Lefties

Lefties

by Travis Barber 

Two of the NBA's best lefties

 “Dribble all the way home with your left hand,” demanded Troy, “it’s the only way you’re gonna learn to use it.”

Those walks home lasted forever, at least to me. Most things were just a ten-minute walk away. My brother was popular. He knew all my teachers, my classmates’ older siblings, my after-school counselors, nearly everyone. Each trip across town was littered with yo’s, what ups, and smooth handshakes. So it wasn’t always nice to be dribbling (poorly) while my bro was getting the celebrity treatment.

I thought my brother was the coolest guy ever. On a scale of 1-5, he easily scored a 10. He worked at Foot Locker, had nice clothes, multiple girlfriends, was class president, smart, funny, etc. All of this was topped by the way he looked out for me. He was truly a great big brother. Any article of clothing he handed down to me suddenly became my favorite. Sure, the gear looked silly when I was younger, but by the time I got to high school we were roughly even in height and weight.

I always got the sense that he truly believed in me. When I began drawing he supported me. When I liked writing he applauded me. So once basketball became my hobby he embraced it like any good sibling would. He taught me quite a bit about the strategies of the game, even small things that would give me an edge over competitors.

I was about 9, he had just finished beating me in a game of one-on-one, and he wasn’t pleased with my weak left hand. I was young, so he allowed me to score a few complimentary buckets, but he made sure to win the game, and teach a lesson.

 “What you gonna do now?” he asked as he shifted his stance.

He defended me with his body perpendicular to mine, right arm facing the hoop, and daring me to make a move to my left. I accepted the challenge and it became clear that I lacked the ability. He easily stole the ball or forced me into an uncomfortable shot for the remainder of the game, a veteran’s move indeed.

            Both my brother and I are lefties. So he viewed my weak left-handed game as a denial of my identity. I did everything else lefty, but sports just made sense to me from the right side. I shot, dribbled, threw, caught, and even batted righty. Troy on the other hand played basketball lefty, most times to his advantage.

Every pick-up game begins with what is called a “check”.  The offensive player bounces the ball to the defensive player, who then bounces it right back. It’s a sort of agreement before the two opposing sides begin battle.

These battles, between my brother and I, they didn’t always mean much. I can remember during my first year of high school, he played against me while his girl watched just to prove he could beat me. In her eyes, I appeared more athletic, more agile, perhaps just more like an actual basketball player. Of course, he won handily, but not without catching a sharp accidental elbow to the jaw. Let’s just say my game was still rusty. Perhaps, she saw in me what I couldn’t fully see within myself: potential.

I didn’t get a healthy dose of basketball until I reached college. Away from home and living on my own, it would’ve taken an army to keep me away from the basketball courts. I marched 20 minutes across campus to some of the nicest outdoor courts I had ever seen.  Smooth concrete and hoops with glass backboards; even visitors could turn the large park lights on once it got dark. I played nearly every weeknight, and on the weekends I’d play in the afternoon.

When the basketball team wasn’t using their arena I would go in and shoot on my own. I’d practice shooting, dribbling, and sometimes my crossover.

I finally developed the type of game awareness that you can only acquire from playing often. Small things like standing in the right place, or pacing myself so I could last for several hours. It also helped me to develop my game, and lift my confidence. I came home thinking I deserved a scholarship for my play.

By the time I finished my second year of college, I was cocky. I talked tons of trash to my brother. “Come on man, you can’t hang with me now, you’re getting old!” I boasted.

“Look boy, I will bust your ass just like I always have” he replied. Or my personal favorite, “You will not win.”

            In a way I was right, late-twenties is slightly old in pick-up basketball years. Things like a baby and a full-time job can take away the time one used to allocate to recreation.

Once I came home for the summer, I had loads of free time, and I wanted to show Troy just how much I’d improved.

“I’m tellin’ you man, it’s my time” I said.

“Yo, you mighta beat Pops, but it’s gonna be a long time before you beat me” he laughed.

“All right then, we’ll see!”

This was the type of exchange we had for several weeks before we finally set a date. We arrived at the gym and began our normal routine, we shoot around for several minutes and then I stretch out. After getting warmed up, Troy generally bounces passes the ball to me, and it is just understood that we are about to duel. It was a game to 11 by 1’s and 2’s.

