The Lone Ranger

With doomsday approaching, I write knowing full well that this could be one of the last things I ever do in my life and you, as the reader, could read this and at the same time look out the window to see meteors crashing to Earth or zombies attacking your house. At that point, you're better off finishing reading this because your life is over. That is, of course, unless you're one of those doomsday preppers who we've all laughed at on television and in that case, I'm coming to your underground "bug out" location and eating all your food (I've watched the show once or twice or like every episode). I'm not saying I believe all this doomsday bull, but it could happen even though the odds aren't good. In fact, the odds of the world ending tomorrow are about the same as Mark Sanchez actually passing the ball to his own teammates.

Its the first week of Christmas break practice, and for a townie it means I'm the only guy to show up for practice. Drey Mingo has been properly calling me the lone ranger for the past few days. When you're the only guy, you do a lot to kill time between segments where the coaches need you. Sometimes it could be half an hour before I'm needed for something, so I do a lot of nothing. Most of the time I sit on the bench seats and try not to be like Bobby Knight and toss one across the floor just for entertainment. Other than be a lazy ass, I do two things. One, I drink an unhealthy amount of Gatorade. You're probably wondering how this is possible since Gatorade is supposed to be healthy. Well, when you've drank so much to feel like you've just eaten a steak dinner, that's where the line is drawn. Today was a small victory because we got the blue Gatorade, and getting the blue Gatorade is worth some kind of celebration because I think the managers hide it and take it for themselves. So, I celebrated by drinking nearly all of it (water sucks, it really really sucks). I don't want to keep going with the blue Gatorade thing, but it's like the flavor of the month at an ice cream shop that you really like but only comes around like twice a year so you savor it by eating as much as possible. The other thing I do to kill time is just shoot around. Shoot around time is essential to my development as a practice player. The practice schedule allows time for the girls to work on their game, so I have to create my own time. Now, I'm not going to fool anyone and say that my shoot around time is productive, because its not. I spend most of my time shooting Dirk Nowitzki turn-around, fadeaway jumpers, banking in free throws, and imitating Larry Bird by shooting it over the backboard. In no way shape or form does this help improve my talent level. The only thing it may help is when it comes to playing h-o-r-s-e, or as Whitney Bays likes to play, h-o-r-s-e-s because she spells horse too fast. 

Instead of being a bum and doing nothing while I wait to jump in a drill and get elbowed in the face, I came up with somewhat of a bucket list of things to do when I'm the only RIP guy at practice. These things may be foolish, stupid, and just dumb in general, but I could really care less what you people think.

1. Trick shots 

Trick shots are usually saved for after practice, but since I would probably get kicked out of the gym if the team wasn't in there, I'd have to show off my talents during practice. Let's ignore the fact that I would interrupt practice and get yelled at by the coaches. The average person can stand in the bleachers and hit a shot, so I've decided to separate myself from the pack. The rafters in Mackey Arena don't look like the sturdiest place to stand which made them the obvious choice for the ultimate trick shot. As much as I would love to climb up there, sway my way across the catwalk, drain a shot and instantly become a campus celebrity, I have to realize one thing; I have an ungodly fear of heights. This fear can be explained by telling you I have to take a pill that basically puts me to sleep in order to get on a plane. So, me hitting a shot from the rafters would be more of a miracle than the 1980 US hockey team beating the Russians. 

2. Not show up for practice

To be honest, I've already accomplished this by not showing up yesterday. When I decided not to go, I kept saying to myself "It's a bold strategy Cotton, let's see if it pays off" (if you don't understand that reference, you've been caged your entire life and should go watch Dodgeball) Some of the players told me that I wouldn't have been used for anything and it was a good decision to not come. That's good to know and all, but I've got to tell you I probably did less on my day off than I actually do at practice. I would tell you all what I did but I'm not about to have people stalking me when this blog becomes more popular than Tim Tebow.

3. Play the band drumset

If any of you band people are reading this, it would be much obliged if you hid the drumsticks where your's truly could find them and shred on the drums for a while. If you do, I swear I won't make any jokes about you (in public). Every day we practice in Mackey I look up where the band plays and see the drum set just sitting there. I don't think the team would like it right away, but they would come to enjoy the harmonious sound of my drumming. It would be identical to the music they play during NBA games, except ten times better. On the other hand, I could sit on the drums and wait for either Camille Redmon or Liza Clemons to unnecessarily fall to the ground then play the comedic rimshot like at the end of a joke. One of them, if not both, will fall at least once per practice and it kind of looks like this:

Luckily for me, I only have about three weeks left of being the only RIP guy to be at practice. If you're a math person, that equals a lot of Gatorade, pointless shots, and riding the bench kind of like I would if I played for the men's team. To end, I have a message for the last minute Christmas shoppers, like myself. The best way to save money and make people happy is to wait until the day after Christmas, then buy what everyone would have wanted. Just tell them you lost the present and forgot to put it under the tree, they won't think twice about it.

Happy Holidays

Finals Week Dedication

Before I begin, let me just say you're welcome for providing you with entertainment during my finals week. I've taken my extremely valuable time and dedicated it toward something that has less to do with my education than Mike D'Antoni has to do with the Lakers' failure of a season (Kobe still doesn't know what an assist is and Da White Howard can't even dream of making a free throw). I could be studying for my last final, but I'm currently boycotting it because it happens to be on Saturday. In the words of Momma Boucher, Saturday finals are the Devil. On another note, don't get used to the continuous updates of the blog because some days there isn't enough to write about, but it would be in your best interest to check back at least ten times a day because you don't want to be left out of the loop when the cool kids are talking about it at the lunch table. Because its finals week, our turnout of practice guys is a little lower than usual. Some guys have exams during practice, which really isn't an excuse for missing because what we do is a team effort and there is no "I" in team.

