Longshot (16 page)

Sophomore season began
in November, and it went as expected, with all the usual name-calling and degrading insults one would expect. Usually I was referred to as “Cunt Extraordinaire,” or else Coach would finger-spell “cunt” to me to make sure there was “no miscommunication between us.” Why was coach being so mean? Coach was irritated with me because I had been instructed by our trainer not to practice in the tail-end section of two-a-day practices to keep my back from flaring up again.

Coach loved his two-a-days. Every weekend, on Saturday and Sunday, for the first three weekends of the season, Coach had two-a-days. He would've had two-a-days every day were it not for school. Coach loved his practices. He got to listen to himself talk for three hours every day without interruption as we stood there on the baseline like bowling pins.

After a late night where Coach kept us up until 2 a.m. watching film, we had to pack our bags and be at the airport by 6 a.m. to fly to Alabama. As a program, the University of Utah men's basketball team was the epitome of logic in action.

That morning, dazed and confused, I walked through the security checkpoint—my first time doing so since 9/11. I moseyed about looking for something to eat. I was minding my own business, just looking for a damn smoothie, when I heard Coach, with a McDonald's breakfast sandwich stuffed in his mouth, say, “Lance, we're meeting back in the security room to watch film! Just go—” He stopped and swallowed his food, his face growing red with irritation at me even though I had done nothing wrong, nor had I said anything. I knew full well we were meeting for film, which wasn't for another ten minutes, more than enough time to get myself a smoothie. Sometimes I just need a smoothie.

“You know what? You're not going to set me off today, Lance.” He said this as though it was more for himself—an empowerment mantra. “Strohm!” Coach beckoned, and like Louis XIV, he waved me off.

“Take Lance away.”

I don't know what surprised me more: the fact that I inadvertently required Coach to begin positive self-affirmation or that Coach was able to secure a security room to watch something as trivial as a basketball game on some security monitor so soon after 9/11. Either way, the smoothie would have to wait, although Coach still allowed himself enough time to eat his food.

After watching film we got on the plane and flew to Alabama. During practice that day, Coach hurled obscenities at anyone who entered the arena, even a lowly janitorial assistant with Down syndrome. In Coach's defense, his tirade began to lose wind once he realized that Jimmy the Janitor was special.

The next night I scored ten points and grabbed five rebounds, even though we got a nice shellacking. I made my first bucket, but I totally traveled and luckily wasn't called for it. It was the only field goal I attempted that game, and I made all eight of my free throws, much to Coach's surprise. He had previously written me off as someone who couldn't shoot the ball well and had allowed me to shoot only layups. There's such a thing as overcoaching, and at some you point you just have to go out and play basketball.

Toward the end of the game, after I made a great defensive play, blocking a dunk, Coach pulled me to the side in the huddle and said, “You really are a warrior.” It was to me, and only to me. There was no sarcasm, no showmanship, no audience. It was just me and Coach. And when he coached like that, he could be the most inspiring coach to play for. I'd have done anything he asked of me in that moment. If only he could have remained that way all the time.

I was in Coach's good graces for the next two days, as he recalled my toughness throughout the next few practices and the size of my testicles, metaphorically speaking. Coach was so complimentary toward me that my teammates began to tease me in the locker room. I was fine with that. It was nice being on top of the world, knowing that Coach was pleased. And yet I feared so much that I would let him down. I in no way thought I had arrived. I feared I'd lose it. And I did, the next game, against Arizona State.

In the first sequence that I was subbed in for Chris, there was a loose ball on the floor, and we were on defense. I was the one nearest the ball, and I saw my teammate Jeff Johnson leaking out for a layup. I quickly tried to pick it up and lob it to him, going for the home-run play. Instead, an opposing player dove between my feet to knock the ball away into his teammate's hands for an easy layup. Coach was livid. Had I made the play, I would've been a hero. But because I was a nanosecond too late, and the other guy dove for it and I didn't, I came away looking the weak part. I'm not afraid to dive on the floor for loose balls, trust me. But if I see a quick two points for my team I'll always go for them before I'll go for a possibility of points from a quick hustle. Hustle points don't count on a scoreboard, just like brownie points don't really get you into heaven.

