Leaving Masterman, with Instructions

Introduction

Leaving Masterman, With Instructions

Organized Basketball

The Fall And Rise

Finally

Freshman Year of College

Sophomore Year

Junior Year

Senior Year

Epilogue & Notes

This is a free PDF of Buy A Game. If you would prefer to read it via your Amazon Kindle (or the free Kindle app available for iOS devices), you can get Buy A Game here for $2.99.

Read More By Dre Baldwin:

The Mental Handbook

The Mirror Of Motivation

The Super You

The Overseas Basketball Blueprint

“Peace, king.”

“Peace, king.”

“Listen -- there go the book on your life.

“Right.”

“Think anybody’ll read it?”

“No fuckin’ doubt.“

“Let’s make history, homie.”

“Aight, then.”

-NaS & AZ, The Flyest

Introduction

I have had the idea of writing a book for a while now, and the beauty of the Internet is that anyone can put their work out there -- websites, workout videos, books -- freely without having to navigate through the traditional gatekeepers of self-expression. The Internet also allows one to experiment and do trial runs of their work, like this book: I made it free to all because the most important part of putting this out is your response; I know I can get a lot better at this writing thing and your critiques will be my first step in doing so.

What you are about to read is my story as a basketball player -- only as it pertains to basketball -- from the time I began playing the game up to and through my college years. It is to be hoped that you find it interesting, insightful, descriptive, and entertaining. If so you should tell me. If you don’t, I want to know about that too, and why. Speak your mind.

Enjoy.

#WOYG

Leaving Masterman, With Instructions

Saying my final goodbyes after graduating from eight grade, I told Brandon, the best player in our class, that I'd see him in the future. 'Pub' games was what I was referring to, or the Philadelphia Public League, the sports league encompassing all the high schools in the city. Brandon said, "Aight, I'll see you." That was that. Middle school was over, high school was next. I left the Masterman building focused only on how I’d make the team at E&S in September.

I was on my way to the George Washington Carver High School of Engineering & Science, HSES or E&S for short. E&S was really good in basketball. Making the team there would be much tougher than making it at Masterman, which also was a high school. It was the best in the city, statistically. They didn't accept me. Thus, E&S. I was glad to leave Masterman. The shadow of being such a bad player in middle school would have loomed over me for the next four years had I stayed.

I played basketball for the first time in fifth or sixth grade during recess. I was not at all good. I couldn't dribble or shoot or pass or play defense. By eighth grade graduation, through playing at lunch every day (at least when I got picked, which was 65% of the time). I had developed one differentiating skill, meaning a skill that I was much better at than most players. A 7-footer’s differentiating skill is being 7 feet tall, for example. Standing in the corner and hitting a catch-and-shoot jumper. The shot was far from automatic but was the one thing I could do competently -- so on offense I retreated to that corner and never played beyond those means. I was not only physically incapable of affecting the game in any other way, I was scared to death of even trying and of the ridicule I’d face in response to my feeble attempts and failures.

Masterman's playground area, which was on the roof of the building, had 3 full basketball courts. The first court was always divided into two half-court games, played by the dregs of social society in our small 5th-through-8th grade community. These were the kids who only played basketball because there was nothing else to do during recess. They didn't even keep score and the goal was having fun and spending time with their friends.

The middle court was for the mediocre players and those with just enough physical ability, self-respect, and respect amongst peers to not be caught dead on the first court (me). Some competence in the game, an understanding of the rules, keeping score. These were also the students who were just-not-quite-good-enough to hang with the big boys. They (we?) knew it. The middle court is where you'd find me on the days I didn't have the patience to stand on the sidelines and watch the good guys play. The middle court usually featured a full-court game or a good-enough half-court game.

The third court was the Holy Grail. The best players. Being that this was middle school, the best players were the most naturally advanced -- earliest to hit puberty, biggest and tallest, most confident around the girls, etc. Sometimes I got picked for the always full-court games (always the last player picked), sometimes not. I never dribbled, can't recall ever scoring a layup, and usually took 2-3 shots per game. I had my share of air balls and bricks, and specifically remember getting benched one day -- getting kicked off the court and another guy replaced me, in the middle of a game because my teammates decided I’d messed up too much. The girls laughed. That was embarrassing.

