NBA or bust

NBA or bust

Codding Home / Sports Channel / Bullz-Eye Home

Man, forget this writing gig. It's just too much work. All that spelling and reading and capitalizing and punctuating and thinking. Not to mention the typing. Who needs carpal tunnel, anyway? Not me. Hopefully, these are the last words I'll ever punch into a computer. I've got a new profession waiting for me, something that pays a lot better and comes with some of the best fringe benefits you could ever imagine. I'm movin' on up. I'm going pro.

Watch out Shaq and Iverson. Here I come.

This wasn't exactly an easy decision to make, though. After all, I went to college for four years (yes, I actually got out in four years) just to get my journalism degree, so I had some trouble ditching the computer for the hardwood. But after I read that 58 underclassmen have declared themselves eligible for the NBA draft this year, I decided my time to shine had finally come.

Granted, as a six-foot white kid with a 12-inch vertical hop and a beer gut that would make John Kruk proud, I'm not your prototypical NBA player. But neither is Jud Buechler, and he's somehow hung around for 11 years and, thanks to Michael Jordan, managed to snag three rings in the process. Heck, I can do that. Who cares that my jump shot's rustier than a chain-link fence on the Titanic, and that a Randy Johnson fastball has more arc than my skyhook? 

I'm moving in with Charles Barkley and MJ this summer to get in shape and work on my game. I'll be ready. Trust me.

I mean, how hard can playing in the NBA really be? Jake Voskuhl's in the league and Matt Geiger's playing in the Eastern Conference Finals, for crying out loud. These guys are just meaningless role players used to eat up fouls and take the court during mop-up duty. I'll gladly take on that job for the NBA's minimum salary, which apparently is somewhere around $6 million these days.

I've already got some essential NBA skills figured out and well-rehearsed. When talking to reporters before, during and after games, I need to say things like, "My teammates won this game today, not me," and "We've gotta come out here tomorrow and show this team we're not ready to roll over," and "First, I just wanna thank God for leading us to this victory tonight," and "There's no way that kid is mine. I only had sex with her three times. Now get outta my face!" Not bad, huh? It's easy: praise your teammates, thank God for everything, and deny any and all allegations until you've talked to your lawyers. Rumor has it, commissioner David Stern is actually thinking of making that the official NBA motto, kicking "I Love This Game!" to the curb. 

Shawn Kemp's all for it.

But I know I also have a few things to work on if I'm ever going to be quality NBA material. Unlike Mr. Kemp, I don't have dozens of illegitimate kids with dozens of different women, and my coke problem is pretty much under control. As of this writing, my body is tattoo free, leaving me about 17 short of the NBA's Minimum Tattoo requirement. I've never sexually assaulted the family nanny, beat up my wife, or thrown someone through a bar window. I haven't even begun working on my offensive rap CD and I've also never shown up to a book signing in a white wedding dress and a veil. My entourage consists of my wife and my three-month old kitten, and I'm pretty sure neither of them carries a gun. I don't think cornrows or an afro would fit my style, and body piercings scare the bejeezus out of me, but I'd be willing to shave my head and wear a clip-on earring if it'd bump my draft status up a bit.

I know, with all those negatives I don't really fit in with today's NBA players. But there are a few positive things I could bring to the table.

On my city league team in fourth grade, I was voted "Best Playmaker" by my peers. OK, so everyone on the team got an award and maybe that was the only plaque left when my name came up, but I can still put it on my resume. Judging by his comments, though, my coach appreciated my hard work and willingness to do all the little things to help us win: "Most of the time, Codding knew exactly which basket to shoot at and who his teammates were, and he was always the last person to arrive at the gym and the first to leave. Plus", he added, "his shoe-tying skills were unparalleled". Not bad, huh? Not bad at all.
Of course, much of my hardwood brilliance was displayed at college during four years of glorious intramural basketball games. We were "Below the Rim" and we... well, we weren't very good. Fine, we sucked. Big time. I mean, we could have probably taken the Golden State Warriors, but most of the intramural teams at Ohio University worked us over during those four years. But that wasn't my fault. I remember one game, no kidding, I put in about 25 points with 18 of those coming from three-point land. I was on fire. I was unconscious. I was unstoppable.

And we still lost that day. By one point.

But that's all right. As my fourth-grade coach used to say to me, "You can't win 'em all, Codding. And with you on the team, we'd be lucky to win 10% of 'em." Well, Below the Rim fell below that 10% level in our four years, but we didn't have much to work with. Picture a team with Steve Kerr and John Crotty as the starting backcourt, Adam Keefe and Cherokee Parks as the two forwards and Danny Shayes at center trying to compete against the rest of the NBA. That's just about how overmatched Below the Rim was in those four years of OU intramurals.

By the way, I was Steve Kerr in that scenario. I had mad range.

Now, this all may not sound like much of an endorsement for my NBA-caliber skills, but my four years of misery with Below the Rim proved that I can handle adversity and thrive in tumultuous situations. 

Like in Portland.

And much like the Blazers' Rasheed Wallace, I can be counted on for at least one technical per game just to get my teammates fired up. Wanna play Hack-A-Shaq? Hey, the way I see it, I've got six fouls to use up whenever I step on the floor, and while I probably wouldn't survive more than four seconds down low with the big fella, I'd gladly give up my body to help the team. Of course, I'd need some hazard pay to start hanging onto Shaq's arm every time he gets the ball down low, but that kind of energy and commitment and tenacity doesn't translate into a simple dollar amount.

Although that $6 million I mentioned earlier would just about cover it.

What happens, though, if even with these bulletproof credentials no team is willing to take a chance on an out-of-shape, 24-year-old rookie with no college ball experience on draft day? Well, although David Falk calls me just about every night asking if he can represent me, I haven't signed with an agent yet. So if I'm not a projected Lottery pick, I'll have to fire up the old computer and get back to work. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up on the dream just yet. I'm going to make it.

So here I come, Kobe. Tracy McGrady, watch your back. I'm on my way, and I'm bringing my rusty jumper and 12-inch vertical with me. And just like the reunion Jordan seems to be planning for next year in Washington, I'm trying to get a few retired stars to join my NBA quest. Too bad that power-hungry, 17-year-old shift manager at Taco Bell wouldn't give Mark Eaton and Kurt Rambis the weekend off.


In the Bullz-Eye

Montreal Expos manager Felipe Alou. After a 6-1 start to the year, the Expos have managed to win only 12 of their last 38 games, falling to 18-27 on the year, good enough for last place in the NL East. Incredibly, there has been talk that Alou, considered by many to be one of the best managers in baseball, could be on his way out if Montreal can't pull themselves out of the basement. Currently, the Expos are 13th in the NL in both team ERA (4.95) and runs scored (178), and their .400 winning percentage is the sixth-worst in baseball.

 
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