Jake (toughest pound-for-pound): "...really dense linebacker's muscle as opposed to the fast-twitch, sprinter's musculature of my genetics."
I can’t talk about old friends and basketball without thinking of my buddy Jake, who would have had a birthday this week. By the time we met I was in slightly better physical condition than my Detroit days, though I hadn’t yet quit cigarettes. And of course any gains I’d made in endurance we’re offset by the thin, Denver air. The Colorado natives assured me I’d be acclimated after a few days; but in my case, simple tasks still left me gassed and gasping several weeks after my move.
Conversely, I don’t think Jake had ever smoked a cigarette in his life. He’d been an All-State wrestler at his Illinois high school; could easily roller-blade 20 miles or more of uneven Colorado terrain; and had been an avid mountain biker for the year he’d lived in Denver before I met him. So he was in top-notch condition, and had a real advantage in our 1-on-1 match-ups.
I can’t recall how we got started on those basketball games since neither of us was very good; but like all great rivalries, we were very evenly matched in ways that complimented the other. Jake probably had an inch or two of height on me, and about 40 pounds of muscular weight to throw around; but his shot was surprisingly bad--even worse than mine. His shooting percentage couldn’t have been more than 25%; but it was an odd 25% in that it was consistent from anywhere on the floor: the free-throw line; half-court line; simple lay-ups. It didn’t matter, Jake would hit about 25% of the time.
As for myself, my shot had greatly improved since my Detroit days. Couple that with my serious ups, erratic rhythm, and Rodman-inspired defense and I played bigger than my 145 pounds.
But the deciding factor was always Jake’s motor, which was off the charts. In fact, our games consistently played-out the same way. I’d jump out to a 5-0 or 6-0 lead, before I’d hit an inevitable wall of fatigue. Jake would then rattle off six or seven unchallenged lay-ups in a row ‘til I could finally rally my efforts. We’d battle like crazy ‘til we were tied at 10 (games were always to 11) at which time Jake was sure to announce, “gotta win by two!” Man, that always sapped my spirit. It took herculean efforts on my part to get to 10; then Jake would drop that win by two comment with a shit-eating grin and I’d suddenly feel all the lead in my legs and fire in my lungs.
Needless to say, I usually lost our wars by scores of 13-11 or 14-12; but we were both such bad shooters it could take a half-hour or more to get those last two points. Then I’d collapse to the floor with the giddiness of exhaustion.
“Come on Lodo,” Jake would say as he continued to throw the ball off the glass backboard, “lets play one more.”
Jake wasn’t the toughest guy I ever met; but he was definitely the toughest pound-for pound: 5’ 10”; 185 pounds in perfect, bricked-out condition. Really dense, linebacker’s muscle as opposed to the fast-twitch, sprinter’s musculature of my genetics. He had abnormal strength for his size--particularly in his legs; and combined with his wrestling skills was a force to be reckoned with. Especially if he was angry. I’d seen him take-down and really hurt guys that were 3" or 4” taller; and 20 or 30 pounds heavier.
But for all that, he had a giggly quality to him. At least around me. The guy was an easy laugh; and we we must have shared a million in the decade that we were friends. A million laughs and a hundred or so trips, and you know how tight that makes you.
One time--May 10, 1995 to be exact; we ate a bunch of mushrooms and went to a Rockies game at Coors Field. Not that either of us gave a shit about baseball; but Jake got a free pair of tickets from his work. So we went to the game with our heads full of booms, which I can assure you was about as stupid an idea as it sounds.
Course it took time for them to kick-in. We’d got thru the national anthem and even a Coors beer before the farcical moronity of a professional baseball game and human existence slowly began to reveal itself. The thousands of hairless monkeys gathered in their team colors to play one of 162 meaningless games as the waves of anxious energy flowed out my gut and morphed into a Jello-Pudding smile that remained fixed to my face for hours.
But still just warmth. A genuine feeling of controlled mirth. Until a fan in front of us stood-up and shouted “Let’s go Rockies!” seemingly out of nowhere, with invested emotion. Jake and I looked at each other and immediately fell into a laugh-attack that never ebbed. Soon Jake was screaming “Let’s go Rockies!” like a wild man--at completely inappropriate times, ‘til we began to draw confused, concerned stares.
“Boy, you guys must really be enjoying those Coors,” commented a man seated next to Jake.
“What?” Jake responded, surprised to be engaged, “the only thing worse than this swill is professional baseball.”
“Really?” the guy asked, “...then why’d you accept the tickets?”
“Accept the tickets?” Jake asked with piqued curiosity. “What d’ya mean by that?”
“Well don’t you work at _____?” the guy said as he handed Jake his card, “We comped you guys these tickets. I’m _____, your wine distributor.”
Oh man!--the look on Jake’s face. The sudden, rapid blinking of the eyes. The almost Parkinsonian shake of his head as he tried to process his next move. It sent me over the edge and I exploded into a deep-down belly laugh I couldn’t contain. My sides rocked with peals of hilarity as Jake stared silently at me with his confused countenance, which only elevated the comedic aspect.
But of course laughter’s contagious, and very soon not only Jake was laughing but even the wine distributor was forced to give-in to my mood. At least he was.
For 30 seconds.
...A minute.
But after three or four minutes it became apparent that Jake and I weren’t gonna stop. In fact, our laughter (which had already started at a pretty-high pitch) only escalated as our energy fueled itself to further heights. Each time we tried to catch ourselves the obvious struggle to do so sent us back into another fit. Until finally the wine distributor, in a rather dry, John Cleese delivery rolled his eyes saying “Oh come on!” which sent us both literally to the floor. With the discarded peanut shells, the empty plastic beer cups. Kicking the seats in front of us and pounding the concrete with our fists ‘til security came and led us out despite it being only the 2nd inning.
Ah well, still the best baseball game I’ve ever seen. Let’s go Rockies!
* NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images except those of Jake and the Rockies ticket.
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