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*** Al Dillard arrived at the Skyland Rec Center in Denver, Colo., to get in some off-season burn before he returned to American University in the fall. It was the early seventies, a time when summer days at the Sky were filled with cats that brought serious game to the daily runs that went down at high noon. Al was a hulk of a man who had led the nation in rebounding the previous season at AU. Physical contact was nothing new to him. As the action progressed, however, the run got overly chippy. Elbows were connecting with ribs, noses, and necks on a regular basis as the intensity level on the court climbed in sync with the humidity levels of the gym. Finally, after one too many hard fouls, Al Dillard had had enough. He got all sorts of fired up and started screaming at everyone who would listen. The run was interrupted as Al raced to one end of the floor, jumped, and ripped the hoop off of the backboard. Everyone in the gym looked on in disbelief as Dillard proceeded to the other end of the court and repeated the same de-rimming act. "I'm not gonna play anymore," said Dillard as he wore both rims around his neck. "And by the way, no one else is gonna play either." With that, Al Dillard walked out of the gym. *** David "Skywalker" Thompson competed with Julius Erving for the crown of the most explosive and exciting player of the famed ABA, before joining the NBA as part of the Denver Nuggets. Unfortunately, problems with drugs and alcohol cut his career short in 1985. His legend, however, was already made. In the early 80s, Thompson was running indoor summer ball during his off-season. Harry Hollins, a solid baller in his own right, owned the gym where Skywalker was balling. In the middle of a non-descript run, Thompson slashed down the lane and skied over some poor cat's head. The resulting flush shattered the backboard and ended the full court action for the day. "Back then, it only cost about $350 to replace a backboard," said Hollins. "Thompson, well he goes out into his car and comes back with ten $100 bills. He was handing me a thousand dollars and I told him it was way too much. Instead of taking some back, he just smiled and said 'Give some to the kids' and drove off." *** It was a sweltering summer afternoon in College Park, Md., and the auxiliary gym in the Cole Field House was a sweat box. During the hoop off-season, a number of pros and some of the University's finest ballers always gathered in the small gym for some serious run. This particular day was no different with Chris Webber, Michael Adams and Rod Strickland - among others - hitting the boards in the midst of the mid-day heat. The regulars didn't notice the one newcomer, a kid fresh from his high school graduation. The unknown baller waited his turn on the sidelines as the first game got under way. As he stretched and looked over the competition, a feeling of confidence slowly seeped over his body. He could hang with these guys, he knew he could. At the conclusion of the first run, the newcomer joined the challengers on the court. They were to face the team led by Chris Webber. The run started and, as usual, C-Webb was being his typical smack spewing self as he sprinted to D-up his man during the second trip back down the floor. "I don't get dunked on. Ain't no one ever dunked on me," he taunted. The words were barely out of his mouth when a shot was heaved from the top of the key. C-Webb turned to face the rim and his body tensed as he prepared to snag a potential rebound. The shot clanged off the tin and Webber coiled to spring skyward. Just as he prepared to elevate, he felt something brush past his shoulder. He looked up just in time to see the new kid jumping over his back to catch the rebound above the rim before banging it home with a vicious one handed flush. After the monster slam, the kid ended up sitting on Webber's shoulders like he was preparing for a chicken fight in the shallow end of the city pool. The gym was filled with the sounds from the howling onlookers as the two were separated. "No one does that to me," said Webber. The new kid just smiled. Steve Francis had arrived. His legend was born. *** . In Fall River, Chris Herren was enjoying his senior season at Durfee High School. Chris was one of the best players in Massachusetts and on this particluar night, he was involved in an intense one-on-one battle. The Durfee squad was playing their cross town rival and the dude that was d-ing up Chris was all up in his grill every time down the court. In the beginning of the run, Chris let the words slide off his shoulders but his tolerance slowly started to fade as the game wore on. During one of the opponents' possessions, the kid that was guarding Herren took the pill on the left wing and hit a three in Chris's face. As they ran back down the court, the dude was all over Herren, abusing him with his verbal attacks. Finally, Chris had enough. He called for the ball and isolated his trash talking nemesis at the top of the key. They were both chirping now, yelling back and forth as the crowd rose to their feet in recognition of the battle for respect that was about to go down. Herren's opponent was deep into his defensive stance, arms and legs spread, mouth running. Chris stood in place, dribbling, before issuing a simple warning, "Don't ever f*** with my sh**." With that, he wound up and threw the rock as hard as he could off the forehead and face of the dude who was stupid enough to challenge his manhood. Chris grabbed the carom as his opponent fell, took two dribbles and flushed over the team's big man. It looked close enough to be a pass for anyone to argue against the move, but those in the know didn't doubt the motive and the message it sent: don't ever front on Chris Herren on his home court. *** If you want to see the best three-point bomber you've never heard