White Men Can Jump
Hollandale, Mississippi was the site of a slaughter two weeks ago. Six intrepid employees of the school district, including Aaron Thompson and I, competed against Hollandale community members (aka street ballers) in a competitive game of basketball. Basketball is a beautiful sport, but the result of this contest was not very pretty.
Befitting our school, which seems to do everything on the fly (to put it euphemistically), the school team did not practice together before the big game. Around 200 fans showed up to watch us play together for the first time. Aaron and I started, along with brand-new English teacher Mr. McClaren, fifty-something year-old Principal Liddell, and two support staff members, including another fifty year old, Mr. Young. Our opponents were all serious ballers in their twenties and thirties, including three young men who in 2001 were members of the Simmons High team that won states. Not one of the teachers had played high school ball post-1974.
The much younger and much better community hoopsters got off to an early lead. They full court pressed us into embarassing mistakes and seemed to make every shot. They scored the first 12 points before Aaron got our team onto the board. The quarters were 13 minutes apiece, but seemed to go on forever. Occasionally, our students would shout encouragement to us during timeouts. My freshmen told me I needed to dunk the ball. In the third quarter, when we were down by about 30, I decided to take their advice.
I had the ball at the top of the arc when I noticed the right side of the lane was wide open. I learned later that Aaron had set a screen on one of the defenders to open this hole. Without thinking, I dribbled twice toward the hoop, leapt into the air, and threwdown a one-handed dunk. As I landed I could hear the crowd roar with approval. I thrust a finger skyward in a victory salute, and slapped hands with my beleagured teammates. I soon remembered we were still losing by almost 30, but the fact that I dunked in front of so many of my students made the loss less embarassing.
The next day, students I didn't even know were talking to me about my dunk. It was great. The funniest comment of them all came from senior wise-guy Derrick Martin. At lunch he approached me with a straight face. "I saw your game last night, Mr. Hebert."
"Oh? What did you think, Derrick."
"I guess that white men can jump."
In a school that is 100 percent black, I could appreciate the compliment.
Befitting our school, which seems to do everything on the fly (to put it euphemistically), the school team did not practice together before the big game. Around 200 fans showed up to watch us play together for the first time. Aaron and I started, along with brand-new English teacher Mr. McClaren, fifty-something year-old Principal Liddell, and two support staff members, including another fifty year old, Mr. Young. Our opponents were all serious ballers in their twenties and thirties, including three young men who in 2001 were members of the Simmons High team that won states. Not one of the teachers had played high school ball post-1974.
The much younger and much better community hoopsters got off to an early lead. They full court pressed us into embarassing mistakes and seemed to make every shot. They scored the first 12 points before Aaron got our team onto the board. The quarters were 13 minutes apiece, but seemed to go on forever. Occasionally, our students would shout encouragement to us during timeouts. My freshmen told me I needed to dunk the ball. In the third quarter, when we were down by about 30, I decided to take their advice.
I had the ball at the top of the arc when I noticed the right side of the lane was wide open. I learned later that Aaron had set a screen on one of the defenders to open this hole. Without thinking, I dribbled twice toward the hoop, leapt into the air, and threwdown a one-handed dunk. As I landed I could hear the crowd roar with approval. I thrust a finger skyward in a victory salute, and slapped hands with my beleagured teammates. I soon remembered we were still losing by almost 30, but the fact that I dunked in front of so many of my students made the loss less embarassing.
The next day, students I didn't even know were talking to me about my dunk. It was great. The funniest comment of them all came from senior wise-guy Derrick Martin. At lunch he approached me with a straight face. "I saw your game last night, Mr. Hebert."
"Oh? What did you think, Derrick."
"I guess that white men can jump."
In a school that is 100 percent black, I could appreciate the compliment.
posted by Joel Hebert at 8:04 PM
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