Jakey: The Man, The Legend

My Athletic Career

Age 5: YMCA Soccer

Our team wore maroon (which I didn’t like because it reminded me of A&M—probably told to me by my dad) and was called the Raiders.  I probably weighed less than 30 pounds.  Since we lived so far out, I got put on the country bumpkin team, which meant that it encompassed kids from multiple age groups because that’s what it took for our hillbilly asses to assemble a full team.  I was 5, but most of the kids were 7, and a couple of them were even 8.  At the first practice, one of the bigger kids, Travis, kicked me in the shins.  It hurt like shit.

This was my first experience in what would be a long line of frustrations and disappointments.  I was already able to grasp the concept of SSWW (small, slow, weak, white), even at age 5.  My first realization came during the first practice when I realized how incredibly hard it was for me to keep up with the pack.  Like I would do for the rest of my life, I focused on doing one thing well.  I could dribble.  It turned out to be the one thing (save a future miracle, see below) that I could do right.

At the first game, I started out on the bench.  Mind you, we had just enough players to make a team, plus one.  So I had no company.  I went to the coach once, about 15 minutes into the game, so ask him when I could go in.  I mean, I just wanted to fucking play.  I was nervous about doing this already, but before I could even stammer out “ummm, Coach?...” My dad came up behind me and grabbed me up by the back of my neck like a fucking

Labrador

does its puppies and said “Leave him alone.  He’s coaching the game.”  Of course I was embarrassed as hell and started crying like a little bitch.  I think back to that and wonder why I never followed through on my childhood fantasies of sneaking into my parents’ bedroom with a baseball bat and smashing in my father’s skull.

Kiddie soccer is pretty much a confused mess.  I’ve decided this is just as much a lack of direction as it is kids being kids.  One time during the 2^nd game, I got the ball somehow.  Instead of the usual, which was me getting pushed down or kicked in my 3 ¼” diameter legs and giving up the ball, I somehow got away from the pack.  I was on a breakaway.  I started hauling ass.  I finally looked up and realize that I was about 10ft from the goal and only the goalie and one fullback were between me and destiny.  Suddenly, the fullback came up, kicked the ball away from me (oddly missing my twigs), and screamed “What are you doing, kid?!”  That’s when two things happened: 1^st, I realized it was Travis, who had kicked the ball away from me in order to prevent me from scoring an own goal (people in Brazil get killed for doing this); and 2^nd , I heard my dad yell “JAKE!!! YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG FUCKING WAY!!!” He actually said “fucking”.

Age 6: YMCA Soccer, year 2

This time we were the Warriors, and our shirts were red.  This was a much better experience, mainly because our coach, Mrs. Harris, was also our 1^st grade teacher.  Mrs. Harris was a great teacher and a tremendously good influence on my life.  We were pretty close.  She had put me and like 4 other kids in this accelerated learning deal in school, which made me feel special and smart.  It gave me a confidence that will last a lifetime.  Anyway, she was also our soccer coach.  Pretty much the only thing I remember from the whole season is that I actually scored a goal.  Looking back, it was a miracle.  I swear to god the shot I took was at least 20 yards out.  There’s no fucking way I should have been able to kick the ball that far.  Especially since it was PERFECT.  I mean fucking perfect.  It hit in the upper corner of the net.  There was no way the goalkeeper could block it.  I didn’t know how to react initially, but once it hit me what had just happened, I ran right to Mrs. Harris and jumped into her arms.  Luckily I didn’t hurt her because I only weighed 32 lbs.  It was one of only 3 times in my life that I’ve cried tears of joy.  After the game, my dad gave me 5 dollars for scoring the goal, which like doubled my annual income for that year.  I used it to buy M.A.S.K. and G.U.T.s toys.

Age 9-11 (3^rd grade thru 5^th grade): YMCA Basketball and Mike Smith’s Basketball Camp

By the time 3^rd grade came around, I had given up soccer and turned to basketball, because my mom had started coaching my junior high’s girls’ basketball team, which meant I had to stay up in the gym with her while they practiced.  The only form of entertainment during the 2 hour practice was dribbling the ball around the gym, so I got pretty good at ball-handling. 

I don’t remember much about YMCA basketball, except one game in 4^th grade.  My friend Zac De La Rosa had a birthday party the night before.  We had stayed up till like 4am TPing houses and playing “Leisure Suit Larry” on his Apple II-C.  I think that was my first “hangover”.  I’m sure I played even more like shit than normal.