of, take the time to visit the Martin Luther King Recreation Center in Birmingham, Ala. When you walk onto the ancient court, ask for a cat named Mule, the 55-year-old legend of the gym. No, he can't tell you where you can find the city's three ball champ; he still is the city's three-ball champ. Mule has been hanging around the MLK Center for over 30 years, and his eyes show the wisdom of a man who has seen the best come and go time and time again. As a young man, Mule had the handle of Skip, the quickness of Iverson and the j of Bird but his lack of education prevented him from "making it." Back in the day, you couldn't be named the best baller in Birmingham without first taking on Mule and it was a rare day that his title was challenged - let alone taken. As the years passed, the quickness was erased from his legs and his hands couldn't dribble the ball in the ways his mind commanded. The touch of his shot, however, never left. Mule balled into his middle age and when he couldn't do anything else, he would stand at the top of the three-point arc and drain any pass that found its way into his hands. Now, at 55 years old, Mule doesn't have the mobility to run with the young guns who have taken over the Center. That doesn't stop him from competing in his own way. Every Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m., Mule challenges any and all comers to a three-ball competition. For a dollar donation to the gym, you can bomb away against the old man to the delight of the always-present crowd. Five racks of five balls each are set up around the arc and the scoreboard is set to 45 seconds. The rules are simple: Mule shoots second, and when you lose, you owe the gym another dollar. Think you can beat the old man? Think again. Mule has lost only 12 times in the past 10 years. On any given Friday, he'll take on upwards of twenty challengers, so you do the math. He's been known to drain all twenty-five balls during one round - the man is legit. Does he have any advice for anyone who wants to challenge his title? "Don't sleep on the Mule," he says with a wink and a smile. In Jackson, Miss., Kurt's Gym is the place to go for the hottest hoops action in town. During the summer, the court is filled with cats from the League who turn out to get their daily dose of off-season run. They clash with the local ballers in games that measure respect instead of points. When the weather turns cold and the NBA season is under way, the local playground legends once again reign supreme at Kurt's. One such legend, A.D. Hilliard, will never be forgotten. Each winter, Kurt's Gym holds a dunk contest that is reserved for the local crew that visits the joint on a regular basis. The winner walks away with some loot from a local sporting goods store and the yearlong respect of the local hoop community. In an effort to make the contest fare, the gym's owner had established a category for those under 6-0 in addition to the main contest that was open to cats of any height. Hilliard, who stood 5-1, wanted no part of the contest for the little guys and entered himself into the open competition. As the contest wore on, it was apparent that the diminutive Hilliard was hangin' tough with the guys who literally skied over him. A.D. couldn't palm the ball, so his only chance to win was dependant on his ability to pull off Spud Webb like bangs. Entering the final round, Hilliard was tied with a cat who stood 6-6. A.D. grabbed the pill and stood out of bounds, behind the backboard. The crowd that had gathered moved to give him room as he sized up his final attempt. Hilliard bounced the rock twice before carefully lofting it up and over the backboard. As the ball descended on the other side of the glass, A.D. ran into the paint, jumped off two feet, spun off a 360 and grabbed the bar on the underside of the backboard with his left hand. His leap was timed perfectly because the ball had taken a huge bounce off the floor and hung at rim level, waiting to be flushed home with his right hand. The 5'1" Hilliard had won the contest. *** Two years ago, at Washington Park in Roxbury, Mass., Lamar Odom showed up to ball. Wayne Turner, who played at Kentucky and had been running at Washington since he was a kid, was also there for the morning burn. Odom and Turner played on opposite teams, not guarding each other. Lamar was having his way and Wayne got pissed on his home turf, so he beat his man off the dribble and went strong to the hole. Lamar came over to help but he was too late and Wayne dunked on him. Next time down the court, Lamar, 6-9, went to the hole stronger and Wayne, 6-3, came from the backside and rejected his throw down. Wayne's the quiet type and wasn't saying anything, but all his boys were whoopin' it up. So again Wayne drove to the hole, but Lamar was waiting for him. This time, Odom palmed Wayne's flush attempt and raced to the other hoop for a tomahawk. On his way back to play D, he passed Turner at mid-court and said, "This ain't your court, it's mine." The game was delayed for five minutes while the two were separated and calmed. *** Philly is known as a tough town, and the city's J. Erving Summer League is no exception to that rule. In a recent run at 52nd and Parkside, an argument with a ref literally ended a night of balling. Word is, some dude named Face was T'd up after a hard foul. As a result, a baller from the opposing team drilled the first of two free throws and was preparing to take the ball from the ref for the second shot. Face, still steaming over the call, stepped in and wrestled the rock - his rock - away from the official. Finally, Face decided it was time to leave - with his ball. He took his team and walked off the court. The problem? No one else had a second rock, so the J. Erving League grinded to a halt for the night. *** When he's in Oklahoma City, recording artist and part time baller R. Kelly likes to hoop