A epic tale from Dan P. (aka Late Workley)

The player known as Workley has delivered an astounding year-long recap. Reading this tale brought so many emotions to the surface - the joy of playing the first mamba game, the pain of the recovery from the first game, the fear of watching phil yank at something that once resembled a finger, etc. Reading this has almost inspired me to work on an actual yearbook, complete with individual photos, player summaries, and stats.

Well done, Workley. This is a joyous moment in MAMBA.

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Thoughts, Musings, Ben Gay: One Season Mamba-ing

When Neal first approached me about the idea to start a basketball league with a bunch of friends I jumped with glee. I hung up the phone, walked into a busy street, ripped off my shirt and shouted with a roar of an animal. It was filled with grit, terrible language and was quite the scene. I was pumped- but then the nervousness crept in. I quickly pulled the rags of what used to be my shirt together and covered up my small man boobs. Running back into my studio, I wept like a teenage girl and slammed the door shut.

I had been sitting on my ass for 5 years in a room teaching music! There weren't any jumpshots except for the occasional swish of paper into a wastebasket. There wasn't any running except when I needed to answer the phone.

You see, I was as out of shape as a middle aged man can be. Gone were the glorious days of basketball after school where shots fell during an October day up until the last bit of light etched shadows on the angry Korean street ball players. Gone were Saturdays where pick-up games and gatoraid were as normal as eggs and bacon.

Last November, not even allowed to eat eggs and bacon anymore- basketball was a distant memory. As distint as a cold beer in a smoky bar... but that's another story all together. No, this man was Grade F prime beef in a vegetarian restaurant. The dumpster awaits... old baseball mitts, cleats, basketballs, sneakers. Gone. Weeknights were filled with my daughters being put in bed, 2 drinks and the occasional video game.

Alas! The cold winds of November 2008 brings change and a scary school in Astoria opens its doors to 9 out of shape men. I am the tenth, and I strut through the cooridors of the school looking at the walls adorned with children's paintings and think "the time has come". I hear basketballs bouncing and men talking. The smell of elementary school lunch tickles my nose.

I am close now.

I pause at the door and see it: a court. Warm up shots fall. I walk in. The Men cheer... I am ready.

During that first game, it was as if I cut my own head off mid game and was dribbling it down the court: clumsy, banging into walls, unable to get out of my own way and weird. The next day, I took a bath in a tub filled with epsom salt and slimed Ben Gay all over my body. It was not pretty. I smelled for days.

Weeks out it was pretty much the same but I started fairing better on the court with performances that weren't as shaky. Other players such as Motorbreath, Carlson, Eagle, Stallion and the recently retired Koster were solid with an honerable mention to Dr Sessions; he elegantly ran up the court with the grace of an elder pixie.

No, this man was inept at his game up to this point. With some working out, I burned to find the shot of my youth. In January '09, things changed. My legs were stronger, my shot percentage crept up to about 30%. The ghosts of Catholic school basketball were yelling at me up the court: "Harder!" Ghosts of my old coaches were threatening me to run harder or I'd be benched. I didn't want to be benched.

The rallying cry of our team was "harder" and every breath that came out of me forced my lungs to breath air that it hadn't taken in years.

Spring/ Summer comes and a new gym has been occupied by the aging men. The games get serious with Lightning crawling up everyone's backs and biting theirs ears off, Koster quitting to become the new sales man for Oxi Clean, Motorbreath becoming the prince of darkness and Eagle almost breaking all his fingers off. Sessions glided up and down the court with dignity and a calmness as he made it look too easy. Weevil stepped up his game; one game in recent days he was a force to be reckoned with. A new addition to the Mamba squad was a taller Carlson: Dutchman. Taller than any of us, the arc on his shot was recently discovered on radar when it interfered with air travel.

B-flo charges up the court with intensity that makes the ground shudder and the smaller Carlson weaves in and out of traffic with ease as he brings the ball up the court to a final, satisfying swish.

All of us have tales. The most recent contests have been at blinding paces and the sweat no longer dribbles down the heads of the Middle Aged men: it pours down with the intensity of rabid wilder beast. Gatoraid bottles adorn the floor along with wrappings for aching knees, braces and back packs filled with work clothes.

So where to now? What say you, Mamba? Is there intensity left after 9 months of gut wrenching, ear biting, finger smashing, face breaking basketball? Does September bring the wind of change with new faces? Do we all go back to our seats at our jobs and eat pizza? Or- do we answer the call. The testicles of time are ringing together. The songs they sing are sticky and sweaty and I say to you now I am glad that I answered that call 9 months ago. I call on all Mamba-ers- as the beautiful sound of balls bouncing up the courts fill our ears tonight and the screams of rage fill the court: think of the future.

Is your future filled with what once was or is it a place where giants roamed dirty gyms and dropped 10 buckets of OK?!

Its time to get up and shoot. For those balls may shrink back... never to be grabbed again once time has its way with all of us.