The whole thing is on film.
The greatest moment of my extraordinarily uneventful childhood is on film. 8mm film, to be exact. Recorded by my dear old mother in 1987 at a YMCA in Denver, Colorado on a Sony Camcorder.
I've watched the video well over 100 times. 100 is not hyperbole. I watched it on repeat with my friends in the days after it all went down, I've watched it a few times a year since, and I watched it endlessly this past week, when my 77-year-old, dear old luddite mother found this particular 8mm tape in a bin of 50 8mm tapes, dusted off and plugged in the Camcorder, pressed play, used her iPhone to take a video of the video, and somehow figured out how to text it to me.
Back in 1987, the second best team in the prestigious South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league was Don Hartman's team. Hartman coached football, baseball, and basketball, wore khaki pants, and voted (and probably still votes) Republican. He was also kind of an asshole. He yelled at his players in a mean, not productive, way, and his son was an athletic underachiever who, and I'm only guessing here, is currently an obese 45-year old who quit playing sports years ago and drinks copious amounts of alcohol to quiet the voices of resentment towards his overbearing dad.
The best team in the highly acclaimed South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league was our team, coached by a guy named Craig D*****. Craig coached baseball and basketball, usually wore shorts and a Duke sweatshirt, and doesn't vote at all because he is currently in prison. Craig still holds the record in Colorado high school baseball for single-season batting average and is a sports savant. He coached me in baseball and basketball for years and babysat my brothers and me when my parents went out of town. Craig, it would turn out, is also a scumbag. He has been in and out of jail for the last 15 years for sexually abusing multiple under-age girls.
Every year, either Hartman's team or our team won the league, and it was no different in 1987.
With two seconds left in the game and our team up by three points, our best player, a tall, sinewy white kid named Ryan Lidell, is shooting a free throw. If he makes it, game over.
Ryan was, by far, our best player. He rarely spoke and I'm not sure how bright he was, but he had a silky jump shot and would go on to become one of the best shooting guards in the state.
Ryan misses the free-throw and a kid on Hartman's team named Brandon Johnson grabs the rebound.
Brandon was a stocky black kid who would go on to become one of the best running backs in the state and eventually play football at Berkeley. The kid was a beast.
Brandon takes a few dribbles up the court, leaps into the air from behind half-court (remember, this is all on video), and heaves the ball towards the basket.
Swish.
Hartman's team goes crazy because no one has ever seen, let alone made, a shot like that. Craig starts arguing (to no avail) with the refs that the shot shouldn't count because the ball had gone through the basket with such force that the net actually bounced it back up and out through the rim. Yes, this is all on film.
Normally teams would play a 5-minute overtime, but let's be honest: It was probably a random Thursday evening and moms and dads just wanted to get home, eat dinner, and watch the Cosby show. So the powers-that-be decided that we would play a sudden death overtime, generally unheard of in basketball. First team to score a point would be the champion of the world renowned South Denver 12-and-under YMCA league.
We win the tip-off and immediately give the ball to Ryan who drives right to the basket and gets fouled as he's shooting. Ryan now has two free-throws, and all he has to do is make one of them.
He misses the first.
He misses the second.
Right before Ryan misses the second free-throw, however, some skinny, blonde, clueless kid on Hartman's team moves spots on the lane, which is illegal. So Ryan gets another free throw which, if you're counting, is his fourth opportunity to win the game.
He misses it.
Hartman's team dribbles up the floor, passes it around a few times, and eventually gets the ball to Brandon...
Now if you're watching the video at this point, you can see one player in particular flashing across the court, trying to anticipate where the next pass is going. I was a skinny, weak kid with unshapely legs and a shitty jump-shot, but my athletic IQ was high and my competitiveness (read: desperate desire to win at all costs) was super high because I grew up with two older brothers whom I had to beat in everything all the time.
In addition to witnessing my basketball greatness, you can also hear my dad yelling, "Don't foul! Don't foul!" because he knew that any one of Hartman's players might make a free-throw, unlike Ryan who, and I'm only guessing here, has an altar in his house to yours truly for saving his ass that evening.
My dad never missed a game. He had three sons, all of whom played three sports, but he came to every game he could and, whenever possible, bragged about our occasional athletic successes cuz why the hell wouldn't he; we were his sons. My own daughter recently played in the state tournament for her tennis team, and it occurred to me not to go because I figured she would get her butt kicked so what was the point. As I was vacillating, my wise wife said to me, "What would your dad have done??"
So Brandon has the ball on the left wing outside the three-point line, takes a couple of dribbles towards the free-throw line, and makes an extremely ill-advised decision against a zone defense: a cross-court pass.
When the ball leaves his hand, I am out of the frame. But right as the ball gets to Brandon's teammate, this thin, pale, outstretched arm comes out of nowhere to lunge for it and make what can only be described as the Greatest Basketball Play Ever To Be Made.
The moment I steal the ball and start dribbling up the court, you can hear everyone start screaming and, over the roars, my dad yell, "That's the way, [S]aulie!"
I dribble up the left side of the court as fast as I can as Hartman's little bastards chase me down. I've shot a million left-handed lay-ups because kids with my athletic ability (read: lack of athletic ability) need to be well-rounded, but for some reason I decide to shoot a right-handed finger-roll. As the ball leaves my finger tips, one of Hartman's henchmen pushes me in the back and the referee blows his whistle.
There is no need for free-throws though, as the ball gently caresses the backboard and falls softly through the basket.
Game over.
Championship won.
Hero status attained.
I leap in the air with both hands raised and my teammates mob me as they scream for joy. Some of them start taunting a player on the other team, but Coach Craig the Creeper immediately reprimands them. I break away from the scrum and fix my hair because, well, I didn't want my hair to be messed up.
A figure with his back to the camera momentarily comes into the frame and blocks the rest of the video. It's my dad. He has greying hair, he's wearing a blue and white, cable-knit sweater, and his arms are raised in victory.
The sweater is a cross between an ugly Christmas sweater and a 1970s smoking jacket. It's made of wool and has an awful, mountain-like design. It's also open in the front with big buttons, has a thick collar, and has two big pockets for, and I'm only guessing here, the bars of dark chocolate my dad used to carry around. He wore that atrocious sweater all the time.
In the weeks and years following my act of heroism, I’ve watched different moments of the video in slow-motion countless times: Brandon's ridiculous shot from half-court, my magical steal, the disrespectful taunting, etc.
But in the last six years, ever since my dad died, I pause the video most often on my pops in his moment of paternal pride. I can't see his face, but I know he's beaming.
It took me a while, but I finally discovered who the real hero is.
