General Camel Toe, By Mick Shaffer

My modest basketball resume includes dubious claims of glory. For instance, I will often announce – in places such as Sunday School – that, “I’ve played in a Division I basketball game.”

That statement is technically true. But what the strangers in an elevator don’t hear is that it was really a “stars-aligned” collision of my NAIA school meeting Arkansas State (to Division I what Monaco is to countries) meeting my “9th-man-in-an-8-man-rotation” status meeting a 30-point blowout. It all came together to produce two magical dribbles and a foul. Suck on it, doubters!

Now, that’s obviously too long a story to share with random people. And I have only so much time with the homeless at stoplights.

So I condense. I twist the truth. Which is why I have something to tell you. Are you ready? Curl those toes because this is gonna knock your socks off.

“I’ve played in a professional basketball game.”

Amazing, right? I know. Thank you, thank you. I still can’t believe it. You should’ve seen the look on the lady’s face at QuikTrip when I told her.

[Note: The following disclaimer is additional information that people like the tele-marketer who called this afternoon were not privy to.]

It was a professional basketball game. But, I didn’t sign a 10-day contract with an NBA team or anything like that, although I still maintain I could push for playing time with the Knicks. I didn’t travel to play overseas ball in Monaco. No, I went much more cultured than that, spreading my hoops seed all over this Earth.

I played in a game with the world famous Harlem Globetrotters.

You know the Harlem Globetrotters. The overly talented and entertaining basketball troupe has been playing—and mostly winning—exhibition basketball games for more than eight decades now. They spin basketballs on fingers, heads and toes and whistle “Sweet Georgia Brown” while dousing fans with buckets of water and pulling pranks on referees. As their name suggests, they’ve toured 120 countries (including Monaco). I don’t think SARS has toured 120 countries. Recently, their trotting brought them to Kansas City. However, my involvement in the game was not as one of those head-banded performers. No, I was a Washington General.

You don’t know the Washington Generals. You’re not supposed to know the Washington Generals. After all, the Generals are but the backdrop to the high-flying aerial assaults the Harlem Globetrotters bestow upon the rim. The Generals serve as the perfect foil to the Globetrotters’ protagonist role. The Generals are the Wile E. Coyote to the ‘Trotters Roadrunner. Only without the wolf’s hops. In fact, I’m pretty sure an anvil is involved in one of the Globetrotter pranks.

The Generals are the punch line for timeless comedic bits like pulling-down-your-pants-at-the-free-throw-line. Worst of all, the Generals colors are green & yellow. Yeah, the Globetrotters get the patriotic red, white & blue uniforms and the Generals are stuck with green & yellow. I looked it up—green & yellow are primary colors in the flag of Afghanistan (sadly, not Monaco’s…damn). I don’t think this is a coincidence.

More than anything, though, the Washington Generals are known for losing. Losing with the consistency of a snowman losing to the sun. In fact, the Generals have only beaten the Globetrotters twice, the last time coming in…1971. They play several times a week so that amounts to thousands of losses. That’s almost 40 years of losing! The seagull vs. baby sea turtle match-up looks like a “pick ‘em” compared to this pairing. The Generals have carved out their own niche in the basketball world—hell, the entire sporting world. They lose. That’s what they do. And no one in the history of organized competition has done it better.

Of course, losing is their job. They’re supposed to do it. It’s part of the show; it’s part of the script. Anyone who believes otherwise has probably drawn up a “Triple H, You Suck” sign at some point in his life.

But, the forecasted loss didn’t bother me. Even before earning the honor of “guest General” with my media prowess and crafty round-ball ability (I know the PR guy), I was aware of the Generals’ hefty winless streak. It didn’t faze me, though. Having driven a Taurus for the past four years, I’m used to failure.