at Woodson Park Gymnasium, a prime joint for pick-up ball. Before the singer arrives, word spreads quickly and the gym is bumpin' with fine honeys who pack the house to see Kelly in action. Two years ago, on a mid-August afternoon, R. Kelly rolled into the gym and stepped onto the court to the high-pitched screams of a thousand female fans. The young cat who was guarding him, Ice, dug in on defense. There were a thousand reasons not to get punked by the visiting celeb. Throughout the game, Ice's constant hand checking and hard fouls were taking a toll on Kelly. The singer was held to 5 points when the final whistle blew and that was, in his mind, unacceptable. As they were walking off the court, Kelly made the challenge to Ice, "One run. You and me, up to 15. A Grand to the winner." "Let's go," was the reply. A deafening buzz erupted in the gym when the crowd became aware of what was about to go down. R. Kelly laid the bills down on the sideline and stepped to the top of the key. Ice followed and checked the ball with Kelly before plotting his first offensive move. Ice dribbled right twice before pulling back hard to the left as the rock crossed over Kelly's desperate swat. It was too late - Kelly's mind knew what was happening but his body refused to react. As Kelly's legs continued to flow right, his foot stuck to the floor and his ankle buckled under the pressure. The singer crumpled to the floor with a sprained ankle and a severely bruised ego. Ice stood over Kelly, laughed, grabbed the money and walked out of the gym to the sound of the still howling crowd. Back in the early 90s, the Rucker was the site of an improbable last second heave by an NYC playground legend. Master Rob - ballin' for Mosley's Tigers - was locked into a sick run during the EBC playoffs that had the Park bustin' at the seams. With two ticks left on the clock, Master Rob and Mosley's Tigers were down by a deuce. What happened next would make Christian Laettner jealous. Mosley's Tigers had no timeouts remaining and only a chance for one last prayer. The rock was inbounded to Master Rob who quickly took a dribble and launched from mid-court. The once raucous crowd was silenced as the ball sailed through the air towards the waiting rim. An eternity seemed to pass before the twine was snapped by the heave. Then all hell broke loose. The bleachers emptied out onto the court as the amped crowd lifted Master Rob on their shoulders and proceeded to carry him out of the Park. The celebration spilled out onto the street as Master Rob quickly realized he was at the mercy of the euphoric mob. As the excitement level rose, the game's hero became the target of some overzealous playground fanatics. The crowd began to rip the uniform off of Master Rob and didn't stop until he was standing in nothing but his drawers and kicks. He was stripped of everything but the victory - they could never take that away. *** Vermont is known more for maple syrup and cold-ass winters than quality playground ball, but one of the nastiest moves we've ever heard of happened in the quiet New England state. On the courts of South Park, in Burlington, an athletic guard named Lynn Smith pulled off the impossible. In the mid-80s, Champlain College had a team full of some serious ballers, including Smith. Most of the squad stuck around over the summer and hooped at South Park - a local court that saw some surprisingly sick action. During one of those runs, Smith was facing a heavy press while bringing the rock over the half-court stripe. When he reached the top of the key, Smith lost control of his handle for a split second and a defender who was behind him pounced on the apparent opportunity for an easy steal. The defender dove at Smith's knees with the hope of grabbing the loose ball. Instead, Smith grabbed the ball, used the opponent as leverage and did a back flip over the unsuspecting defender. After landing, Smith took two dribbles before flushing. The action stopped as both teams congratulated Lynn while the refs conferred at the scorers' table. There wasn't a soul present that day who had seen anything like it before. Well, almost. "I do that all the time," Lynn Smith said when asked about the move. That might be debatable, but once is enough for us. Chandler Thompson, then a star at Ball State in the late 80s, was ballin' in the Soul Bowl summer hoops tournament on the school's campus in Muncie, Indiana. Thompson and his Ball State teammates would eventually go on to almost knock off Larry Johnson and the Runnin' Rebs in the NCAA tournament. This day, however, Chandler Thompson had other things on his mind. There was a dunk contest to win. C-T stood at just 6-4 but possessed the hops to compete with cats who were much larger and much stronger. During this particular dunk contest, Chandler had started out strong but was personally unimpressed with his dunks' level of difficulties. He had flushed over a bike and a guy in a chair but he realized he needed to do more to win. There was one dunk left, Chandler had to end big. His friend Jay Edwards, an Indiana Hoosier, was in the gym and Thompson approached him for advice. "My Firebird is in the parking lot," Edwards said. Both friends smiled and nodded in agreement. The car would be brought into the gym. A buzz went up over the crowd as Jay Edwards drove his whip into the gym and parked it underneath the rim. Chandler walked to the opposite end of the court and focused on the newly placed obstacle. With a deep breath and a hop he was away, screaming toward Jay's ride. The roar of the crowd didn't reach Chandler's ears as he coiled just inside the foul line before vaulting skyward. In a second it was over. He had cleared the Firebird and flushed with two hands. As soon as he landed, the judges placed the winner's trophy in Thompson's hands. There was no argument. |
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