Maybe it’s because I grew up watching Gary Payton jaw back and forth with Michael Jordan in the NBA finals or go full motor mouth every time he played Karl Malone or any other superstar. Maybe it was the competitive fire that my father instilled in me from day one, not to back down, to stand my ground, and push back full force. Maybe it was because I was smaller than everyone else from the moment I started playing and I always had that chip on my shoulder and the desire to not let someone else bully me, walk all over me, and punk me like I wasn’t going to fight back. I’m sure it was a garden-variety mixture of all of the above. The fact of the matter is; if we’ve played competitively against one another the odds are I’ve probably tried to fight you at least once.
I’ve been playing basketball for a long time now. I can’t remember exactly how long, but it’s been a while. A community center team here, another rec team there. The game was so much fun and my teammates and I all enjoyed playing with one another. (Maybe I shouldn’t speak for all of them). In elementary school, if you weren’t playing kickball or dodgeball outside on the upper platform of BF Day, then the odds are you were playing basketball on one of the two courts beneath. This is where the fire began to ignite. My guy Alexey, who I still see every now and then in Seattle, could attest that as we got older the games on those courts got more and more competitive. I mean there were little kids crying, elbows being thrown, you name it. The “Bad Boys” Piston squads would have been proud of us. One of my best friends at the time, Joel, always used to play with one of our other best friends, Nathan. When we all played together on the same team we were the squad. I don’t know what happened one day, but Joel and I were playing against each other and the game got pretty chippy. The tea kettle was whistling. One thing led to another, a hard foul and then an accidental trip, and next thing you know a battle ensued. He threw the ball at me, I walked over to this little hill area and popped him in the back of the head and that was that. Ping. Ping. Done. Just another case of good old tempers flaring.
In middle school, the height difference between me and the eighth graders was glaring and this also translated to the basketball court. This didn’t change in seventh grade and it didn’t change in eighth either despite my new standing as a middle school upperclassman. The style of play evolved around me and I knew that if I was going to succeed at the game I was gonna need to be fearless. I was going to need to get under people’s skin. I needed to create advantages for myself. In eighth grade, the only year I made varsity at Hamilton, I was one of fifteen on a NBA sized team. My opportunities were few and far between, but I tried to take advantage of every moment I was granted. My game revolved around the little things; picking up people full court (or trying to), tugging on other people’s jerseys, hitting a random backboard three every once in a while, and being a dependable player to my coaches. Not playing very often probably had an effect on me, too. It made me more angry. Made me more frustrated. And it only increased my desire to prove people wrong.
In high school, everything that I struggled with was maximized. Now I was playing against elite competition and against some players that would not only play D1 in college, but one or two would even go on to play in the NBA. My role on my high school team wasn’t noteworthy by any means. However, this began an era in which I started to lash out at opposing players and my friends, as well. There was one summer league game in high school and we were playing at one of the upper gyms at Hec Edmunson Pavilion (now known as Alaska Airlines Arena), the home of the Washington Huskies. UW served as a sanctuary to me during my youth because every summer I would go to the team’s basketball camps, so much so that I became a regular. During this game in particular, we were playing Bellevue and the gym was packed with other teams, parents, other spectators, and a few members of the UW staff (I don’t think Coach Romar was there at that moment, but he was around). By the middle of the game we were getting our asses kicked and—like any good Bellevue team—they had no intention of taking their foot off the gas. Finally the game started to get out of hand, coaches talking back and forth to each other, players jawing, shit talking, the usual, but nothing could take my attention away from the fact that they were up by 40 and still fast breaking. Still leaking out and getting easy layups. That didn’t sit too well with me. On the next play we missed and a Bellevue guy got the long rebound and bolted down the court. In my mind I was thinking that there was no way in hell that this guy would make this next shot, so I sprinted after him at full speed and the moment he jumped and began to rise up I met him about halfway and with full force took him down to the floor, not even attempting to block the shot. Back in the day that’s a hard foul, a flagrant for sure, and I probably get ejected. In today’s game I would have been suspended for a week. Truthfully, I had no intention of blocking the shot and every intention of tackling the shit out of this guy. It just so happened that as he went up my arm found its way to his neck/head/shoulder area, so it looked like I probably was trying to decapitate him instead of just hitting him hard. My coaches weren’t very happy with the play, but I didn’t care. I wanted to send a message and the message was sent.
