Throughout my entire childhood, I only played one season of organized basketball. It was a mere blip—a layover in between Little League (which I played for all of two seasons) and soccer (which took me through my freshman year of high school).
Later on, I played hours upon hours of pick-up at the University of Delaware and became (in my humble opinion) a decent recreational player. Much like Allen Iverson, I took great joy in playing the passing lanes and gambling for steals. Unlike Allen Iverson, was virtually everything else.
But when I played my one season for the YMCA, I was awful. Completely and truly awful. I wore number 47, and, as best as I can recollect, didn't score a single point. My physique was reminiscient of Manute Bol, only two feet shorter and infinitely paler. I'm not sure whether I quit because I was bad, or because my parents mercifully declined to renew my contract. Thankfully, they documented my experience with this single photograph:
That would be me playing Auerbachian defense. Hopefully the girl in the background became either a supermodel or Rebecca Lobo.
While I wish I remembered more, at least my parents didn't own a video camera.