During the last couple of months my laptop has been out of order and during that time I had to resort to and revert back to writing with pad and pen. I was really in the groove writing every day and night before the laptop's power chord broke beyond repair (I had to wait for my mom to send me a new one, she had a spare). Those past moments and memories that I was writing about were all fresh in my mind so I wrote down in a list all the little themes within the stories that were still bouncing around in my noggin and waiting to be told. I also did some research by looking through my old newspaper clippings to try and find out the timings of some certain events. Luckily I did this because I discovered that one of the most crucial memories from playing for UD and scoring official NCAA baskets occurred during my freshman year instead of my sophomore year. I had been writing about events from my sophomore season when the computer technical difficulties occurred, so I need to backtrack to in-conference play during the second semester of my freshman year. Here is the newspaper article from the Telegraph Herald about the game which I am referring to:

Spartan Men Win
by Craig Reber

Trailing by 19 points and a five game losing string hanging like an anvil in a willow tree, the University of Dubuque used a big second half to knock off Luther, 89-87, Friday night at UD's McCormick Gymnasium.
Luther was tied with Loras for third place in the Iowa Conference, Dubuque was sixth.
The skid was wearing on a number of Spartans including 6 foot 7 senior (Shad Spock).
"This was one we really wanted," said (Spock), who scored 15 points and pulled down nine rebounds. "Luther is one of the top teams in the conference. Maybe its a start. Maybe we can knock off the rest of the teams in the conference."
Dubuque could play spoiler, with road games remaining at co-league leaders Central and Simpson on Feb. 28-29.
Luther jumped to a 13-0 lead on 5-of-7 shooting and extended it to 25-6 midway in the first half. Dubuque scrapped back in the second half and took its first lead, 76-75, on a (Period Baby) layup with 6:33 remaining and held off a late Luther charge.
(Mac) added 15 points for the Spartans(8-12 overall, 5-6 conference). Jim Holien, Steve Hillman, Troy Terry and Scott Heggen all had 13 points each for Luther (12-9, 7-4).
"Tonight we beat insurmountable odds, nobody felt we could play this way, said UD's (head coach). "It's an indicator of our character. They battled and that was the key."

End of article.

Not a bad little sports article in my opinion, especially the imagery of the anvil hanging in the willow tree. The first line in the article reads, "Trailing by 19 points...". That was true, but here is the rest of the story: At that time the score was 19-0, but there was just under 5 minutes to play in the first half. The part in the article about the Spartans trailing 25-6 midway through the first half is inaccurate. At like 4:50 to go before halftime I remember looking up at our big goose egg on the scoreboard and sitting on the bench wondering if Luther was going to hold us scoreless in the first half. It was at that moment when coach turned and looked down the bench and yelled, "Matt! Get in the game and lets see how tough you are!" He then turned back and began yelling at the refs or one of the other players on our team. I jumped up thinking to myself, "Why that mutha... f---er, see how tough I am?" I got in the game and scored 5 points in a matter of moments, first a three then a two pointer. Big Ced, a 6-9 brother who occasionally (do to multiple injuries) played on the football team said to me after the game that as soon as I hit that three pointer all the girls in the stands stood up and started screaming my name. After scoring the baskets each time I looked over at coach and he didn't even know what had happened or who scored because he had been to busy yelling at the starters that were currently riding the pine. I ended the game shooting 2 for 3 from the field for five points total, which was more points then Zeke, the kid from Morton, my roommate Ike Lambert, Brute Mahone, and G Money himself Brag Havatake(who didn't even make it into the box score) scored. I only played a few minutes the entire game while most of the guys I listed played major minutes. I'm not saying I was better than any of those guys or anyone else, but I always felt and still feel like I constantly had to prove myself as a worthy college level baller on the court, even if it was only Division III basketball. Some other notes of interest, Chucky Amsterdam was in the box score, so I guess he had transferred to our school and joined the team over winter break, and maybe the same goes for Rundy, who was also in the box score. As the team walked off the court after the game coach was standing at the gym's exit next to the bleachers. As I approached he stuck out his hand like he was going to shake hands with me so I started to extend my hand, but he sidestepped me and walked to congratulate and shake Cray Murphy's hand who was coming behind me. Zeke happened to be watching and chuckled a little and condescendingly remarked, "You were the spark, bro!" Gee, thanks. I thought even right at the time of it occurring that coach walking past me when I had my hand out was a once in lifetime like comic moment even though I was the one that looked the fool. I should have known better. Its all good though because I can still laugh about it to this day. I may have seemingly and possibly combined some aspects of this story with other stories in my previous blog entries, but coach was always yelling at someone when I scored a basket and he was always congratulating Murph, the back up point guard, after games. This story as I told it is how it actually happened and it was the highlight of my freshman season and one of my varsity NCAA basketball highlights while playing for the UD Spartans.

