Why I Never Ball With Hulk Hogan

"I know he isn't saying anything."

The guy saying this can't be out of college yet. In fact, I'm not entirely sure he is out of high school. What I am sure of is that he has gone out of his way to be disrespectful to me.

"What does that mean?" I respond. "Why am I not allowed to say anything?"

The guy, who is about 6'2 and athletic and reminds me of the stereotypically arrogant preppy jocks that littered my high school, continues to trash me to his friend while I stand right next to him.

"I'm sorry," I continue. "Did I do something to you? Am I unworthy of speaking?"

I have become Joe Pesci from Goodfellas.

"Please, enlighten me as to why I am not able to express myself."

There are few things more cathartic for me than a good game of pick-up basketball. I've kept my gym membership for this project, because when I am in an area with an LA Fitness, that means I get to work out and I get a nice hot shower.

Basketball is my way of relaxing and getting out physical and mental aggression in a productive manner. Of course, this is made much more difficult than it should be by the odd culture that surrounds pick-up basketball games in this country.

Go to any gym or playground in America and you'll be shocked to find that the group of full grown men playing there almost without fail will degenerate to a society not unlike the kids from Lord of the Flies. There's just the right balance of sweat, competition, and testosterone to turn reasonable men into raving lunatics. A dispute over a foul results in a fifteen minute shouting match far more often than one would imagine and fist fights are known to break out frequently.

I once had to give eye witness testimony to the local police station because a man broke open another guy's nose at center court. To be fair, the victim did double dribble and refused to acknowledge it.

I learned a long time ago that if you're too nice on the basketball court, other players will eat you alive. So when the preppy jock stereotype passive aggressively calls me a loser, I refuse to back down.

"No, really, I'm interested. Why would you say I am unworthy of speaking my mind? I want to know why you would go out of your way to disrespect me."

Though I am currently in a stage of mild annoyance (I am standing up for myself out of principle more than anger) it quickly becomes clear that Preppy Jock has become irate.

"One on one. You and me."

His friend is excited by this notion, and quickly steps in to referee. I am no stranger to the odd tradition of solving disputes with one-on-one games to seven, so I quickly agree, eager to beat this kid who clearly sees me as a fat guy with a bad beard and poorly coordinated workout clothes (which, I'll admit, is the ultimate slap in the face to a preppy jock).

"Okay," his friend says. "Game is to seven by ones and twos. Loser has to buy a bottled water. We'll start with a jump ball."

"Just give this fool the ball," Preppy Jock says with an increasingly annoying cockiness.

"No charity" I respond. "Just throw the ball in the air."

The jump ball goes up and I win it with surprising ease. Preppy Jock, completely unprepared for losing the opening tip, is caught off guard as I glide in for an uncontested lay-up. After I back him down twice for two easy buckets and a 3-0 lead, his expression changes.

"You're in trouble when I get the ball."

"If you get the ball."

I score twice more, reaching a 5-0 advantage. I am clearly too big and strong for him, but he manages to knock the ball away. When I beat him to the loose ball, he looks furious. On the next possession, he starts fouling me on purpose. He does everything but punch me in the face, but I still score. After my sixth point, I finally miss.

Preppy Jock grabs the ball and proceeds to miss an uncontested three point shot. I grab the rebound and back him down. In a moment of shameless showboating, I toss the last shot behind my back, off the backboard, and in. Not only do I win, but I shut him out.

The goal was to teach Preppy Jock respect, but instead I have just angered him more. He is on the verge of tears, and he starts arguing with me. However, instead of saying things to my face, he speaks to me through his friend.

"I challenged him to wrestle, not play basketball!"

Wait. What?

"I said, 'You and me, one on one, let's wrestle.' Not play basketball."

"I don't think he heard you say that," his friend responds.

"Hold up, you wanted to wrestle?" I ask, starting to feel bad for humiliating Preppy Jock with the over-the-back shot, and using that regret as my sole motivation to keep from laughing out loud. "Why would I wrestle you?"

I must admit I am greatly amused by the idea of wrestling to resolve our conflict. I can just imagine explaining to my friends why I am no longer welcome in any Oregon LA Fitnesses. Plus, anyone that eager to wrestle probably enjoys wrestling a little too much, if you get my drift. (That was my 'wrestling is blatantly homo erotic' joke. Aren't I clever?)

As Preppy Jock gets more and more upset, I keep my comments to myself, but here are some of the counters I was considering for his wrestling challenge:

+ A no-holds-barred impromptu game of Tiddlywinks. Winner keeps his manhood and the tiddlywink board.

+ A blog-off. Whoever comes up with the most satiric witticisms in five minutes owes the other a free latte.

+ We wrestle. Oh wait. That was his idea. Sorry. I couldn't come up with anything more absurd than the reality.

Preppy Jock's friend is eventually able to talk him off the ledge, but I never get my bottled water.

When I call my best friend Ryan to recount the story, he listens in silence until the end, pauses to reflect, and says:

"So you shot the last basket behind the back? What a douche bag move."

Thanks, Buddy. Well, at least he didn't challenge me to a wrestling match.