The most attractive and confident girls always stood on the side of the third court and watched the best games -- these players, after all, were the only middle school boys who could even think of talking to them, and vice-versa. A girl I "dated" at the end of my eighth grade year was new to Masterman and told me how, at the beginning of the school year, her new girlfriends had walked her around during lunch and explained how things worked on the basketball courts -- playing on the middle court didn't earn me much respect initially, according to her recollection. I guess I’d become more attractive after I managed to become a rotation player on the third court.

The dudes on the third court could do it all -- dribbling, crossovers, throwing (and catching) tough passes, alley oops (for layups), strong rebounds in traffic. Many times that I was picked, I found myself watching the game more than playing in it. Masterman was also a high school, and the varsity basketball coach, who doubled as a gym and health teacher, started an intramural basketball program for us middle schoolers. The games would be once per week starting an hour or two before school started. These games had a referee and a scoreboard; I don’t even recall scoring in a game. The one shot I do remember making, a wing jumpshot, was made in a full court pickup run we had during the last week of intramurals. We were playing pick up only because the teacher who ran the program was out sick.

At the end of eighth grade year, our soon-to-be graduating class went on a trip to Dorney Park, a big amusement & water park an hour or so outside of Philadelphia. We all had our fun in the sun that day, but what I remember most clearly was a conversation I had on the bus on the ride back to the school from the park.

Brandon was, to me, the best player in our class. There were only two other players in our grade that I would even have considered in Brandon's class, and he was the most complete and game-ready amongst us for varsity high school basketball as an eighth grader. He probably could’ve played a few minutes per game on high school varsity as an eighth grader. One day after school, Brandon and I got bored watching the varsity game in the Masterman gym. We went up to the roof and played a few games of 1 on 1, with him easily destroying me every time: 10-1, 10-4, 10-0... Though it didn't feel as bad as the score was because I was hungry to figure out what it was he knew that I didn't about basketball; not by asking him but by playing against him, taking the losses and adjusting. All I really learned that day was that Brandon had talent and confidence and skills, and I did not. But, partly thanks to Brandon's positive nature despite the disparity between our respective skill sets. He could’ve talked much trash and broadcast the news to everyone for their amusement but he never did. He would bring it up to me, though, if I ever got to feeling myself too much. I wasn't in the least bit discouraged.

On the bus ride back from Dorney Park, Brandon & I had a talk about basketball and our respective futures. He was staying at Masterman (and went on to play four years of varsity ball) and I was headed to E&S.

E&S was a powerhouse at the time, led by a 6-foot-1-inch scoring guard named Lynn Greer who would go on to break the school's scoring record during his senior year (my freshman year), play four years at Temple University, and become one of the most coveted players in the Euroleague. Lynn is still playing to this day. Lynn even spent one season in the NBA with the Milwaukee Bucks, though he barely got off the bench that year, and went back to Europe. They also had a 6-foot point guard named Will Chavis who went on to play at Texas Tech for Bobby Knight; Will is still playing in Europe too, mostly in Germany. The third most-talented player was Jon Cox, a 6-6 wing that could also fill it up with ease. Jon went to the University of San Francisco and is also still active overseas; last I heard Jon was in France.

When I arrived at E&S as a freshman, Lynn was a senior, Will was a junior, and John was a sophomore. By the time I made varsity, all three of them had graduated. But we'll get to that later.

Entering ninth grade, deep down I knew I was nowhere near ready to play at the level of the "Pub," neither skill-wise nor nerves/heart-wise. But, boastful as I was, I continuously told my middle school classmates and neighborhood friends in Mt. Airy that they would see me playing for E&S over the next four years.

Brandon knew my boasts were nothing more than cocky shit talk from someone who had accomplished less than nothing as a basketball player. But, bless his heart, he was way too nice a guy to call me on my bullshit.

We got to talking about basketball, and Brandon talked about how he wanted to make Masterman into a respected program in the Philadelphia Public League The high school varsity had gone 1-20 just two years prior. I knew Brandon was very good, but he and I both knew he could not do it alone. Masterman ended up being better than terrible during our high school years, but far from a contender.

I talked about my high school basketball plans and Brandon broke down what I needed to do to make those plans happen, in what became, and still is 16 years later, the most important basketball advice I ever received.

Instruction #1: "Buy A Game." In his I'm-your-friend-so-I'm-being-honest tone, Brandon explained to me that I was garbage. I couldn't shoot, I couldn't dribble, I couldn't play D, I didn't grab rebounds. All I did was stand in the corner, and I wasn't even that great of a shooter. Without some game, Brandon told me, I wouldn't be playing for anyone.