When I dejectedly inbounded the ball, Coach was standing at the half-court line, hollering for my attention: “Lance…Lance…you pussy!” It was a quiet gym, and everyone heard it. And I died inside. I wanted to hide. As I had feared, I lost Coach's favor in just one game. The very next play, an opponent jumped up over me, over my block-out, and scored a layup off the offensive rebound. I was then immediately subbed out. “Are they too tough for you, Lance?” Coach asked sarcastically as he escorted me to my seat. “That's what I get for trying to be positive with you. You thought you arrived, didn't you?” For the rest of the year, Coach would commonly recall that play, referring to it as the play “Lance pussed out of, too scared to dive on the floor.”

No one stays at the top forever. What goes up must come down.

 

In December of my sophomore season Chris Burgess tore the plantar fascia in his foot. I became the default center. It was finally my time to play. I could hardly sleep those first few nights before my start, tossing and turning, obsessing about what-ifs. My obsessions would become self-fulfilling prophecies as I worked my mind into a state of cathartic attrition. My very first start, against lowly Stony Brook, was a disaster. I was terrible. I missed dunks, layups, bricked shots, and free throws. My hands were pasted with Crisco, as I couldn't bring down any rebounds. And I was so worried about blocking out that I took myself out of rebound position.

Yes, blocking out is important, but sometimes you have to abandon the block-out and just nut up and go get the damn thing. A good coach
once told me, “Good rebounders block out. Great rebounders just go get the ball.” I'd never dare to go get the ball, so terrified was I of giving up an offensive rebound and drawing Coach's ire. My lack of confidence and Coach's bullying nature were just a poor combination. It was like pouring gasoline over hot coals. I was a poor rebounder at Utah because I played scared, never risking, always playing it safe, just settling for a block-out, happy that my man didn't get the offensive rebound.

After that Titanic of a first start, I was sitting at my locker with my head in my hands when Coach Rupp came up to me and said, “Lance, Coach wants to see you in his locker room.”

I obeyed and entered Coach's locker room to see him standing naked in his shower stall. He motioned for me to come closer. “Lance,” he began, as though it was perfectly normal for me to stand there in my clothes while he showered, “Gordon Monson, whose work I don't care for, wants to interview you, and I answered for you and said no. He only wants to interview you because you're deaf, not because you're a good basketball player, which you're not. It would be like him wanting to interview me because I'm fat, not because of my coaching ability.”

Good talk, Coach. Good talk.

Gordon Monson was a sportswriter for the
Salt Lake Tribune.
After his request to interview me, Coach's hostility toward me increased. I'd comically tell my family, “Gordon Monson was the man that ruined my life.” My relationship with Majerus continued to deteriorate rapidly. “You're a cunt, Allred,” he'd say. “And go ahead and give me that blank stupid stare like you always do. If that doesn't motivate you to grow a pair, then I don't know what will. Go ahead and give me that stoic look and then go home and cry to Mommy.”

I'd never go home and tell my parents of the abuse I endured. I didn't tell anyone about what I saw each day. Instead I just went home and sat in silent recollection of the day's practice, dreading the one that would inevitably come tomorrow. While a piece of me stayed true to myself, most of me began to at least entertain the notion that I wasn't worth much, and I slowly began to fade away from my family and friends. I was a zombie, a dead man among the living.

 

Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason: because they are, for the most part, true. History repeats itself, and when people are unable to learn vicariously from the mistakes of others and repeat those same mistakes,
a stereotype results. I have had to battle many stereotypes in the basketball world.

