Ye who are faint of heart, brace yourselves. I learned a harsh lesson this weekend: Billy Madison lacks sociological accuracy. The tale of Mr. Madison would lead you to believe that the big man bullies of the world, the O’Doyle’s, they’ll be massive, unapologetic douchebags that will eventually get what’s coming to them by way of banana peel induced car accident.
I faced my O’Doyle this weekend during the opening night of my alumni basketball tournament. When I asked a friend to compare him to a professional athlete, he answered without hesitation, “Brock Lesnar.” I had hoped that he would, you know, name a basketball player, not some behemoth wrestler turned MMA fighter turned back wrestler. Sadly, the comparison was accurate. Even more disappointing: everyone seemed to like him. Not all O’Doyle’s are mean in real life (a gaping flaw in the Billy Madison script…I’m crushed). They just channel their bottled up aggression into productivity, usually with pent up hostility in sporting events.
My terror was two-fold. For one, I did not know him, therefore would not be subject to any friendly “I’ll take it easy on you” banter. Secondly, I had to guard him. For five minutes.
Luckily for me I have a superpower that allows me to live with little bone and no cartilage in my nose, so nosebleeds and broken noses are hard to come by. That said, rib and sternum bruises: I get those. I took so many elbows from this sumbitch that I stewed about how my being included in this tournament even came to fruition. I was doing them a freaking favor. There weren’t enough teams, not enough players. I only joined because they asked. Cheap shots weren’t part of the deal.
After the game I iced my ribs and ego, sipped a beer and grinned goofily to myself about how I could supremely ruin their fun by starting a mutiny (aka, “pulling a Raymond Felton on their asses”). Try playing without your players you bozos! HA! Then I realized that I was acting like this guy, and decided to gut it out the next day.
I caught bow’s to the same spot on my ribs all three days. The second day’s ribbing was from a little guy with a healthy dose of vitriol, and surprisingly good post defense. He was nice, asked if I was okay when I cringed from getting a sharp elbow to the bruise O’Doyle inflicted the day before, but then he informed me “It’s a dog eat dog world” without an ounce of sarcasm. Weekend Warriors…they come in all shapes and sizes.
To recap: 3 games played, 0-3 record, 8.0 PPG, 5.0 RPG, 32% FG Percentage (approximately…booya!), 3 elbows to ribs, one elbow to the nose, multiple minor elbows to the chest.
Even still, I think it’s time to rejoin the Weekend Warrior club. It can be fun (sometimes). Just know that I’ll be bringing a bucket of ice with me next time, and a bottle of Fireball whiskey.