This game meant more than anyone that had come before it. For the first time in my life, I finally felt like I could compete with my brother. Beyond that, if I got a few lucky shots in, I knew I could beat him. After years of losses and lessons, I felt like I had paid my dues. So on that day I needed to walk away knowing that we were basketball equals. Should I lose, it would be expected, and my brother would continue to brag that experience trounces all the work I’ve put in.

But if I win, well that would be new. I could come home and tell my parents how Troy was beginning to lose it, and I was the best ball player in the family. I could complete the transition from bratty kid, to legitimate player.

            One-on-one is very different from the typical five-on-five full court game. You must do everything for yourself. There are no double teams. You have to hustle for your own rebounds, score all of the points, defend the opposition, everything. Nobody is present to receive or give a pass. It’s a tough game to play, and each participant’s strengths and weaknesses can be magnified. In high school, tough guys would challenge one another to determine who the superior player was. “Play me in a one-on-one then!” they’d shout, as if it was an alternative to fighting. One-on-one completely undermines the team aspect of the game. Unfortunately, that was my best attribute, the ability to play well with others.

I began the game with an offensive onslaught, using several hard dribbles towards the hoop for two easy layups. After another check, I dribbled to the free throw line and sank a simple jump shot. 3-0!

Troy on the other hand couldn’t sink a single shot. He spun off of me and jumped backwards while attempting a jump shot. It was a quick miss and an easy rebound for me. As the ball caromed off of the rim, I began the trash talking.

“You gotta take the smart shot, not the fancy one!”

“Oh yeah? I like that. I’ma use that one” He chuckled.

The basketball court was the one place that I could truly let loose. I could yell, curse, celebrate, complain, and never feel out of place. That’s mostly because at any given moment, one of the other 9 guys on the court is doing the same thing.

I scored my first few buckets in my traditional manner, point blank lay-ups. That earned me a nice 7-2 lead, although I began to notice that my style took too much energy. Dribbling to the basket, waiting for the angle to open up, and making the shot exhausted me. Not to mention that my brother played world class defense. He played defense like the professionals did back in the eighties and nineties. In those days, there was a lot of contact. Pushing, shoving, and hand-checking were just natural parts of the game. I still can’t understand how guys were able to consistently score points. Any move I made towards the hoop was met with a quick rebuttal. Even so, he let me get a few easy ones. Was he tired? Probably, but I didn’t care, I needed to score my points while his guard was down.

Tenacious D

Eventually, I noticed that my brother only employed his high level of defense when I attempted to go straight to the rim. Out of desperation, I became both creative and brave. I snagged a rebound and dribbled to the left side of the court. From this angle, he didn’t defend me so closely. With the new freedom, I launched a bank shot, hoping for the ball to bounce through the hoop after hitting the backboard. The shot went in.

What made this approach unique is that so few players use it. On the basketball court, I am a righty, but I found great comfort when beginning offensive moves with my left hand. So that became my strategy, dribble with my left and score with my right. It was the same left hand that my brother encouraged me to strengthen. His strenuous training was becoming his undoing.

 I was happy with the shot and it felt pretty easy, so I attempted it again. I sunk it! My brother must’ve been winded, because he had no sense of urgency on my next shot.  That made three consecutive bank shots from the same spot on the court.

So there I was, with ten points, just one away of victory.

            The excitement began to take over me. I was one point away from victory and fully aware of it. In sports, that mindset can be a dangerous one. “Playing the scoreboard” when you’re ahead gives the winning team a false sense of comfort. That’s because no lead is safe, you must play hard until the game is complete. It is a lesson that I had to learn the hard way

As we checked the ball, my brother covered me like a blanket. I could barely shake him loose, let alone release a decent shot. So I missed an off balance lay-up terribly. He calmly took the rebound and began his inevitable comeback. Troy may be a skinny guy, but he used his weight advantage to get near the hoop and sink a few easy hook shots. He broke out an array of jump shots and spin moves to climb to nine points. He would dribble down near the hoop with his left hand then switch back to his right. With his back to the basket, he switched hands and released a silky smooth left-handed hook shot, similar to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

As this was unfolding, I was panicking. I allowed what appeared to be an easy win, turn into an epic game. I felt like I had the game won, but at that point I was unsure. I needed one point, but I’d already used two strategies to score. I was fresh out of ideas and Troy was making his expected charge. At this point, both of our shirts were drenched in sweat. The quiet intensity of our game must have grabbed the attention of the other guys at the gym, because they didn’t interrupt once.

