The Arizona Suns at their very own victory parade.
If the phone rings, will you answer? Faced by the inevitable unforeseen occurrence, how will you react? They say the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. Will you shrink from uncertainty into obscurity, or boldly lift the receiver and demand to know who dares? Brock Seraphin posed this to the slumbering players in Room 322, dialing their room before the sixth hour. The phone rang once; sleep was shattered. The phone rang twice; realization dawned. The phone rang a third. Mikey Etchart answered the phone and Team Arizona answered the call.
The annual Calizona Summer Series was conceived in the gray recesses of Oscar Borboa’s mind. The premise was elegantly simple. A gang of friends is split into two geographic groups. Both groups look to Naismith’s game as their preferred form of sanitized combat. It only follows that these two groups should face off in a mutually-accepted arena. They would play for one another and their state. It was an idea destined to gain form.
Palm Springs was the agreed-upon location for the series. The two teams would arrive Friday night, head to their respective hotel rooms, talk strategy and get rest for the next day. Tipoff was at 8 a.m. on Saturday at Ruth Hardy Park, an oasis amidst the Mojave Desert. The teams would play four games in the morning, and if necessary, finish the best-of-seven series under the eyes of the setting sun. Games to 15, scored in increments of one and two.
The two teams arrived early, ready to play. Team California was at the court first, the Bear Flag posted on the hoop’s pole. They wore matching gray sleeveless shirts, adorned with ‘CA’ off-center and on the bottom, in the avant-garde manner. James Eastman used his artistic talents and added a frightening depiction of an enraged amphibian, labeled simply as “Beast,” one of his many monikers. That day, Eastman did his best Willis Reed impression. Three weeks prior, he suffered a horrific accident, falling from a tree and landing flat on his back after descending fifteen feet. The collision between the hard-packed earth and his inflexible spine – occurring at over thirty feet per second – cracked a vertebrae. Undeterred, Eastman started for his home state, and played through pain few can comprehend.
As Cali conducted their shootaround on the north end, Team Arizona appeared. Dressed in purple and black Phoenix Suns jerseys worn by the glorious 1990’s teams, they walked by their opponents without a word. Oscar Borboa pressed play on Bone Thugs n Harmony: Greatest Hits. I planted the Arizona flag. Andy Etchart got wet. The two teams lined up, California grabbed (literally) the opening tip, and a thick stillness covered the court.
California opened the scoring on a layup from Garrett Masciel. The teams traded baskets early and CA held a 3-2 advantage. CA left two players hovering by the three-point line on offense, thwarting any Arizona breakaways. Arizona had difficulties scoring as well. Cali packed the paint and used their length to seal any gaps in the defense. They had neutralized Arizona’s game-plan of drives to the basket and transition buckets.
The score stayed the same for over a dozen possessions as defense was stalwart on both ends. Bring the ball into the lane and you were liable to leave without it. Ryan Pickering used his bevy of post moves and pump fakes to score on layups and fadeaways. Oscar Borboa directed traffic for AZ on offense, setting up his younger brother for scoring opportunities. Brock Seraphin battled Bo Mitchell on the blocks. With the score knotted at six, Bo stepped behind the arc and canned a straightaway two. This put the Zonies up briefly before California roared back with four unanswered points. But Arizona would not be denied and finished the game strong, winning 15-12.
The teams split and hydrated. After a brief rest, play resumed. Arizona scored two quick baskets before California could answer. Tied at three, I scored with a running left-handed drive, prompting a run to put Zona up by 4. Scores by Mueller, Masciel, and Pickering brought the count to 12-11. Momentum belonged to California. Arizona had the ball, perilously perched on their lead.
In basketball, the difference between going up 2-0 or splitting the first two games is monumental. Down 2-0, the trailing team must win four of the next five, a tall order for a team evenly matched against its opponents. After a split, the first two games are rendered moot; both participants start evenly in a race to win three more. It is incredibly infrequent for a team in a two-deep hole to claw their way de profundis.
The Arizona Suns circled the ball around the perimeter, working it inside and out. California’s defense was stout; the way was shut. Andy Etchart held the rock and passed it to me as I came open near the top of the key. Seeing the basket clearly, I rose and released. I thought of my woefully subpar week of training on the Goodyear courts – embarrassed on defense, hesitant on offense. The ball spun in the air as I heard Andy say “Come on Michael.” The bank was open, the ball caromed off the backboard and through the net. “Show me the Carfax!!” I hollered running down the court. “C’mon guys! One more stop!” Bellowed Oscar Borboa. A defensive stop followed by a putback for Arizona ended the game.
Game three bore no similarities to the other contests. During the break, Oscar told his teammates “This is Game seven right now; we win here and it’s over. Bring it.” On the first possession, Alonzo Borboa stripped the ball from Chris Mueller, outraced another CA defender and scored the game’s first point. After another basket by Arizona and miss by Cali, Andy Etchart held the ball. California had made the decision to change defenses, dropping the man-to-man they had played for the first two games in favor of a 2-3 zone. Etchart faked left, crossed over and sliced into the lane. Stopping a few feet from the basket, he flipped in an uncontested floater. He returned to the defensive end, announcing to the world “The middle of that zone is WIDE open!” For the Cali boys, the game unraveled shortly after. Up 5-3, Mikey Etchart and Alonzo Borboa nailed consecutive twos which ignited a 9-1 run by the Copper State crew. Final score: 15-5.