My mom had put me in Mike Smith’s basketball camp in like 4^th and 5^th grade.  It was the premier basketball camp in our area, and every kid who loved basketball would be there.  The things I remember about this was that they lined us up by age, then by height.  There was one kid who was certifiably midget, and he had like a “tick” where he would spontaneously smile.  He was the only kid that was shorter than me.  Everyone else was at least 6” taller than me.  Aside from meeting local legends like

Jimmy Smith

, Derek Ozuna, and Willie Laos, the coolest memories from these camps were that I won every game of “dribble knock out” and that I was named “Best All Around” player in my age group.  Pretty f’n solid considering I hadn’t crested 4 feet yet. 

Age 12-14 (Junior High): Dominating Football, Basketball, and the “880”

Football

Our junior high football coach’s motto was “Run until my buzz wears off.”  Not really, but seriously he had to take a leave of absence twice during my tenure there due to alcoholism. 

In 6^th grade I probably weighed about 70 pounds.  I was no taller than 4 ½ feet.  My biceps measure about 4” in circumference.  What I’m trying to say is that Vern Troyer could have kicked my ass.

Coach Joey liked me for 3 reasons: 1^st, he liked my mom, who was the girls’ coach (nothing inappropriate just that they got along well); 2nd, my oldest brother was a legend because he had walked like 3 miles to practice one time after he missed the bus because he had detention (I later got detention on purpose just so that I could walk to practice and prove I was just as hard). 3^rd, I wasn’t scared to get hit like a lot of the other kids were.  For some dumbass reason I thought I was invincible with the shoulder pads and helmet on.

My first year, we had this kid named John Paul Martinez.  Well, that was his name, but everyone called him “Snake”.  He was in 8^th grade but had a full mustache.  He drove us to practice.  He had a kid on the team.  He missed practice because of jury duty.  He taught a class.  He paid his athletic dues with Social Security.  He got into rated “R” movies.  He got a Senior Citizens discount on the team meal at Golden Corral.  He had to file taxes.    Just kidding, but he was one of those legendary kids who had been held back and was bigger than everyone else. 

Anyway, Coach Joey’s idea of “practice” was to have me get run over by Snake time after time.  I think other than getting a kick out of it and thinking it was funny, he probably thought it was a good way to ease the other kids’ fear about getting hit.  Anyway, I played cornerback and wingback.  The biggest highlight of my shortlived football career were that one time a long lost family friend had shown up to watch us practice, and Coach Joey sent Snake on a sweep in my direction…he even called it out before the play so that I knew it was coming.  The “highlight” was that I was able to “tackle” Snake in front of Vern (said family friend).  And by “tackle”, I mean to say that Snake tripped on my face.  The only other things I remember were that I got 2 actual carries, for a total of about 3 yards gained.  My 8^th grade year, Coach Joey put me on the “B” team, mainly because of my size I was told, so I quit rather than face the humiliation of demotion.  I knew better than to try and play football in high school.

Basketball

By junior high I had developed a real passion for basketball.  I lived and breathed it.  Other than constantly watching the NBA on TV, my time was divided equally between pick up games at the YMCA and games of ½ on 1 with my older brother Matt.

In 8^th grade, Coach Joey quit coaching prior to the basketball season beginning.  So we had this new coach, Coach Chateau.  Fucking frog.  The main things I recall were that he would take off his shirt to scrimmage with us, and he had a really sweaty hairy ass back.  It was fucking gross.  The other thing I remember was that late in a close game, I hadn’t gotten any playing time yet, and he turns to me and says “I would put you in, but I want to win.”  You know, like putting me in the game completely eliminated any chance my team had of winning.  Pretty sweet.  It was a pretty solid building block for my athletic self esteem.

The games with my brother are cherished memories.  Endless hours of having the ball stolen and my shots thrown either back in my face or to the neighbor’s yard.  I can’t count the number of times that I would get pissed off at being dominated and would quit, only to be goaded back out there for more punishment.  That being said, it brought my brother and me closer and in all seriousness, I wouldn’t trade those games for anything.

Track

I have but two real memories of my running career.  The first one involved my future best friend, the other involved my brother and my girlfriend; but they both involved the “880”.

I know it’s only a ½ mile, but when you’re 13 years old, running 880 meters is fucking grueling.  After it’s over, kids look like they could be in the “agony of defeat” reel on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”.  Anyway, I fucking SMOKED my (future) friend Kenny in the final 100M sprint toward the finish line.  That’s the way I remember it at least.

The other memory I have is of the Weimer 880 in 7^th grade.  The first thing was that my brother, who was a very good runner and a senior in HS at the time (400/800 specialist) had left a note for me in the morning, just wishing me luck and giving me pointers for the race.  It was a special big brotherly type thing that meant a lot to me.  But the cool part came during the race.

The main reason I was excited about the Weimer track meet was that only like 6 schools participated, which made it real easy to place in your event.  I knew that there would be probably less than 12 kids in the race, so all I had to do was finish in the top half and I’d get a ribbon.  I was stoked.  This was my opportunity.