Meanwhile, I’m playing games all through the summer with my best friends. We’re playing outdoors, indoors, in community centers, at Hoopfest, in Seattle, outside Seattle, on vacation, you name the place, we played there. Basketball was life during the school year and those three summer months afterwards. Hoopfest was another place that seemed to bring out teams filled with douchebags. Jackson, Erick, Ted, Tyler, and Ryan can attest. There were a couple teams we played that we strongly considered going head up, saying fuck the game, and just fighting them then and there. Dirty screens, bitch ass players, I mean it took every ounce of energy not to go up for a layup and shove the ball right in their face on every possession. Even their weak ass fans were talking shit. It was pathetic. Not to mention that Spokane was flirting with the 90’s during those tournaments, so maybe the heat was partially to blame. Whatever. Oddly enough, this awkwardly segues into me having almost come to blows with some of my closest friends while playing basketball. It’s comical, it’s sad, and it’s true. I’ve played my brother Jackson for years and years. One on one games, 21-games, against each other frequently. Jackson has beat me in hoop his fair share (he probably knows the number, I probably do too). Naturally, I don’t like losing, so if we played series’ of three games or five games or seven games, the game’s would get more intense. If I’m losing I get more physical. I bump more, get more handsy, foul a little more and depending on how much I piss him off, Jackson goes into “back-down-dip-shoulder-into-chest” mode. We’ve fought and battled, shoved, ‘bowed, and threatened (probably me the majority of the time) but we’ve never thrown punches. We’ve just talked a whole lot of shit and exchanged a cuss word or two. It’s all love, though. Just ask Carson. Carson and I have only recently been able to play basketball with one another. There was a period when we used to play at night at Hec Ed. There were five of us, six of us. Carson and I got the same dog in us, so after several games or so of pure competition and fighting and hard-nosed play, it was bound to boil over at some point. Carson and I have been face to face before, but we’ve never squabbed. A whole lot of shit talking. 100 percent physicality. Hard fouls. I’ve chucked a ball at him. 90’s basketball, baby. I love playing basketball with him though because I know exactly what I’m going to get and I’m sure he feels the same way. Sully and I have had some historical games. I can’t remember the exact scenario, but I probably played one of the toughest seven game series at Hec Ed against that man. Borderline exhaustion. Stingy defense. Neither of us wanted to lose. Every possession more and more bumps, smacks, swipes. If you ask him though, he’ll tell you that he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Some people don’t want to exert their max energy or play against someone that is going to play their hardest against you. Sully welcomed that challenge all the time and so did I. Shit. I’ve almost fought Miles. I’ve almost fought Chris. I’ve almost fought Ted. Erick plenty of times. Jordan. Noah. Ashkon. Josh in LA. Verbal sparring. Bumping and brusing non-stop. The list goes on and on and on.
Like my Hamilton basketball coach Mr. Davis said a long time ago. “I don’t know what it is about you Josh, but people just don’t like you.” To this day I have used that quote to my advantage as best as I could. Nobody likes playing someone that will go full out every second of every play. Nobody likes playing someone that will foul you hard. Nobody likes someone that’s smaller than them, someone who doesn’t back down, stays talking shit, and pushes back. I’m sure I’m on most people’s shit list of people to never play basketball with. Some people won’t hoop with me anymore. That’s ok. I’m not sorry, though. I can’t apologize for taking every game I play 100 percent seriously. I can’t apologize for hating to lose.
For the ones that keep playing with me and keep checking that basketball and keep going hard; I love, appreciate and respect you for bringing the best and worst out of me. It’s all love. Because at the end of the day…
If I wasn’t trying to fight you, then I was never having any fun.