What did bug me was the notion that my newfound green & yellow amigos (Bolivia’s flag: also green & yellow) were out there not trying. I mean, that would fly in the face of the whole Globetrotters’ mystique, right? They’re so good they should be able to jack up half-court shots and throw alley-oops and ride unicycles …and still beat a mostly-white roster full of over-achieving former Division II players. I don’t care if the Generals are playing on stilts and have shot more HGH than three-pointers this season. They shouldn’t be good enough to beat the Globetrotters. Thus…the Generals should at least try, I figured.

I feared otherwise. In one of my many daydreams—I call them ‘man’tasies—leading up to the event, I envisioned myself preparing to box-out on a late-game free throw:

Meadowlark Lemon: “Mick, you’ve killed us all game. Let me get this board and put-back, follow-dunk so we can preserve the winning streak.”
Mick “Ghetto Lark” Shaffer: “Not on my watch, Lemon…And, by the way, how old are you?”
[Mick rips down the rebound with one hand, makes a full-court outlet pass to a teammate who slams it home for the 100-98 victory in front of an adoring crowd.]
Generals Coach: “Mick, you did it! First time since ’71. You taught us how to compete, how to win and how to wrap presents using only three pieces of tape. Now get on my shoulders.”
Former Disgruntled Team Ballhog: “Mick, you taught me that passing is cool.”
Shy Player Who Sits the Bench: “Mick, you taught me how to get the girl.”
Janitor Who Always Left the Gym Open: “Mick, you taught me 11 new places to shove mop handles into.”
Meadowlark: “I don’t like you, but I respect the hell out of you…And you know I’m always 26 in your ‘man’tasies.”

I love ‘man’tasies. Problem is, they rarely come true. I was reminded of that fate when I first walked into the Generals’ locker room. “You’ll be going into the game in the second quarter,” said some tall guy in green & yellow. Second freaking quarter? No wonder you guys have lost for eight straight presidents. Your eye for talent is bullshit.

I kept the “tude” in check. I had to, after being greeted so warmly by all eleven members of the Generals, each of whom treated me so kind you would’ve thought I was a Globetrotter driving for a dunk. I think they were just glad that I knew what a lay-up line was.

Even with the “losing,” these Generals’ lives seemed quite enviable: travel around the country/world in your post-college years playing basketball. Sure, that’s a condensed truth but it sure beats a couple of nervous dribbles at Arkansas State.

Pre-game seemed to erase my doubts about the whole “effort” thing. The coaching staff delivered a very familiar motivational chat. The owner of the team even made the trip and talked to his investment about playing their “own game” and fighting hard and not changing anything simply because he was there.

I concluded that we were all on the same page. And that page was entitled “Hustle.” I could slide on to the floor fashionably late in the 2nd quarter, show them I could play a little, earn their trust and set forth on ‘man’tasy fulfillment.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m 10 years gone from being anywhere close to as good as these Generals. But what I lack in talent, speed, quickness and jumping ability, I make up for—a tiny bit—in my propensity to get pissed-off at the happenings on a basketball court. I will then turn that anger into a couple of hustle plays that might decide a pick-up game.

So with that kind of hope in my heart you can bet I was Captain Butt-Slap in the lay-up line. “Here we go, guys. Tonight’s the night we shock the world. No wait…shock the Globe! Ha ha ha, word play…”

It didn’t seem to matter the “custom” Washington Generals’ uniform I received two weeks prior to the show was slightly different than the rest of the team’s. Different in an “Oh look, they suited up a JV kid because half the junior class has mono” kind of way. Their jerseys were thick and mesh and dark green & yellow. Mine was thin and nylon and Bolivian green & yellow. And, sure enough, there was my uniform up on display at the merchandise table. Exact replica right down to my number…00.

Oh well, I was a part of the Washington Generals. Moreover, I was a part of the effort to turn the Generals’ losing ways around. Hell, the team was named after Dwight D. Eisenhower (the General part, not the Washington part). Is this how we were gonna treat the man who commissioned the Interstate Highway System?

