By: Hanz Jimenez
“Magic with the ball... 3 seconds left. Magic dribbles down the lane... sky-hook... LAKERS win.” Watching the drama unfold, 8,500 miles away on the Boston parquet floor, I was quickly enamored with the Showtime Lakers and the game of basketball. I could never forget the rivalry between the Lakers and the hated Celtics. I was limited to being a spectator, but watching every miraculous Lakers moment captivated me. Where I grew up, there weren’t any basketball courts, only streets where I played patentero. My neighbors would rather play with GI Joe's and in the Philippines, riding our BMX bikes was the 'in-thing' specially in the 80's.
It wasn't until my family relocated in 1987 that I finally had the opportunity to play THE GAME and it was love at first sight. In my second grade class, I owned not only the handball courts (by mastering the strategy known as waterfalls) but also the basketball courts. The after school program kept the students safe at school until 5 p.m. and it was a haven for us to play in the playgrounds rather than walk the dangerous streets of Sunset Blvd. Kids would always play "King of the Court" and my quick feet always won the game for me. I was never a shooter but a drive to the right often resulted in triumph. Even with the numerous wins and the individual success, there was still something missing and it was evident when I would watch the Laker games. I felt more like James Worthy when I drove to the basket rather than my childhood hero, Magic Johnson. There was a yearning for me to pass the ball between my legs, a need for me to look the other way to emulate a no-look pass, a desire for me to clench my fists after I make an assist but there were no teammates to pass to. There weren't enough kids to play team basketball since th
e others would rather play kickball or dodge ball and my only option was to be a spectator.It wasn't until 6th grade that I finally played in an organized basketball team in Valinda. Coach Van Duyne had me come off the bench in favor of bigger guards but by the third and fourth game, I had earned my coach's trust and was on the starting rotation for Wing Lane. The most unforgettable moment in grade school was a half-court heave as time ran out before halftime. It was a miracle shot that put our team ahead and experiencing that incredible moment had me playing basketball everyday. It was the excitement of the crowd, the opposing team's determination to stop me, the stats next to my name that had me dreaming of being an NBA player.
Being smaller than everybody had everyone doubtful of my skills but my relentless penetration and my knack for passing the ball earned me respect, enough for a spot in Workman High School's freshman team. Starting for the team was great but it was the day I donned the knitted LOBOS home jersey on my lap that I would never forget. When I finally wore the white jersey, it was as natural as breathing to me, almost as natural as passing the ball, almost as natural as the facial expressions when I played the game. The music blaring on the speakers while we did our pre game lines left me feeling like a real basketball player. When Magic retired in '91, I patterned my game after the unruly, John Starks, an undrafted streaky shooter who played for the Knicks. The underdog facade was a role I embraced and high school basketball was my stage. I was content proving my bravado on my own turf opposed to my friends who were being recruited to join gangs and leaving violent threats on the 'G-line'. It was the gangster mentality in the mid-90's that easily influenced a lot of my friends into joining gangs and in the off-season, during the summer, I had no choice but to once again be a spectator.