Instruction #2: "Stop Playing Scared." I was always nervous during the lunchtime pick up games – the few that I got picked for. Careless turnovers, missing layups, giving up easy points, and just hoping to get out of the way more than trying to make plays. Brandon and I both knew that Pub games were always packed. Obnoxious students, obnoxious adults, lots and lots of girls watching, all waiting to clown you for their personal entertainment. More than enough to fray the nerves of any 14-year-old lacking any real–game experience. Like me.

It took several years, but once I finally understood, grasped, and completed my game with Brandon's instructions my game took to new levels. But it was far from an overnight thing.

Organized Basketball

I vividly recall a few key things about basketball team tryouts my ninth grade year at E&S:

•Coach Charles Brown commending me on my handmade parental waiver form (I had forgotten to get one to take home for my mother to sign the day before tryouts; I borrowed a friend's form and copied it on a sheet of blank paper while we rode the bus home from Broad & Olney).

•Lynn Greer's smooth negotiation of the floor as the previous season's starting five played for about five minutes, dominated, and sat and watched the rest of tryouts.

•At schools like mine in Philly back then, EVERYBODY tried out for the basketball team. Even at a very small school like E&S there were close to 100 boys trying out (and 15-20 girls watching). Coach Brown threw together groups of five -- chosen by names on the waiver forms, not by player size or desired position -- and each guy went for broke during his five-minute run. You earned your way to second cuts from making an impressive play or two from this random-draw pickup game.

•Reaching in and fouling my own teammate during one of my runs on the court. I didn’t even get a piece of the ball, and people laughed at me. We were going shirts vs. skins. I was skins with no muscles, so this gives you an idea of the kind of blind, fearful haze I was in during tryouts.

•A three-point shot attempt of mine hitting the ceiling. The gym at E&S was notoriously small with low ceilings. The atmosphere for home games back then was incredible. Fans lined up single-file along the sidelines for the entire games with no seats -- all within arms reach of the game action. But Lynn Greer scored 2,000 some points in that gym with the same ceiling. So...

•My lone positive play: I cut down the lane in transition, received a bounce pass, and made a layup.

•I watched Coach Brown as he watched each group play. With so many people trying out, so little time, no assistant coach, and such a small space, Brown had to make snap judgements. He had two female students sitting next to his baseline seat, and had them hold the waiver forms of each five-player unit, keeping track of who was who. I looked at Coach Brown every time someone scored a basket. More than once, a player scored and Brown would instruct his "assistant" to pull that player's waiver out of the pile. With that one play. That player had made it through first-day cuts. He wasn't saying this out loud, I was just reading the body language of Brown and the girls holding the papers.

I was unceremoniously cut the first day of tryouts my freshman year. I'd be lying to say I had expected to make that team, which went on to lose in the Public League championship game to Philly powerhouse Simon Gratz at the University of Pennsylvania’s Palestra. What I did expect, however, was to be playing some form of organized ball that year, and an opportunity presented itself shortly thereafter.

***

Charles M. Finley Playground was my local recreation center, a five minute walk from home. After years of driveway football and kickball and the old man yelling about us needing to “Go play ball at that $3 million playground!” instead of near his shiny green Cadillac, I eventually migrated to Finley for my sports fix. There was a 14 & under basketball team starting up. Tryouts were posted and I was there.

Tryouts were full of the usual neighborhood faces. We all knew each other from playing pickup on the outdoor courts at Finley and baseball, which my father coached and many of us also played. Everyone knew what everyone else could do, save for one or two new faces.

The coach of the team was a guy named Steve who, like the other Finley coaches, worked there and coached the teams. But I rarely saw any of the coaches doing any actual work, unless you call sitting in the office and eyeballing anyone that walked in Finley’s doors “work.”

Steve was a man of few words. Even though we all knew who he was, unlike the other three coaches at Finley, we knew next to nothing about his personality. The other three coaches -- Bob, Baron and Marv -- would actually play pickup basketball outside at Finley in the summers so all of us knew them and respected their authority on the game. We teens never beat them in pickup games. If we even made it interesting they would just physically overpower us to end our chances, not to mention the mental games they’d play to gain any edge. Not losing to us mattered to them. Steve appeared to be a bit older though still in his 30s, and didn't give off the aura of even an ex-athlete. Whenever I happened in the building at Finley and communicated with Steve for whatever reason, he was curt and borderline rude, every time. Every time. Before and even after playing for him. Steve just did not like having people speaking to him, period.