Turns out, it was. Sitting (and sulking) on the bench in the first quarter, I quickly learned that there was a “trying” side of the court and a “non-trying” side. Offensively, the Generals ran a motion offense, generally working for a good look but always keeping about a 12-second mental-shot-clock in their heads.

Defensively, they were props.

If there was a ball-fake within 5 miles of Sprint Center that night, the Washington Generals were falling for it. Matadors could learn lessons from this “ole’ defense.” The Generals definition of “guarding” was “attach yourself to an opponent and stay a step behind him the entire possession.” It’s a philosophy that works well with dad at Disneyland, but to the wannabe sitting the bench, it was aggravating.

But then the buzzer sounded. Second quarter time, baby.

“Checking in for the Generals,” interrupted the public address guy, “Number 00, Mitch Shatner!”

My announced entry into the game was met with high-fives and positive comments from my teammates along with a cough and a baby crying from a crowd who couldn’t care less. As predicted I immediately stepped into the middle of the action.

“Come over here. What’s your name?” asked Globetrotter Big Easy.

Me: “Mick.”

Big Easy: “Hey, Nick.”

As Globetrotters go, Big Easy happens to be Michael Jordan and Michael Buffer, wrapped up into a 6’9”, 250 lb. package. Not only was he the only Globetrotter to stay on the court the entire game, he was also the only one wearing a microphone. Any lull in the action required Big Easy to provide the filler. That’s not to mention his job of setting up and executing every silly stunt. You may have seen him and fellow ‘Trotter Flight Time as team representatives in this year’s season of CBS’s The Amazing Race. The bright lights don’t bother Big Easy, as his running commentary is the backbone of the whole game. Even as he, oh yeah, played basketball. He’s truly talented as a showman and a power forward.

He was also a big, mean jerk-store to me.

Big Easy: “What are you on, radio or TV?”

Me: “TV.”

Big Easy: “With that face?”

Original. I didn’t see that coming like I didn’t see the General—who had tucked his jersey into his Scooby Doo underwear—getting his pants pulled down.

After our introduction, Big Easy instructed my team to deliver me the ball. He was guarding me, which was a complete size mismatch! But before I could exploit such a baffling strategic error with a needle-threading pass to one of my teammates, he said, “Shoot it.”

You don’t have to tell me twice.

Unfortunately, I lifted up to launch from about 25 feet. My heroic three-point attempt traveled about 24 feet. The Globetrotters all simultaneously fell to the floor in laughter. They do have impeccable timing.

Big Easy: “Oh, that was awful. That was just awful.”

I was pissed.

Big Easy: “Here you go. I’ll give you another try.”

He set me up about 15 feet away from the bucket.

Big Easy: “You can shoot closer this time.”

Was he kidding me? I’m a white guy from the Midwest…where the three-point line has yet to catch on…where the dunk never happens…where the buffalo roam. Mid-range jumpers reign supreme. This was my wheelhouse.

And sure enough…bottoms! I drained that jump-shot against no defense in front of thousands of disinterested fans waiting for the next water-gun-to-the-crowd gag. I drained it like I was Jordan hitting the championship-winner in the Final Four.

And you can bet your ass I celebrated like it, too. High-fives, fist bumps, the awkward in-between with the shooting guard, etc. I might have even popped a nylon collar.

Big Easy: “Come guard me.”

No problem. I was already in my defensive stance, slapping the floor, bringing it on. It’s the only time you’re supposed to play defense in basketball—after your own made shot.

Big Easy: “Oh no.”

Big Easy had intentionally dribbled off his foot so that I could “steal” the ball and break for a lay-up. I, of course, knew that he was trailing behind me waiting to reject my shot into Club Level. Having played before I knew that creating contact greatly hampered any potential shot-blockers efforts so I created contact…with the 6’9”, 250 lb. Big Easy.

I got fouled Big Hard.

Somehow I got up with both my left knee and my right index finger bleeding. Seriously. That’s ok; that’s how I play basketball. Even as a guest General.

