Fast Break (Part 2)

The score is 27-7 and there is less than a minute left in the first period. The Elks are killing their arch rival, the Loggers, and exactly one person in the stands loves it when animal-themed mascots (such as Otters, Gulls, Bears, Wolves, Banana Slugs or Beavers (!) crush human-themed mascots (such as Fishermen, Crusaders, Cheesemakers, Generals, Pioneers or Engineers) in an athletic competition.

That one person is a writer on the road researching a book about Oregon’s homeless crisis. Why is he here, in this particular obscure place? It was random. He just opened a map of Oregon, placed it on the floor, and then tossed a penny into the air. It landed, spun around, then dropped on this river town with its dead lumber mill, dilapidated high school, its dinky gymnasium supported by massive beams the size of busses, and ungrammatical mascot primarily known for its antlers and that it segregated itself by gender until rutting season. (Human beings should consider this arrangement.) He wanted to see if there was any homeless living in this rural town, whose citizens loathed liberal Portland and its homeless losers living in squalor.

Of course there were homeless in this rural town. About two dozen were living in tents, shanties and 90s sedans down by the river, fucking around with meth and booze, or working at the convenience stores. One of the churches (there were11 total) fed them a sack lunch once a week and that was it for Christianity. Can’t coddle these “undesirables,” as the Mayor said at city council meeting. He wanted to pass an ordinance banning the church from handing out the lunches, but someone reminded him of the First Amendment.

The writer is in the stands because he has nothing to do this Friday night and he’d found a decent motel with a room that overlooked the river and the encampment. He’d been watching the encampment from the balcony with his binoculars all afternoon and seen all sorts of strange sights, such a two men playing foos ball, another man sleeping in an igloo-shaped doghouse, and a woman throwing darts at a dartboard and missing every single time with the darts splashing tip first in the river, a bullseye every time.

He arrives at the gym right after the tip-off, sits down on the bleachers across from the scorer’s table, takes a sliver in his right palm, munches on some popcorn, and prepares to take some notes for his book. A minute later, he sets down his notebook, watches the game, and cannot believe the basketball he is seeing.

Here is what he is watching: the moving manifestation and perfect execution of Jack Ramsay’s fast break offense, the very offense that he employed to coach the Portland Trail Blazers in 1977 to their only NBA championship. The writer could not believe it because the offense had long gone extinct at every level of basketball, male and female, thanks to the popularity of three-point shooting, which computers had figured out was a more efficient way to score and thus, win games. No kid or adult wanted to run the floor and shoot a layup anymore. They wanted to fire away from behind the arc and show off their 25-30-percent shooting prowess all over social media platforms.

It is absolutely the most boring basketball ever played, and that includes even the pre shot clock, Dean Smith, four-corners offense.