Finally my brother missed a shot. I grabbed the rebound and dribbled straight to the three-point line to begin my possession. There he was right in front of me. I started to dribble the ball between my legs. What people outside of the game don’t know is that, dribbling the ball between your legs doesn’t get you anywhere. It is what you do when you’re deciding the next move. When Kobe Bryant or Allen Iverson does it, it looks amazing, because you know something spectacular is coming next. Not in my case. I was playing scared, and Troy was taking full advantage. I must’ve crossed the ball over for a full five seconds before finally making a move.

I began moving to my right, but Troy knocked the ball loose, proving that this last point wouldn’t come easily. I retreated to the middle of the court, needing a new approach. Now by all accounts, I am a poor jump shooter. I can do many things on the basketball court fairly well, but that is one thing you can’t learn during the walk home. What’s worse is that my shot has limited range and the rims at this particular gym are tight. One’s shooting form must be perfect for the shot to drop. From the three point line, I must use a great deal of strength to get the ball to the rim. Nonetheless, that was the shot I resorted to. At the most important point in the game, I used my weakest weapon. I launched the ball from the very middle of the 3-point line. Troy was right in my face, so my confidence in this particular heave was not high.

Physics taught me that the ball only remains in the air for about a second during a jump shot. For some reason, this particular shot seemed to hang in the air longer.

 I considered everything it took to get to this point. I remembered the long nights at the courts and dribbling with my left hand all the way home. Practicing my free throws, my crossover, but most of all just how damn tired I was.

When I released the ball, it just didn’t feel right. Although, the more it sailed towards the rim, the better it appeared. The second felt like minutes. I thought about the walk home while dribbling with one hand.

SWISH! A lifetime’s worth of losses had been avenged. I’d finally taken down my brother, in dramatic fashion too. I must’ve been completely engulfed in the competition, because as I looked around, the other end of the court was filled with players.

“Let’s play again” Troy suggested. His competitive spirit wouldn’t allow this to be the end.

“Aight, I’m down”.

I agreed very reluctantly. That game sapped my energy, but I figured I could hustle until my lungs gave out.

I began the game with the ball. Several dribbles and a mid range jump shot gave me a 1-0 lead. Fatigue was setting in, but I wasn’t ready to quit yet, this game had just started! I began my next move to the basket, dribbling entirely with my left hand as I soared off of the ground. It was my signature motion to move left and finish right. I laid the ball high off of the glass and it dropped through the net. As I finally hit the ground, I allowed my momentum to toss me to the ground. I was channeling my inner Dwyane Wade.

There I was, with a 2-0 lead, and one victory for the day sealed. It finally hit me; I needed 9 more points to win this second game. No way in hell I could summon the energy to meet this challenge again. So, my kindness kicked in. In this way I am very unlike the basketball greats, I didn’t really want to beat my brother again. I eased up on defense and allowed him to shoot his way to 11 points and an easy victory.

Fresh off the loss, I was still glowing and narrating the trailer for my unexpected victory at the water fountains.

“This was one for the ages,” I joked “one man, one shot--“

“What’s his deal?” asked family friend, Q, as he strolled up to the courts.

“He finally beat me in a one-on-one” Troy admitted.

“Oh no,” Q laughed “you can never let your little brother beat you, he’ll never let you live it down”

            Truer words have never been spoken, as I still smile at the thought of my lucky 2-point shot to win that game. We proceeded to play some full court games that day, but all I could think about was my most recent accolade.

            My brother dropped me off at home later that afternoon. I had done enough bragging about the game at the gym. I was intent to put the game behind me and carry myself with class. We said our goodbyes, and I started getting out of the car. As I stood outside the car adjusting my black Nike gym bag, Troy asked the unavoidable question,

“So when we playin’ again?”