It never fails that a group of friends are playing basketball and that weird old guy has to show up.
On every court there is usually a game going on, whether it be kids, high school students, college students, older men or Muncie rats.
This is where the story of three unathletic white boys and one stranger begins.
My two friends and I live in an apartment complex that has a basketball court for the residents. My roommates and I occasionally take advantage of the facilities offered.
One day, as I'm going out to shoot around, I ask two of my roommates if they would like to come. I figured we could play some horse, and maybe get some tea and crumpets afterwards.
Out of the three of us, I'm the one that looks somewhat athletic. I stand at 6-foot-3, about 215 pounds. Don't let my looks deceive you, though.
Really, too many nights out on the town and sitting at a computer all day writing columns have really diminished my athletic ability. So, my athletic ability is the equivalent of a 30-year-old.
I have a 2-inch vertical and often miss the easy shots under the basket. Really, all you have to say is "boo" and I'll miss just about anything.
Neither of my two friends are at the top of their athletic ability either. All three of us probably combine for one decent basketball player.
We're outside hitting about 25 percent of our shots, if that, and this man roles up on an old, rusty-colored bike.
He's wearing a black tank, some basketball shorts and these bright yellow Nike shoes.
These weren't the average Nike shoes, they were the ones that cost about $130. You know, the ones the cool kids wear.
He had dark hair with flashes of grey, and his skin was really tan.
This isn't a normal tan.
This is the tan that high school and college students spend $50 a week to get. There was no white about him. He looked as if he spent the majority of his life in Florida, just laying in the sun and doing nothing with his life.
His neck was drabbed in two glaring gold necklaces that were a hit in the women's department back in the '80s.
The smell of perspiration came from my friends and me, but not from this man.
We had played two games of 21 and three games of 3-on-3, yet his odor was of a different nature.
It smelled of cologne. It had to either be Brut or Stetson.
This and the acute stench of alcohol came off his body like the smell of an older man desperate for some lovin'.
This made me think.
Twenty years down the road, am I going to be riding my bike looking for a pick-up game with some college guys?
He was that guy.
The 40-year-old single guy that goes out to the bars or the clubs, stands in the corner with his cocktail, and tries to pick up on college women.
Don't be that guy.
His athletic ability diminished a long time ago. Especially if he had guys like me, with the speed of a mongoose, driving past him to the hoop.
If my legs tell me no more running tomorrow, I will stop running. It's sad to see older men tarnish their athletic image by trying to be one of the 20-year-olds.
In fear of this, I am unlacing my basketball shoes and hanging up my jersey. I retire today.
No more basketball.
No more baseball.
No more football.
I'll finish my unathletic career on a high note by taking and beating this 40-year-old, wannabe 20-year-old, on the basketball court.
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