Somehow, I disregarded my brother’s advice to pace myself, attack the turns, and save a kick for the last 100M.  I decided I was going to SPRINT the entire thing.  I was going to break the record.  I was “Pre”. 

I had guaranteed a victory, even prededicating it to my girlfriend Lauren.  Looking back this was a bold move seeing as how I had never even so much as placed in a race before.  So Lauren, being the loving partner that she was, had decided to cheer me on by waiting on the 3^rd corner, and would run the final 100M with me for encouragement.  Several of her friends waited with her.

As soon as the gun went off, because of the stagger and the fat kid being the only person outside of me, I was in first place.  I sprinted around the 1^st corner.  10 meters ahead of the pack.  I kept hauling ass past the 2^nd turn and into the 1^st straightaway.  20 meters ahead of the pack.  By the time I had sprinted the first 400 meters, I was at least 30 yards out in front.  I was meeting my destiny. 

It started in the first turn of the 2^nd lap.  I realized my top speed had decreased a little and destiny didn’t seem so certain.  I took a quick look behind me and realized the leaders of the pack were now less than 20 yards behind me.  I hit the 1^st straightaway like an out of gas 86 Buick LeSabre with a flat tire, but I was still “sprinting”.  I still had a slight lead heading into the 3^rd turn.  But that’s when the Frito Pie came into effect.    The first heave made me stumble a little bit and change lanes so suddenly I almost knocked over the kid who would eventually go on to win 1^st place.  I recovered and swallowed the vomit, thinking that I could still finish and no one would notice.  A couple more belabored steps later, I realized this was a battle not so easily won.  As I saw my girlfriend Lauren rise to meet me at the beginning of the final turn, our eyes met.  And I puked everywhere.  Helplessly trying to swallow it as fast as it came back, I only made myself puke more.  Still worse, I was breathing hard, so the vomit made me choke.  I didn’t even notice the fat kid pass me.  As I stumbled into the final straightaway, chewed up fritos and hoofmeat dribbled down my sweaty chest, Lauren with me every step of the way, I could almost hear my dad clowning “ba-doomp, ba-doomp, ba-doomp…” as he had clowned so many last placed lagging retarded fatsos in my presence before.  Only this time he was doing it to me.  You know, after all that, I did kick in just enough to beat the fatso and get 11^th place.  Out of 12.

Age 14-18 and beyond: Basketball

By the time I got to high school I had given up on all sports except basketball.  Because I had dedicated so much fucking time to it, I was actually decent.  I knew the game well, I was a good dribbler, an adequate backcourt defender, and a solid passer.  My interior defense, shooting, decision making, and confidence still left a lot to be desired.  I can’t really remember any good stories from these periods, only that to summarize it would be that I constantly played in the fear of making a mistake.  This caused me to play well below my potential.

The peak of my athletic career was during summer league between my freshman and sophomore years.  One game I just decided fuck it and took it to the rack every time.  It was the perfect storm because my boy Fred was the ref, we only had 6 players show up, and to shorten the game they had changed the rules to just award points instead of shoot free throws.  I scored 18 points and had several fucking sweet assists to my good friend Estefan.  It ruled.  The true validation came after the game when Mike Smith (of Mike Smith basketball camp) came up and asked me where I went to school and told me good game and I looked like a really polished player.

As far as high school, being on the team was a blast but like I said I limited myself because I was so scared of fucking up.  I made the varsity my junior year but was a total scrub.  My senior year I told the coach I would quit if I wasn’t a starter so I started all the games but never finished them.  I was really close to my coach and he asked me to wear #10 because that was the # that his son who had passed away had worn, and I reminded him of his son, so that was cool and special and all that.  I ended up getting honorable mention All-District, which meant that my coach had voted for me and since there were only 3 teams in our district, all you had to do to get honorable mention was get one vote.

Since about my sophomore year of college my basketball skills have been on the steady decline.  In fact I actually discontinued physical activity altogether about 3 years ago but once I got to

Iraq

it was either workout or kill yourself so I started lifting weights. I’d say that I’m in the best strength based shape of my life.  My insides (heart, lungs, etc.) are probably rotten as hell but my muscles are bigger than ever.  And by bigger than ever I mean they exist now.

So there you have a synopsis of my athletic achievements, and you know Jakey: the man, the legend.

Comments

[kineyb]

I'm amazed at how much you remember from your childhood days. I never played YMCA soccer from what I can remember. I did however play YMCA football, and basketball. I have one memory of my football hay days. This one time I was playing cornerback, and the ball was thrown in my direction. The receiver wasn’t looking and it bounced off of his back into my hands. I was as surprised as anyone that I caught it. I was only about 20 yards from the goal and so no one was able to catch me. I think this was my only football touchdown. I’m not counting football in my front yard against the Krueger’s. I schooled them ALL the time. I didn’t start growing until my junior year in High School, so I always hated playing football. I was probably the same size as Jake. The only difference is that I knew I was not invincible with shoulder pads and a helmet on. I ran from hits like a little school girl. I may have even screamed like a school girl.