There is another story that I need to tell but I can't remember for sure which year it happened. The story is not about a slam dunk of mine or about some points I scored in a game, it is about having an end of the season meeting in coach's office with coach and Shad Spock about the season and about if I had achieved my goals. The part that confuses me about which year that this particular meeting occurred is that Spock was at the meeting. He was team captain my freshman year and he was the JV coach my sophomore year so there was good reason for him to be at the meeting either year. Also, I remember talking to Ike Lambert about the meeting afterwards which leads me to think that the meeting occurred my freshman year, although I still talked to and hung out with Ike after he transferred to Loras during my sophomore year. So I now think that this unforgettable meeting occurred at the end of my freshman season. Why it was unforgettable has to do with the fact that I broke down into tears in front of coach and Spock to the point where I couldn't speak. The look on Spock's face was like he had been forced to witness an execution for the first time or something. There was so much I wanted to say to coach but I couldn't conjure up the strength to spit it all out. I was frustrated with my class schedule and that I was missing so much class and so much practice. I was a poor kid and going into major debt attending the University of Dubuque. My middle class parents helped a little but they felt the burden of there contribution which fostered a sense of guilt inside me. I was expected to work work-study jobs, an idea which I basically ended up abandoning after being fired or quitting one to many times. I didn't have a car and had to walk a very long way to class and practice every day. It seemed no one else on the team had to carry as heavy a workload as I did. For one thing the inner city poor kids on the team got way more financial aid than I did, and the other kids on the team were from wealthy enough families that they could afford to pay tuition outright. It's been 20 years now since then and as I sit here and write this I still haven't finished paying back my student loans. Also, I wanted coach to realize himself that if he wanted the best chance for his team to win then he should have played me more. Since I was not recruited by coach (I chose UD, it didn't choose me) I felt like he didn't have a clear vision of what I could do for his team. I also was probably having guilty feelings toward the fact that I drank and smoked every day, and that I wasn't shooting baskets by myself every day like the gym rat that I had been the previous semester and for most of my life. It was a very awkward moment in coaches office and coach admitted to me on occasion that he didn't quite know how to handle me or get me to become the type of player or leader or teammate that he wanted me to be. Of course I always thought that I would be a better coach than most of the coaches I ever played for and this was true for my coach at UD too, so that was another thing I was keeping welled up inside as the tears were flowing during our meeting. I don't think anything was accomplished at that meeting. I remember apologizing to Spock that he had to sit through such a pathetic display of pent up emotion. Coach said to me before I walked out of his office, "It's OK, it means that you care." I cared alright, way to much.

Here is a poem I wrote many years ago after playing ball for the last time at the University of Iowa Field House in my hometown of Iowa City. I wrote it many years after the Dubuque experience and after I had come home and solidified my legacy as one of the ICE's most authentic and legitimate street ballers who put together and led teams to many a victory and even to a few city league titles. I want to post this poem and get it out there before it is lost, never to be contemplated, ridiculed, or enjoyed by others:

He's Given His life to the Game

But who cares?
Writing poetry with his motions, moves that only give other players silly notions, An aging hippie playing the part of, A warrior in sheep's clothing preparing for battle with unyielding determination to play for his love... the game.
But who cares?
Years preparing, learning, giving, teaching, paying the price for game. Confronting fears and strengthening weaknesses. Seen em all, played with and against some good, some great, some legends. But usually waiting, and watching in corners, practicing, or defending courts of childhood lore, once described as hardcore. It's all real...
But who cares?
Overseas the possibility of dreams await, been there too, small school. In the red for his passion and the adventures, came away with some game, some say more, while others say: "Why does he do all that practicing for?" Led teams composed of of leftovers, looked overs, or whoever would play with him to victories of unbelievable proportions, those that fell to the player and his team still not believing how and that they lost, He always plays to win, no matter what the cost...
But who cares?
"He's not that good! I can take him, his outside shot is suspect, no handles, no defense, out of control, hacking mother f-er!"
Just step to the stage, don't be fooled by his old age, bad back, bad knees, bad ankles, the basketball player's Nemesis.
But he plays on, giving for the love of the game, over coming the feeling of pain. So don't underestimate the old and the meek, those who lace them up for the passion of playing the game, it's more than victories that they seek. It's for the life and the love of the game he plays, so takers beware!
But still, nobody cares.
So there he sits, writing about a game he once played, if only the aging process could be delayed.

