If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. I’d be too busy training – taking jumper after jumper in the gym I built in my multi-million dollar mansion – to write this. But I’m not, so hey, I’ve got a few minutes for you guys.
Sorry, kids, it ain't happening. Start practicing your typing skills now.
It’s always fascinating to hear an adult confess what they wanted to be “when they grew up”. On any given playground around the country, there are dozens of would-be astronauts, veterinarians and movie stars. In reality, when all is said and done, it turns out there were a lot more cashiers, receptionists and line cooks than originally planned. While all are valuable, important occupations, they clearly lack the glamour of most children’s dream jobs. But in all honesty, if a child grew up dreaming of punching a time clock, working for some guy in wrinkled Dockers and an ugly button-up shirt, I’d send them to therapy. That’s not normal.
As for me, I was going to be an NBA star. I’d be selected first overall in the draft and play center for the Detroit Pistons. In fifth grade when we were to predict where we’d be in 20 years, I wrote that I’d be playing alongside four of my elementary school buddies winning championship after championship.
But, really, I was just humoring my friends. I mean, with the odds stacked so much against making it to the pros, I’d have to drop them along the way. Nice knowin’ you, homies. Maybe you can visit my mansion sometime.
Dream caption: Bulls guard Michael Jordan (23 - left) takes comfort from teammate Scottie Pippen moments after Pistons phenom Andrew McLean (unpictured - too busy celebrating) dominates him once again.
So I practiced in my driveway every day, dreaming of playing alongside Isiah Thomas and Bill Laimbeer (clearly ignoring relative ages). The only thing that would break me out of my fantasies of schooling the great Air Jordan was the loud rattle of our cheap fiberglass garage door as I airballed 20-footers I just knew I could bury.
Airballs aside, and you’ll just have to trust me on this, I was a pretty decent player. Even as I began eating more than playing (or anything else it now seems) and ballooned in size, I could still play. Embarrassed as much by the prospect of not fitting into the jerseys as anything else, I never tried out for my middle school teams. But that wasn’t the end of my dreams. Who ever said a few games as a 13-year-old decided a career in professional sports? Hell, as the oft-told story goes, Michael Jordan didn’t even make his Junior Varsity team.
Several knee injuries through my early teen years further slowed my progress (except in my waist size, as I was progressing at lightning speed there). With these setbacks, I realized a career as the Pistons’ franchise center wasn’t quite as attainable as I once thought. From what I observed, and trust me that I kept close watch, there weren’t many slow, 6’3” centers with bad knees getting drafted, never mind first overall.
So my dreams of basketball stardom dropped from the pros to college. In its new incarnation, my dream had me shocking everyone, this no-name walk-on who only played because the star player suffered some catastrophic injury (don’t worry – he may be able to walk again one day). The season seemed over, that is, until #3, Andy McLean (yeah, still Andy at that point), stepped on the court and started dropping threes, killing the competition with and-1 drives where I would just get leveled and get up like it was nothing. Like Dwyane Wade, minus the wheelchair. The announcers would compare my toughness to the legendary Brett Favre – no Brett Favre would start being compared to me.
Well, needless to say, I single-handedly carry my dark horse school (yet undecided, but it really didn’t matter) through the Big Dance, hoisting the championship trophy in early April and winning the Tournament MVP in the process. Yes, that would be my dream. (For sports fans, think an even less athletic Gerry McNamara – far-fetched, to be sure.)
But, apparently, if you only play once every couple months, your skills begin to diminish. Who knew? So as the years went on (complete with additional knee injuries here and there for good measure), I enrolled in college at Western Michigan University knowing I wasn’t ever going to step foot on the court as anything other than a fan.
By sophomore year, I saw my brother Nick after months of being away, and the guy had dropped probably 80 pounds, making me the fat brother. If some distant cousins were trying to remember which of us was Nick and which was Andy, I pictured them recalling, “Oh yeah, Andy is the fat one. Andy like candy. Nick like quick.” And with that, I knew it was time to lose some weight.
So I worked extremely hard, determined not to be the fat brother. I suppose it would have been easier to sabotage him, but sneaking Snickers bars into turkey sandwiches on wheat bread is even tougher than it sounds.
Now a comparatively-svelte 210 pounds, I began to play basketball at Western’s rec center more, slowly chipping away the years of rust. My dreams of basketball domination were once again adjusted, this time from college phenom to rec center star. I’d show up, still looking soft and undefined, surely not like a player to worry about, and take over the game. While I had long ago given up the dream of being able to dunk a ball, I could still take over a game with killer jumpers and dazzling passes, showing off my impeccable basketball IQ.
Playing occasionally, I quickly realized that some of the other players’ athleticism was too much for me. While I held my own in half-court games, full-court was always a game of fast breaks. With shaky knees I had accepted as mine for the rest of my life, I couldn’t envision waking up one morning with newly-acquired blazing speed.
In my junior and senior years, I learned the game of racquetball, briefly flirting with the dream of going pro there instead, until I realized a pro racquetballplayer probably didn't exist, and if it does, was about as glamorous as a school bus driver (with apologies to those brave souls).
So I graduated from Western, and my dream of being a rec center star left with me.
Future caption: Andrew McLean (34 - front row, second from left) took the Kalamazoo YMCA league by storm with his superior skills, until he was permanently banned from the premises following an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction caused by his inappropriately short-shorts.
These days, with a life more rich than I could have ever dreamt of as a fifth-grader, I still house my hoop dreams deep down. At this point, they've been relegated to dominating half-court games at the local YMCA. Yes, it’s come to fantasizing about draining shots over 5-foot-tall, bald accountants wearing jean shorts and knee-high socks, but it’s my dream, dammit!
And maybe one day I can pass these dreams on to my sons, forcing them to attempt to accomplish what I never could. And isn't that what being a parent is all about?
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