Thanks for the shout out in your Track story. Even though I remember it differently, I think we can both agree on one thing. The winner out of you and me would get the 8th place ribbon. As you mentioned, they didn’t give out ribbons for 8th place so neither of us have proof of who won.

[llogg]

Jake,
I had to stop reading this four times because I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. Phenie had to toddle over and make sure I was okay. That 880 in Weimar made me laugh my ass off. Plus hearing dad in my head going "ba-dump ba-dump" as some overweight 15 year old girl did her best to finish running a half mile was awesome. My Weimar story is that in 8th grade Weimar was the last meet and I was going to finally cut loose. I ran hard in practice every day. I was ready. It was my time. Roy, who never practiced anything but high jump decided at the last minute to run the 880. I took the lead from a Fishbeck at the top of the last turn. Visions of glory began to dance in my head. With about 70 yards to go Roy galloped past me not even breathing hard. I couldn't keep up. I was so beat down by seeing Roy shoot past that I wasn't paying attention and let Fishbeck pass me too. Still, third was the best I ever did.

[llogg]

BTW, those basketball games were the highlight of my adolescence too. Well, right below first road head.

[Snake Diggity]

I thought you promised never to bring up that first road head.

[Snake Diggity]

Kenny, that was a joke. You beat me fair and square. But I think we were so small that they actually classified us as a 1/2 a person each, so you got 7 1/2th, and I got 8th.

[kineyb]

llogg, it makes me laugh to think that on your adolescence highlight reel you have throwing your little brother's shot into the neighbor's yard, and getting road head in that order.

[Ojo Rojo]

I had to be excused from the library computer lab after reading that Weimar track meet story.

Here's my story: Hallettsville Sacred Heart track meet, 8th grade, 880 yd dash. I led the race the entire way and won going away. I was forty yards in front of second place. I broke the tape for the first time ever. It was one of the greatest feelings I've ever had. Following week, Cuero track meet. Again, I led the race the entire time. Thinking the race was simply a repeat of the previous week, I was coasting in with fifty yards to the finish line. Then this guy made his kick and passed me right at the end. I was caught off guard and never saw him coming. His name is John Stefka. I still hate that guy. Freshman year, Industrial track meet, 800 meters. I thought high school track was just an extension of junior high track so I figured I would just kick ass on everybody. Lead the whole way and win by a wide margin. That was the plan. Well, there's a difference between parochial school league and UIL. I started off fast and took my rightful position at the front of the pack by the 3rd turn. On the first straightaway of the second lap I started fading and people started passing me. I hit an absolute wall on the final turn and limped in to the finish in last place. It was the most humiliating experience I'd ever had. It was a big wake-up call. I started training harder than ever and incorporated strategy into my races from that point on.

[llogg]

Kiney, For the record the list goes like this:
1. road head
2. tossing Jake's weak ass floater into Barnett's pasture.
3. "You lied to me and you trashed my shit, you stupid little f*ck."

[kineyb]

I'm sure your brothers know what that means, but I would like the story. Sounds funny.

[Will]

Leisure suit Larry was sweet! And I actually scored a layup for the wrong team in the 7th grade. Luckily it was right before halftime and i could escape from the laughing for ten minutes or so. I never recovered...

[Bored Blog Reader]

blum blum

[roy]

agreed...i read the frito pie story at work and had to resort to some sort of panting sound to avoid outright laughter.

llogg, that was cuero...and yes, it was the only 880 i ever ran. the best thing was that for some reason cuero gave out medals at that meet instead of ribbons - so the one time i finally got first place (a-hole ross always beat me in the high jump) i scored a sweet little medal.

one of my most memorable high school bball moments was after yoakum kicked our ass one year. matt went up to the yoakum coach in the "good game" line and told him, "about time you pulled your starters, asshole." the best part was that he didn't tell anyone he was going to do it and he didn't tell us after he did it...we didn't find out until coach came and ripped him a new one.

classic.

[llogg]

You're right. I had forgotten it was Cuero. Now I recall that the meet at Weimar the next week got cancelled for some reason and I was secretly happy because I was still dejected from the finish in Cuero. And that Yoakum coach was an asshole. Of all the stupid things I did in high school, this is the one I have absolutely no regrets about. I didn't mention it to anyone because I wasn't trying to look cool, I was genuinely pissed at the guy's lack of sportsmanship. They were running a full court press up by 25 points in the second half. I'm still pissed about it. Plus, Coach Haynes's completely off the hook reaction in the locker room was totally worth it.