End of Poem


I wrote this poem after an afternoon of playing basketball at The University of Iowa Field House (in the south gym where there are 6 full courts). Playing had become a more and more spiritual experience for me every time I played. This day of playing was a day near the climactic end of my basketball journey, and I think it was the last day of playing full court at the Field House, or it was very close to it. I went by myself that afternoon. A one man gang. I parked my truck in the University owned parking lot that lied directly under the south gym, a lot that I had cleaned for years while working for the parking department. My mother parked in that same parking lot since its opening and worked at the U of Iowa Hospital across the way as an RN in the pediatric ward. I had been to Punt, Pass, and Kick competitions as a kid during the mid 1970's at this very spot before the old Field House Armory was torn down and the new south gym was built. Back in the day on this spot there was just a huge field next to the old Field House where the Hawkeye basketball teams used to play before Carver Hawkeye Arena was built, teams coached by basketball legend Lute Olson with players like Ronnie Lester and Bobby Hansen and where I saw Meadow Lark Lemon and the Harlem Globe Trotters play and where Meadow Lark hit a 3/4 court hook shot. Before going inside I said a little prayer and gave thanks for the day and for the talents and for the opportunities. It had become normal for me to do this as time had gone by and as the stakes had always gotten bigger. It was a response to the feeling I had acquired or come to terms with over the years of not knowing for sure whether or not this day or this day of playing basketball would be my last on this earth. Who knows what can happen with gangs, thugs, egos, rivals, or a fluke accident on the court playing a physical game with 9 other grown men running and jumping and checking... If things fell the wrong way it could lead to permanent injury, being assaulted, assaulting someone in self defense, jail, or even death. I admit this feeling probably evolved from the paranoia I had developed while romancing the stoned. I had seen a lot of things playing ball all those years and I had heard a lot of stories, including all the undesirable possible outcomes I mentioned. I played the game hard, and I always played on the best court if I could get in that game, and that meant playing with major Div. I athletes, sometimes against pro athletes, and often on the black guy's court, and often against gang members or rivals or who ever? It wasn't like that everyday of the year at the Field House, but weekday afternoons were like that almost every day, or at least when school was in session and when basketball was in season. I went into the gym after having to walk by the Olympic sized swimming pool that separated the south gym basketball courts from the rest of the Field House. I remember walking in the door to the gym, like I had done thousands of times before, and smelling that old familiar smell that all gyms have, a mix of sweat and floor cleaner and various deodorants. It was not a super busy day, but most courts had games on them. I shot around to warm up near the best court and soon a kid walked up to me and said, "You wanna run next game?" Of course I did. He had next game on one of the top two courts, but it was one of the courts at the far end and not the middle west side court where the best games were usually played. My team was made up of a bunch of short kids, but they were decent ball handlers and decent shooters and they played smart, never trying to do more than they could (in short they passed the ball around instead of trying to beat the defender one on one). We easily won the first game and then moved to center court. As we were playing, more and more ballers and some of the usual black crowd came in. There was some tall white dude who I saw dunk in a game earlier, and my team was matched up against his team in our second game. I had never seen him before and he was talking to some other familiar looking guys so I bet he was from nearby Cedar Rapids, a city of over 200,000 people. On one play in our game the kid was trying to get away on a breakaway but I took a good angle on the play and caught up to him and hacked him pretty good on the arm while trying to knock the ball away and as he was going in for a dunk. Sorry fella, not on my court. I heard the kid talking to a buddy before the game and they were talking about whether some kid named "the goat" was going to show up (at the time the comment stood out because one of the greatest streetball legends ever from New York was nicknamed "The Goat"). Somehow I thought maybe they were talking about me because I always sported a goatee. Anyways, we beat the kids team and then found ourselves in the position of holding and defending center court, which was about the most honored position a baller can say when they go out to the bars later that night and recant their days accomplishments to their pals or to their gal. But the story was just beginning for us that day. We ended up holding the top court for a 4 or 5 game stretch, beating stacked teams made up of players with local ballers like Toby Newsome, Rob Moore, Kevin Washpun, Diondre, etc... As the taller white kid was walking off the court after being defeated he told the next teams best player, a tall black dude with corn rows I recognized from somewhere, from C.R. I think, and I know he played college ball somewhere (Ellsworth J.C. maybe?): "Watch out for that dude, he's hardcore." He was referring to me. There were some close games in our streak, and the opposing teams kept getting more and more stacked. On one occasion the little dude on my team who originally picked me up (i.e. asked me to play) came up to me between games as the two teams were first matching up before the first check, and said, "Do we even have a chance this game?" I said, "Yeah, just play smart and hit your open shots. Then I quickly broke down the opposition and pointing to each player on the other team I said: don't let this guy shoot the jumper, make this guy shoot the jumper, keep this guy from penetrating, etc... and I'll get all the boards. In every game that