Basketball the Old-Fashioned Way
The Zags will probably not be looking to hire Double-Dribble Boots as a coach any time soon
March madness has come and gone and things are getting back to normal. Snarl, mumble, gripe, growl.
Everyone here in the northwest was let down by the Zag’s losing in their second game. I know it’s not uncommon for them to do that because every time they make it to the big dance and come up against a team of equal strength, they tighten up like a bung in a whisky barrel—even the junior high girls from Chipmunk Falls could score more points. Now I know their coach is an outstanding coach but he, to, needs to stand up and take the bull by the horns and quite swaddling his players.
As a for instance, we had the smallest basketball team in Oklahoma when I was growing up. Even though some of the players were married and owned their own mule, we still couldn’t score many points up against larger teams until our coach, an old farmer, came up with this brilliant idea. We didn’t seem to be able to concentrate with those big guys hovering all over us, so to teach us to pay attention to our shot, the coach came up with a plan. It worked, too, that is, up until the accident.
Coach took a set of brass rings off of his mule harness and placed one in the crotch of each player’s cup, or in the jock straps of the bigger boys; and hooked up a transmitter with a transistor from an old battery radio he had out in his shop. The transistor was wired to the 12-volt tractor battery he borrowed from his John Deer. Every time one of his players crouched to shoot a basket, Coach Farmer would cross a wire from the positive post on the battery to the negative, causing it to short out, resulting in the transmitter lighting up the brass ring in the shooter’s shorts. This had the effect of causing him to pas gas and let out a blood-curdling scream that sounded like a panther in estrus and coming from deep down in his gut.
It was all good; the shooters made their points and the center stopped all the opponent’s points and got all the rebounds.
When the cheerleaders picking up on what Coach Farmer was doing, they wanted to borrow his equipment for dates. And this is how the jump shot came to be.
I am sending all this full disclosure to the Seattle Seahawks, as a way for their coach to try to get them all facing the same direction for a change.
There’s gotta be something to that old story about the water in Seattle being bad. I’m here to tell ya, folks, I can drop the ball, miss-dribble, strike out, and miss a basket for half the money those nit wets get. Seriously, I could do all that for three, maybe four million a year. And they only have to work a third of a year, with most of that work accomplished in the motel after hours.
Just call me Old Double Dribble Boots