Hoopin' at the Mack, or Mackin' at the Hoop

I've been in love with basketball since I was seven years old, which is much longer ago than I care to admit. But here's a hint. His name was still Lew Alcindor when I was rooting for him and the Big O and the Milwaukee Bucks.
I've played basketball more or less regularly since then, but somehow, I had never participated in a Gus Macker tournament.
Until last weekend.
The streets around Las Cruces' Meerscheidt Recreation Center were packed with the sights and sounds of hoops and fans.
Here are some memorable moments.
• While lining up to register, the following conversation occurs in front of me: "Hey, man, when did you get out of jail?" I'd heard the Macker could be rough, but this seemed a little extreme.
• While waiting in line, the sound system was playing some of the worst music ever made, all 1970s schlock, including "Billy, Don't Be a Hero," "Run, Joey, Run," and "The Night Chicago Died."
• The Macker is a place for great hats. There was a Chinaman's hat that looked to be made of straw. There was a big, beautiful black, rhinestone-studded Mexico sombrero. There was another sombrero that was probably four feet in diameter with a peak that was four feet high. This guy did not want a sunburned face. I think there were baseball caps representing every team in the major leagues except my favorite, the Detroit Tigers. No wait. I was wearing a Tigers cap.
• Colors. There were uniforms of all colors. The most frightening were the team that wore black shirts and bright pink shorts that were just a little too tight. I also liked the Chupacabras' uniforms. They were a shiny metallic gold, but they looked like they'd be quite uncomfortable in Saturday's hot, hot sun. My own team, Write Men Can't Jump (so named because all of our members write for the Sun-News), had shirts in a nice, rich teal.
• Ages. It seemed like every fan had a young child in a stroller. There were not quite as many older people as I'd expected, but it seems every year there are fewer and fewer people older than me.

The actual games were not quite as fun as the sights and sounds. Thankfully, by Saturday morning, the bad 70s stuff had been replaced on the sound system by the good 70s stuff, stuff you can really hoop to, like Earth Wind & Fire, the Gap Band, Brick and Lakeside (Come along, pack your bags, get on up and jam!).
But our team (which also included Felix Chavez, Lucas Peerman and Teddy Feinberg of the Sun-News, was a total disappointment. We had practiced a few times prior to the Macker, and were feeling good about our chances.
But we stunk up the joint. We didn't hit one long-distance shot in any of our three games, and we missed an awful lot of close-range shots.
I'd always heard how violent the games could get, with lots of cursing and fighting and flying of teeth. And right after our first game, we saw two huge fights break out in one game.
But in our games, every one was very sportsmanlike, friendly, and fun to play with. Of course, I guess it makes sense that our opponents were nice to us — they were kicking our ass by double digits most of the time.
Our most heroic moment came in our second Saturday game when, because Felix and Teddy both had to work (employment can be so pesky), Lucas and I had to forge ahead playing with just us two. Fortunately our opponents (Their team name: Freeballin,' We're Goin' Commando) were good-natured enough to play us two on two. Of course, they had two to sub in.
One other detail. While I'm almost 6-2. Lucas is 5-foot-1. He's a great ballhandler and playmaker. But as it happens, most of the other teams had guys a little bit taller than 5-foot-1.
At one point, I was guarding my guy at the top of the key, and I heard a grunt behind me. I turned and saw Lucas on the ground. He had taken an incidental hit to the nose, and it was bleeding. After shaking it off, he got up and took a drink of water. The Gusbuster told him he had to go to the medical tent, so he took off. The Gusbusters were thoughtful enough to hold the game, rather than have me play one-on-three. Pretty soon, Lucas comes jogging back and goes back on the court like Willis Reed in Game 7 in 1970 (I told you I was old).
Except that he didn't go on to lead us to the championship.
Still, Lucas inspired me enough to score another basket, meaning we only lost the game 15-5 instead of 15-4.
Sunday morning, we had all four of our team members back, and the weather was much cooler for our 11 a.m. game. We were pumped. Our opponents were much shorter than we were, but were in better shape and hustled more, and kept hitting those damned outside shots. Another quick exit for Write Men. And another sportsmanlike congratulations from the winners.

Regardless of our lousy showing, I love the Macker. It was great to see such a sea of humanity, all sunburned and psyched for hoops. Old friends were constantly running into each other, on the court and on the sidelines. Write Men have about 350 days to work on our jump shots. And despite the fact my jumper has not improved in the past 9,000 days, we still have hope. We're like the Cubbies. There's always next year.