Don't Hate the Playa, Hate the Hippies

The nice thing about Burning Man is that it offers a little bit of something for everyone. Because the “city” is basically run by its “citizens,” there are activities for a wide variety of individuals.

Enjoy hula-hooping? No problem. Raving? We’ve got you covered. Taking far too many drugs? Don’t get me started.

And if you’re looking for gay sex, I dare say Burning Man is your destination of choice.

I happen to be a fan of none of these activities (sorry, fellas), so I have to go a little farther to find my enjoyment. Fortunately, “the playa” offers various opportunities to play sports, and I look to capitalize on this as much as possible. The oversaturation of hippies at this event has left me needing to release aggression, and I decide that if I’m going to hit anything, it should probably be a volleyball.

A disturbing trend develops throughout the week as scheduled event after scheduled event is canceled or postponed. This rings true for kickball, four square, and rugby, which is particularly frustrating because each requires a very long walk to get to. It takes me a while to find the volleyball game, but I eventually do.

The first half hour is played without scoring, which I find to be fundamentally unAmerican. It should be noted that while I am generally liberal minded, when I get around hippies I tend to become a gun-toting, bible-thumping, flag-waving red-stater. The idea of not keeping score reminds me of the loss of dodge ball in physical education, the need to hand out participation trophies instead of championships, and the American flag waving upside down, which one of my neighbors seems to find artistic. I refuse to not keep score.

So we do keep score, and my team wins every time. It’s not that I’m particularly good at volleyball, it’s just that I want it more. It is unacceptable to lose an athletic competition to a hippie; regardless of how athletic or talented they are, hippies are always beatable due to their lack of killer instinct. So I make sure my team wins every time, using my grit and determination to will my team to victory.

It also doesn’t hurt that the hot chick on my team used to play professional volleyball in Brazil.

I continue my winning ways the next day on the basketball court. I actually am pretty good at basketball, and I make sure my opponents know it. It feels good holding court for game after game, but I start to get dehydrated after an hour or so. In the final game, my undefeated record is tested.

The game will be three on three full court. On one side, three tall athletic potheads stand poised to mellow their way to victory. On my side, I am joined by a man who has clearly never played basketball in his life, we’ll call him “Airball,” and a diminutive yet feisty baller we’ll refer to as Napoleon.

Before the game, I had played Napoleon one on one. Though I beat him six to zero, he refused to back down, citing that he could easily “take me” if not for the following reasons:

+ He is a foot shorter than I am.

+ He is wearing sandals.

+ He is very high on LSD.

All good points, and all good reasons not to be excited to have him as my only teammate capable of hitting the rim.

Our opponents, on the other hand, include a 6’6 surfer and a six foot guy in sunglasses who is referred to as “Mr. Wonderful.” Both of these men seem incapable of missing a jump shot. Their jumpers are smooth and effortless, and as the game goes on I start to appreciate NBA players’ seemingly overwhelming desire to smoke a lot of pot.

Despite our team’s shortcomings, I am able to keep us in the game, due to three decided advantages:

+ I have clearly played more basketball than anyone else playing.

+ I am significantly bigger and stronger than our opponents.

+ I am one of only two players wearing shoes.

I should explain. Napoleon was complaining so much about wearing sandals before the game that he convinced the others to take their shoes off, despite the rugged dirt surface of the court.

I refuse to take off my shoes, citing my non-negotiable rule of never removing any article of clothing based on the request of a man who has recently taken LSD. We agree that Mr. Wonderful and I will keep our shoes.

Equipped with shoes and skills, I am able to keep our team in the game. When the other team rotates a new player into the game, I swat his first lay-up attempt twenty yards away, displaying my physical dominance to the naked women passing by.

None of them seem to care.

But I care, and I use every last bit of strength to drive past the three defenders and power in the game winning shot. It seems like a victory at the time, but when I am unable to secure water afterwards, my physical exertion comes across as decidedly less impressive.

The walk home is a few miles, and by the time I get near the van I have developed severe cottonmouth. With the van in site, I start sprinting to get to the water inside but stop, realizing that I am incapable of running without passing out.

Walking slowly to my desert oasis, I rejoice in chugging as much water as possible. It strikes me that I have seriously jeopardized my health just to beat a bunch of druggies in basketball, but as I take another swig, I glance up at the American flag waving upside down on the trailer behind me and decide that it was definitely worth it.