when the black guys your with, a 300 pound 6-5 kid from New Orleans and and a 6-4 kid from Gary, are worried about just getting out of the car and walking into the house. Sure enough we heard automatic weapons being fired in the vicinity. There was a school across the street where D Rog said they used to play basketball for years every Sunday morning until too many people got gunned down while playing. At one time it was supposed to be an unwritten but well respected rule not to bring any outside grievances to the court. Catty-corner from D- Rog's grandma's and across the street from the school was a plot of small white houses. They were really small. D Rog pointed to one of the houses and said that thats where the Jackson family had grown up. Michael, Janet, Tito, Latoya... all grew up across the street from D Rog's grandma. D Rog's uncle and his cousin also lived at his grandmas. His cousin was young but extremely beautiful. His uncle was a mechanic but he used some sick leave to miss work while D Rog was home visiting. His uncle graduated high school across the street with Jermane Jackson back in the day. Previously another one of D Rog's UD teammates came to visit Gary one time, a kid who played on the UD team that first semester I had arrived but when I wasn't on the team officially yet. D Rog's uncle had a computer basketball game where you could program in the names of the players on the teams. The other kid to visit's name was Pearl and he was a player's name in the video game. Since I was the new guest Pearl's name was erased and my name was put in. It stayed in that game for a long time, which was a great honor. D Rog's hot young cousin (who was really nice to me) and the adobe style apartment complex gave me some good smack material for later. We slept the night at D Rog's mom's house, which was a two story house in a regular looking but old neighborhood. Her husband was a truck driver who watched TV in the bedroom all day. They lived on the second floor of the building, which was safer then living on the ground floor due to all the stray bullets flying around at ground level. D's mom cooked up one hell of an Easter dinner with ham hocks, okra, sweet potatoes, corn bread... it was the best meal I think I have ever had. We finally went out at night to D Rog's friend Blizzo's house. We picked up some brews before we got there. When we arrived D Rog introduced me to his old pal and another dude who was there hanging out. We sparked a few and sipped on some brews and listened to the stories and the smack about the years gone by. The warning that D had given me about his pal (who's home we were now in) was prophetic, for sure enough the story was told how Blizzo's high school team beat D's team and Blizzo went off in the game and scored like 30 points and got the best of D. While we were hanging out someone kept calling Blizzo's phone looking for the other cat who was hanging out with us. The guy calling was looking to gun down the kid at Blizzo's and Blizzo kept having to tell him that he wasn't there. The guy on the phone used to play football for Notre Dame (one of the best college football programs in the United States) and the smack talk somehow got around to him even. Apparently the kid played running back and on the first play he ever ran he was handed the ball on a running play but he fumbled. He never saw the field again after that, ended up dropping out of Notre Dame, and went back to Gary to become a thug. The dude he was trying to find and was calling about, who was at Blizzo's with us, also got smacked on. He had been a part of his high school's record setting 4 x 100 relay team. They made it to the state finals and were poised to become state champions and set a new state record when during the race the kid dropped the baton on his hand off. The guy was fairly well dressed that night and wanted us to go out on the town with him to Chicago's Rush Street. But dress shoes were required at those clubs and we all had none. The next day we went on a long tour of the city of Gary. I was the only white person I saw for three days until I saw an old white guy crossing the street in a small business district somewhere. I yelled out in the car, "What's up homie?" which got a chuckle out of D and Mo. I saw more boarded up houses in more deserted neighborhoods than I thought possible. Gang signs and messages were painted on houses and walls and buildings everywhere. One such message read, "Kill all white people." It goes without saying that Gary used to be the steel capitol of the U.S. When the economy turned and the steel mills closed people lost their jobs and moved away. The experience of seeing it all made a life long impression on me, and I don't think that many Americans even know that such places exist in their own country. It was a huge practically abandoned city that was now like a war zone. The last place I remember seeing on the trip was where there once was a real nice park and beach overlooking Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline in the distance. D Rog said he used to come here as a kid, but now it was run down and the Chicago side couldn't even be made out in the smog like haze that hung over the great lake. That is about all I can remember from that trip. I hope I have described it well enough to get across the lonely and disturbing feelings that the run down all but abandoned city gave off. We made it in and out alive, and I was thankful for that so that one day I could write about the experience and share it with others. I've told many people about my visit to Gary over the years, and I've gotten the feeling sometimes that people don't quite believe my story, especially the part about Michael Jackson's family living across the street from D's grandma, and the automatic gun fire that could be heard off in the distance 24 hours a day, and the size and scope of the skyway and the abandoned steel mills below, and of the blocks and blocks and miles and miles of boarded up and abandoned buildings and houses and the vicious gang signs and graffiti written on them. The stories of D Rog's old friends and of their infamous sports experiences too seems all to far fetched. It seemed and still seems to me that almost every athlete I ever met from Gary had that something special about them. D Rog, Darby, Lil Lamb, and others all had such a strange charismatic quality about them. They were all unbelievable athletes. The three I mentioned all had pointy ears and light colored skin that practically glowed. They reminded me of elf warriors or something when they played basketball. I mean all that I have just said as a compliment, and even if its taken the wrong way that is how I can best describe them. I too have been accused of having pointy ears, and having one ear that sticks out a little farther than another one, and my old friend Shot and I used to kind of joke that we thought that a person with pointy ears is predisposed to being a great jumper (we both had pointy ears).