A final paper was due at the end of the semester in one of my history classes, and I presented a well-researched ten-page paper. Three days later I checked my grades online and saw all the grades I expected except for:

Middle East Hist: Incomplete

I began to panic, because I had never received an incomplete before. The professor didn't answer at his office. It was only three blocks away from my house, so I typed up a letter, walked it up to his office, and slid it under his doorway. I didn't hear from him for another two days, all the while fretting and obsessing about my grade.

I walked up to his office one more time, and this time I was fortunate enough to find him there.

“Ah, Lance, come in.” His raspy voice faded off before it could even reach me. He motioned for me to sit down, and I complied.

“Professor, I saw that I had an incomplete, and I was hoping to learn why so I could address it and have it resolved.”

“Yes, yes. About that. Your paper. It's a bit long, and it seemed suspicious. I doubted its credibility and suspected plagiarism.”

“Plagiarism?”

“Yes. I must admit that I was in the wrong here, as I didn't believe an athlete could present such a fine paper. I have been teaching for many years now, and I have never had a basketball player write such an eloquent paper.”

“Um. I can assure you professor, it's mine. My own work.”

“Yes, after I read your letter under the doorway and saw another proof of your writing style and evidence that you understand the “i-t-apostrophe-s” rule, I have determined that your writing was genuine. I have called the disciplinary office to ask them to remove my claim from the file. And I offer you my apologies.”

I didn't know which affronted me more: that he thought I was incapable of writing a coherent paper or that he doubted that I could understand the “i-t-apostrophe-s” rule: that contractions are unacceptable in formal papers and therefore
it is
should never be written in contracted form (
it's
); and that plural references to the pronoun
it
are never apostrophized. A simple grammar rule that, sadly, many people don't understand.

I accepted the professor's apology and downplayed his embarrassment over his erroneous assumptions, without much offense, because
I love stereotypes myself and found it all very humorous. After all, my father did raise me on Helen Keller jokes.

Instead of being offended when people stereotype me, I enjoy the challenge of overcoming them. I love proving people wrong, making them eat their words. Success is the sweetest revenge. Yet through my vengeance, I can still laugh at myself. Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason—because they're often, if not generally, true.

I walked home proudly, having debunked yet another stereotype that I have had to overcome in the basketball world. To congratulate myself on a job well done, that night I got stoned and engaged in reckless, unprotected sex with multiple partners at once. And then later I angrily fired off several rounds into the midnight air from my unregistered Glock and poured a couple for my homies as I slurred about drunkenly without any T-shirt on, displaying the “Thug” tattoo across my stomach. It was only after I had read some French literature into the wee hours of dawn that I finally slept.

 

There comes a day in certain young men's lives that they look forward to with much curiosity and trepidation—the day when they can finally determine whether or not they have a learning disability. That day came for me during my sophomore year of college.

Coach Majerus was growing impatient with my stuttering whenever he spoke to me, and irritated with my frantic mind that would overanalyze everything to the point where I'd forget even the most simple of plays. I could no longer hide in the back behind my teammates when Majerus went on his tirades, as I was now front and center, in the starring role.

One day, Coach had an epiphany: “Lance, I'm sincerely beginning to believe that you have a learning disability. And I mean that with all kindness. I'm going to have you tested.” This was a strange conclusion, considering that I had the highest GPA on the team and that only a month earlier Coach had kept me from leaving practice early to make it to a study group for a final, as he wasn't worried about my grades.

It became his new favorite mantra for two weeks: “Lance, I'm going to speak slowly to you, since I believe you have a learning disability”; or “Don't worry, Lance. I'm arranging to have you tested for a learning disability. Help is on the way.”

Coach Rupp came up to me the evening before my big day. He had a hard time not rolling his eyes, with an “I can't believe I have to waste my time with this” look on his face. “I finally booked you for a testing down at the Bennion Center,” he told me. “It's tomorrow at eleven.” He looked at me and saw the tired frustration in my eyes. “I know,” he said. “Just go do it, so Coach will stop hounding me…you as well.”