day my teammates started hitting early jumpers to put us out to an early lead, and on at least one occasion Toby and his crew made a late in the game run. It was clear to see the momentum swing in those games and my team definitely got rattled near the end of some games, but we kept pulling out the wins. They would finally just pass me the ball and let me go to work when ever things got tight and I would put the team on my back. I carried us to some tough wins and my teammates were great, especially for realizing where to pass the ball at the end of games. I had some heated battles against the tall black dude from C.R. He tried to put a dribble move on me a few times, but I had seen it somewhere before, so when he faked and swerved right and cut left, I just cut left and he would collide into me and then call a foul. The same play happened about three times in a row and a fight almost erupted. I said one thing, and that was that I had reached the spot first while going for the ball when he made his moves and that he ran into me. It turned into a bit of a showdown and I was flexing my muscle, one against many, a one man gang, but it definitely could have ended badly, but the white kid who tried to dunk on me was right, I was "hardcore." I tried to use a power spin move at the end of one game when my team was having a problem even getting a good shot off, and I stepped on the C.R. dude's foot, managed to still get an easy shot off, but missed, and the dude said, "O.C. muther F---er!" O.C. meant "Out of Control" but I didn't realize exactly what he had said and at the time I even thought that maybe he was calling me an "O.G. mother f---er", which was something entirely different. We won that game somehow. The final game, exhausted and weary, went the same as usual. The game again went into duce and again I had to take over offensively for my team near the end. It seemed as though I was earning the respect and admiration of everyone there, even from the C.R. black dude who I was again matched up against in this last game. I was so worn out and was running on nothing but adrenalin, but I recognized the beauty of the moment and so I found energy and spring in my step as though I was drawing power from the land and the building and the history of this place and the special connection I had had with it for the past 20 years. On one particular play the C.R. brother was guarding me tight as I brought the ball across half court. My team had spread the floor out and"feeling it" I whispered to my opponent, "Watch my left." It was like I could feel the rhythm of everything and everyone on the court and I knew what move I had to do, which was a move and a play I had never made before, but I could feel it inside of me that I could pull it off (I felt spring in my legs). I jab stepped left then right but crossed over back to my left and I had the kid turned and the steps to the basket counted. I picked up my dribble, planted the left, then the right and with all my momentum going up and forward I went up for a left handed dunk, which would have been my first and only left handed dunk on a ten foot hoop in any game in my life. I was high enough to dunk but the defender made a last second cheap foul and barely was able but managed to push me in the hip. I was to far away from the basket, and he had just saved himself from being flushed on by a white dude at the end of a game in a half court set and after I called my shot. I called the foul, and laughed a little and walked back to the top of the key to check the ball. Everyone just stared in awe I guess? I wish I could have seen the play myself? I am not trying to brag, I am just telling the story as it happened, and I felt and feel very fortunate to have lived through and experienced such great basketball plays. I really feel in a way that the people watching some plays are more lucky to have witnessed the play then the ones actually involved. I know I was high enough to dunk, I felt the perfect plant and the perfect jump, and executed perfectly my instinctual yet preconceived plan of attack. I turned the defenders hips around so bad I was surprised he was even able to foul me, and in fact he looked very awkward doing it. My team somehow managed to score again and on the next play back at our end I grabbed an offensive board after a missed shot from one of my teammates and put up a shot after getting hammered by two dudes underneath, but didn't call the foul, and out jumped again the two taller, bigger, more athletic looking black dudes under the basket for the rebound, and went up again for what I thought was a sure two. The C.R. dude managed to grab my wrist in desperation and once again caused me to miss the shot. The ball circled around on the rim and I thought for sure it was going to fall in and that we had won (or were going to win) the game, and after I was fouled I was so out of breath that I couldn't speak or call the foul even after everyone paused for a moment, but my shot attempt just rimmed out (even with the dude hanging on my arm I almost made it) and the C.R. cat just stood there and said to me, "You gotta call your fouls." Next thing you know the ball was going the other way, they scored, scored again, and then it was over. It is not proper basketball eddicate to call a late foul and I tried to always follow the code, so it was a play I just let go do to circumstances and overconfidence and it was one I would regret. So we lost, I shook hands with the victors and my own teammates, and then went home. It was a great day of playing, but that loss still gnaws at me to this day. Going undefeated would have been a perfect ending to a great day of hoops(dare I say legendary? - it is in my own mind anyway). Once at home I felt so depressed that the day was over, that playing basketball that day was over, that I was alone, that I cost us a chance to win in the last game, and that maybe it was going to be my last time playing. It wasn't the last time I ever played, there was just as memorable one last day of basketball at the Robert A. Lee Community Rec Center, my home away from home, yet to come. Anyway, I was so depressed that I used my soka (Sanskrit for grief) and made sloka (Sanscrit) for art, and wrote the poem, But who cares?