The Reverse Layup

The reverse layup is a trick shot. You can watch an entire NBA game and not see a single one. Shit, you can watch 20 high school games and not see one. It looks pretty, but it's basically useless.

So when Panini (my nearly 15-year-old daughter) lost in H-O-R-S-E to some punk kid named Adrian cuz Adrian could shoot a reverse layup and Panini couldn't, I nearly lost my mind.

Adrian is a 13-year-old Canadian Jew whose grandfather, Albert, fled from Libya in the 70s after Gaddafi came to power. Albert made his way to Italy and eventually to Israel. In the 80s, after Egypt and Israel were at peace, he started a cruise line between the two nations. In the 90s, he and his Canadian-Israeli wife immigrated to Toronto where he made his money helping the United Nations transport people and equipment to war zones.

Adrian's father, Evan, is currently one of the richest Jews in Canada. I'm talking Crazy Rich. He invested in weed before it was legal (Albert was not initially supportive of this endeavor) and then, when it became legal, founded a medical marijuana company which recently sold for $3.2 billion. That's right: billion.

So if your name is Evan and you're a billionaire, what do you do with your money? 

Well, first off, you check on your pre-nup and divorce your wife who, according to an anonymous source, is a "money-hungry bitch." You then get a girlfriend about half your age who has most definitely had a nose-job but is not yet in need of a boob job praised be the Lord our God.

Then, you buy an estate on an island in the Caribbean and build a giant house with a pool, pool table, bar, giant flat-screen TV, work-out room, and quick-drying tennis court with basketball hoops on either end. You then hire a personal chef whom you will fly down to the Caribbean in your private jet.

In the meantime, you pay Drake, yes Drake, to perform at Adrian's Bar Mitzvah, pay a private basketball coach tens of thousands of dollars to make Adrian decent at hoops, and pay a videographer seven barrels of Jew gold to make a highlight reel of Adrian playing hoops and of Drake pretending he and Adrian are friends. (I always enjoy when one rich white guy pays another rich white guy for the services of a black man. Happy belated Juneteenth!)

So Albert, Evan, Adrian, the chef, and the rest of the family arrive in the Caribbean for their holiday vacation. Unbeknownst to them, Evan's sister, Deborah, is good friends with the Boss' brother, and it just so happens that the Boss is also on vacation in the Caribbean with her entire family, including yours truly. (Full transparency: We are Rich Jews, but not Crazy Rich Jews.)

We invite ourselves over to the family estate, and Adrian's younger sister (Sarah, age 10) is at the bar making overly alcoholic drinks for the adults. Appetizers are served and Panini thinks the appetizers are dinner so she eats them as if they are dinner. Adrian and Sarah's twin brother, Michael, spend most of dinner playing Madden on the giant TV in the middle of the living room. The rest of the time, they're on their excessively large iPhones. 

When Evan and I meet, he is wearing khaki shorts, a belt, a tucked-in polo, and loafers without socks. I'm wearing thrift shop athletic shorts down to my knees, a ripped t-shirt with a cartoon figure taking a shit, and flip-flops. He shakes my hand, reluctantly.

Adrian is drenched in Nike Dri-FIT and wearing $350 LeBron's. Spoiled rotten Michael is wearing Air Jordan 4's which you know, if you've been on eBay any time in the last 30 years, cost around $800. Panini is wearing a tank-top, shorts that are too short, and flip-flops.

Deborah is getting drunk, Evan's nose-job trophy girlfriend is comparing nose-jobs with some of her nose-job trophy friends who have arrived, and the Boss, in her middle-aged grace, is prettier than all of them.

Now I'd seen Adrian's videos and I knew the kid could play, but I also know that my daughter Panini can shoot the shit out of the ball and I'll be damned if any sl*pe's gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, I mean I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Adrian think he’s all that and not talk some shit, so I bet sloppy Deborah $20 that Panini will whoop Adrian's ass in H-O-R-S-E, and it's on.

We head out to the basketball court, Panini and Adrian warm up a bit, and I can see that Adrian is overconfident. How could he, the most privileged Jew in the great province of Ontario, lose to some gangly American girl???

Before they begin, Panini says, "Are we playing one game or is it best out of three?" and I shit you not, Adrian responds, "Well, let's see what happens," which is code for, "Shiiiiiit, I assume I'm gonna beat your ass in one game, but just in case I don't, let me hedge." 

The game starts and it takes both of them a few minutes to find their rhythm. Adrian is shooting hero shots because, as previously mentioned, he's a bitch-ass Crazy Rich Jew. Panini is nervous and struggling to find her range. 

But then Panini starts hitting: soft elbow jumpers, silky 16-footers from the wing, buttery 12-footers from the baseline. Banks. Floaters. Lefty layups. You name it. Bratty Michael starts complaining that Panini keeps shooting the same shot, when in fact Panini is moving all over the court. Are most shots between 12 and 17 feet? Yes. Do they look similar? Yes. Are they the same shot? No. Should ignorant little Michael shut his ignorant little mouth? Yes.

Adrian starts missing cuz he's got no heart and cuz he's a choke and cuz he and Drake aren't actually boys. Panini wins.

And sure enough, by the time Adrian's last brick hits the ground, he's like, "Best out of three."

And that's when it happens: Adrian discovers that Panini can't shoot a reverse layup. Her father has most certainly diversified her skill set, but we never bothered with the reverse layup because, like I said before, it's a motherfucking trick shot. 

So let's be clear about one thing: Does Adrian have every right to use the reverse layup to win? Absolutely. Is it a bitch-ass move to do so? Most definitely. Yes, you can "win" H-O-R-S-E by identifying and exploiting that one shot your opponent can't shoot, but you haven't "won" a god damn thing by doing so, and I guarantee Adrian fell asleep that night feeling deep shame and wondering why Drake never texts him back.

As this debacle unfolds, drunk Deborah screams obscenities at any child within 20 feet, Evan stands smugly with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, and I feign magnanimity, taking careful mental notes which I will one day use against Adrian, his father, and the entire Canadian medical marijuana industry.

Panini loses the next two games and eight of her ten letters come from the reverse layup. And does piss-ant Michael say anything about Adrian using the same shot over and over? Hell no. He just prances around gleefully, cluelessly scuffing up his Jordan 4's and cheering stupidly for his stupid, immoral brother.

I think Panini cried after the defeat. I took her into my arms, looked straight in her eyes, and said, "Don't worry. We may only be Rich Jews without a private jet and a highlight reel, but at least we're not Crazy Rich Jews who actually lose when they win.”