How did Edmund Hillary feel as he stared at the summit of Everest from its base? What about Shadow in Homeward Bound as he stared up at Chance and Sassy from his muddy pit? What does one do when he finds himself in a pit? Lie down and whimper? Though the climb be steep and treacherous, the only recourse is to shove violently against adversity, to fling aside the wet blanket of suffocating defeat, to rage against the dying of the light. There can be honor in defeat, but none in surrender.
The men of California came out firing for game four. Quick baskets by Mueller and quick hands on defense staked them to an early lead. Kyle Bergland came alive, scoring on three straight possessions. He mixed drives to the basket with offensive rebounds and putbacks, forging his side to a 7-2 lead. His fire earned praise from a sidelined Eastman.
Two baskets by Arizona later, I had the ball at the elbow. With a bit of daylight, I rose up and shot the ball. I misfired and instead of hitting solid pavement, my left foot landed on the unsteady surface of Stoph’s. My ankle rolled, I felt a crack and the too-familiar surge of fire up my leg. I yelped in pain as I fell to the ground, followed by a wail of anguish and frustration knowing my day on the court was over. Kyle Bergland and Garrett Masciel immediately got me to my feet and walked me off the court. Andy provided a bag of ice and play resumed.
It was to be the first of many injuries during the game. Arizona was down 8-4 as I watched from the bench while Kyle continued to score against defenders, putting the entire state onto his broad shoulders. Pickering and Brock Seraphin began scoring, sharing the load as the California sun beat mercilessly on the Arizona Suns. Points for Arizona became difficult as Cali reverted to their game-one form, reminiscent of the 2004 Detroit Pistons. Baseline drives were smothered and players could forget about using the lane. On the defensive end, Bo Mitchell began a series of escalating battles against Pickering and Seraphin. Things came to a head as he battled for a rebound against Bergland. While leaping for the ball, Kyle inadvertently stuck his ring finger through the gauge hole in Bo’s ear. The lobe held, but his finger left with a piece of Bo’s scalp. The two began roaring at one another as blood flowed down Bo’s neck. Play stopped as teammates administered to his skull and did their best to stop the bleeding. The score stood 12-9 in favor of California.
The break served Arizona well. They played with renewed fervor. Young Mikey Etchart slapped the ball away from a taller Masciel, preventing the entry pass. Oscar scored a driving layup to cut the deficit to two. On Cali’s next possession, Bergland held the ball near the top of the key. A collision between him and Pickering dislodged the pill and sent it rolling briskly toward the sideline. Players, sapped of strength from two solid hours of running, jumping, cussing, and shoving watched resignedly. All except Bo Mitchell. With a burst of speed, he corralled the loose ball a hair before it crossed the sideline. With mere inches to spare before his bare arms scraped hot asphalt, he pushed the ball into the path of an acutely aware Nut. The older Borboa seized possession and passed the ball to a trailing teammate. The deficit stood at a single point. Bo’s hustle has been seared into the memories of everyone who watched. A turnover forced by invigorated defense led to a three-on-one break, tying the game at 12. After another AZ hoop, Pickering pivoted and pirouetted his way to a difficult basket, tying the game at 13.
Previously on this website, Brock Seraphin defined the concept of wetness, the deceptively difficult ability to score the basketball. When taking a shot, innumerable things can distract the shooter and prevent the union of ball and net. He wrote, “The resulting swish or brick is a matter of confidence. Nay, it is a matter of mindlessness. For the scorer, nothing exists but the sensual touch between porous leather and sweaty flesh.” In Team AZ’s hotel room the night before, a tired Alonzo sat slumped on the bed. While the rest of the team exchanged guffaws and bedded down, Alonzo gazed into a future only he could see. “Man, I’m gonna fuck people up tomorrow.” He repeated this statement multiple times. He foresaw.
The elder Borboa brought the ball up for Arizona. He passed it to Zo near the top of the key. Alonzo used a screen to break free of Mueller’s defense. He squared his body to the basket, eyes narrowed to focus the reflected light more forcefully onto his retinas. He jumps and fires. The backboard blocks my view of the ball as it makes its heavenly journey. The next thing I saw was beautiful. Straight through the net, a perfect brown sphere dropped. The game was over, the series was over. We had won.
I hobbled onto the court and embraced Oscar. Alonzo received a well-deserved ice bath from the Brothers Etchart. The hours spent at Goodyear Park, the suicides following hours of games, the 6 a.m. practices at ISP culminated in a long-awaited victory for ourselves and our state.
For the rest of the weekend, the two teams fused. Ryan Pickering defeated a hyper-patriotic jackass in an underwater breath holding contest. Oscar Borboa turned down a chance at reality TV fame, preferring the companionship of his crew. Kyle Bergland found love and entertained a hard-working commuter waiting at the bus stop. Brock Seraphin owned the dance floor; the owners of the bar gave it to him out of respect at the end of the night. Andy Etchart went down swinging against an Asian dealer while Alonzo Borboa did everything in his power to prevent him leaving the safety of the hotel room. I was rescued by a former opponent from a mob cursing the defilement of their restroom.
Team California had more size and length than we did, but Arizona played together. Our road to victory was paved with commitment to a common goal and dedication to those wearing purple and black. California’s attempts at gamesmanship rolled off of us like monsoon rain on a saguaro. Mikey answered the early call from Brock, and promptly fell back asleep. The rest of the dusty Arizonans answered their own later. The Summer Series showed that one’s fiercest opponents can be (in our case, are) one’s most ferocious supporters. That said, one must rise to defeat the panoply of challenges life throws one’s way. The general must lead the charge. As John Donne put down so many years ago:
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of a continent, a part of the main;…therefore never send to know for whom the phone rings; it rings for thee.