Referee: “Two shots.”

Free throws. Hell, yes. You know how blind people make up for their handicap with other heightened senses? Well, just consider free throws my heightened sense…and athletic ability my blindness. Bottom line is: I’ve always made free throws.

So I missed my first free throw. It looked and felt good. I blame the multi-colored ball.

Big Easy: “Here, maybe this will help.”

He was heading for my shorts. Big Easy’s giant paws were rapidly approaching my waistline. Oh no. He was going to yank my pants down, but I hadn’t prepared for it with funny Scooby Do tights. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I had prepared with any underwear whatsoever. I was about 37% sure I was going “commando” at this point. Oh my God. If five black guys were going to fall down laughing at my jump shot, what would they do with their findings of my nakedness from the waist down?

Big Easy: “There, that’s better.”

His Bigness hadn’t yanked down…he had yanked up. Yeah, he pulled my oversized General shorts all the way up to my arm-pits and then kept pulling. He was yanking so hard my heels were coming off the ground. My left testicle quickly made it to one side of the nylon inseam, but my right one was stuck in “wedgie no-man’s-land.” One-third of the crowd was children and I was teaching them their first lesson in Camel Toe. I had earned a nickname alright—it was Mick Knuckles.

I’ll show them, I thought. I don’t care if my shorts are currently tickling my pancreas. I’m sure every other guest General in every city from Toledo to Tucson readjusted their clown pants before shooting their second charity shot. But I’m going to make this free throw despite the “front-butt” I’m currently sporting.

So I miss my second free throw. Cue the Globetrotter laughter. Cue my internal fire. Cue the buzzer, too, apparently. Yes, a mere minute into my professional basketball debut, they were subbing me out after three very staged possessions.

Turns out, I was just a willing part of their script I was so adamantly trying to avoid. The desire to succeed that had built up over a month-long anticipation of the game was simply…me going over my lines. I guess every guest General—while not physically sculpted like me, of course—has similar visions of hustling grandeur, only to, inevitably, lose to the show.

Halftime included a rousing speech by the Generals head coach about “playing hard out there” and how “we can get back into this game.” My suggestions of “zone defense,” “take a charge” and “shoot the ball more when the Globetrotters are put in that hypnotic trance from the swirly umbrella” all fell on deaf ears.

The coach did approach me with details on my playing time in the second half.

“You can go sit with your family now if you want.”

Alas, my foray into professional basketball was fait accompli. (Desperate claims of glory sound cooler if you use French words.) But I didn’t take the coach’s advice. I stayed and I sat for the entire second half, cheering on my team like any good, hustling, effort-giver would.

They weren’t joking. They needed my seat for a ticket upgrade so four lucky fans could to sit with the Generals in the second half. The nice Asian family made room for me.

As you might expect, without me in there the Globetrotters pulled away and beat the Generals. I thought the use of a lady’s purse and an exploding ball was a little risky at first, but they turned out to be the right tactical moves for victory. Score another for the Globetrotters. Better luck next time for the Generals.

They took it in stride, though. Some of my soon-to-be former teammates even talked about doing something after the game. Me? I was going home. “Maybe I’ll watch some game film,” I said. “Maybe grab a pizza. Soak my balls. You know, let the loss set in.”

When you’re busy proclaiming personal greatness, you don’t make time for losing. So, the end result was new and surprising to me…even though it was scripted out beforehand.

I don’t know where it went so wrong. Perhaps it was the way I stretched before the game or that I forgot to throw chalk up in the air like LeBron James does. Perhaps I should’ve participated in the YMCA song on the court. Bad karma.

Bottom line: No checkmark next to this ‘man’tasy. Guess I’ll have to move on to the one involving Adam Lambert and a pair of shoulder pads. This story was going to take some serious twisting before I could spin it. Which reminded me…

The parking lot attendant did ask how my day had gone…

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