Today's practice was one of those that seemed like it took all day. I blame this on the fact that I didn't go over and ask the managers what time it was, which I do about 2-3 times per practice. We had two guys including myself show up today, so two coaches had to step in and be a part of the coolest, relatively unknown, and somewhat exclusive group that we call the RIP Squad (RIP technically standing for Ready Intensive Practice but I've always thought we were walking to our death when we go to practice). The entire coaching staff could play against the girls and probably be just fine, but today assistants Nadine Morgan and Lindsay Wisdom-Hylton were the chosen ones. If you've followed Purdue women's basketball at all for the past few years, you know that Coach Wisdom was just an okay basketball player, and by just okay I mean she's a stud and would still be playing in the WNBA had she not taken the open assistant job. Also, to mention Coach Morgan, I'm 99% sure she could fight literally everyone in the gym MMA style and come out on top without question. Back to the action. We played offense against the girls most of the day because from what I could tell, their last game against UT-Martin wasn't their best defensive effort. In turn, today was sort of like Christmas that came early for me. If you're reading this, you've probably read my first post where I compared myself to JJ Redick, although at that time I was the version where he could only shoot off a screen. I hate to be that guy, but my game at this present time is a lot like Redick's during his senior year when he was fighting Adam Morrison and his Dirty Sanchez mustache for the scoring title. So, whenever we go against the girls on offense, the coaches always make sure somebody is on me like white on rice. I won't lie, the girls guard me just as hard if not harder than I was ever guarded in high school, so it's a challenge (but one that I usually pass with flying colors). I know I've really built this up to where you're thinking something really cool happened, like me posterizing one of the players, but I really just knocked down some shots. There was actually a point in practice today where I felt totally out of place.

Bill Shakespeare once said, "Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them." I would say today was as close as I will ever get to being able to mention that quote in my blog. The team gets split up into golf and black teams for practices so the players can develop chemistry by playing with different teammates every day. The gold team happened to be one guard short today so at the last second, your's truly had greatness thrusted upon him and had to fill in for a transition drill. The only problem was, the team doesn't run up and down and play like a bad intramural team. They actually run plays. Now, my mind used to be trained to remember and execute plays. Since then it has been molded around things like supply and demand, debits and credits, and other things I really hope I never have to use in the future. Coach Versyp comes to me and says I need to fill in, so I watched one of the wing players run through the different offensive sets during the drill. I had them down, but, I was soon put into oh shit mode when she said I was running the point. To say the least, it wasn't the greatest performance by a point guard anyone has ever seen. I literally threw the ball to the wing and cut to the opposite side every time no matter the play, and they ran four different plays. Luckily for me, I've got enough swagger (from now on will be swag) to make it look halfway decent instead of really making a complete fool of myself. I got the congratulatory high five from the players, but in the back of their mind I know they really thinking "Well that was a complete waste of time and energy. That idiot practices with us every day and hasn't memorized our plays yet?" I don't blame them for thinking it because I was thinking the same thing myself. When I play defense, I know what play is coming and really try not to cheat but I'll sometimes do it anyway. I'd compare it to getting the answers to a test before and trying not to just circle the answers and as I leave the room yell "suck it" to everyone who studied for hours on end.

I'd like to take this time to personally apologize for making the gold team run a down and back. I was the elementary school famed all-time offense for the purpose of a drill and hit shots for the black team but couldn't hit water if I fell out of a boat for the gold. To make my rebuttal, it wasn't like the gold team was run out of the gym (the goal was to score as many points in a certain amount of time). I also spent the entire day trying to work off the rust from not practicing for five days. From what I remember it ended up being 15-11 and me so fittingly missing a buzzer beater for gold. You should be proud, gold. You fought back at the end without any help from me. We can just say you lost by four basically playing down a man (or girl but I can't call myself a girl because that just won't fly). I did pay my dues, though, I ran the down and back because I'm all about dedication.

A Great Opportunity

Before I continue writing about my experiences with the women's team, let me make something clear. If you read my first post, you may be under the impression that being a practice player falls somewhere between taking an accounting exam and roofing during the summertime on the suck meter. Being a practice player is probably the best gig at Purdue, and I love every minute of it. The coaching staff is incredible and the players are great. Coaches treat us like members of the team, except they don't yell at us when we turn it over. The players love having us around, although sometimes they have to run because of us when we decide to show off our superior athleticism to grab offensive rebounds. The opportunity to play basketball at a high level every day makes my college experience ten times better, especially since we practice in Mackey Arena.
I really should have posted this right from the start, but I've decided to do my best George Lucas impression and go in whatever order I feel like. So, from now on, just realize that I have nothing against the program when I'm writing and really do enjoy practice. Also, I'm going to go ahead and classify this blog as PG-13, and a comedic take on the happenings of the RIP Squad. It's perfectly fine to use a curse word here and there, kind of like how a person on a diet sneaks in a Reese's cup every once in a while. I don't believe the word "ass" really is a curse word anymore either. I can watch TBS all day and every time someone calls another an A-hole, they bleep out "hole" but for some reason the "A" part is perfectly okay. Consider this a disclaimer for every post from now until whenever I feel like shutting this down.

The Practice Bitch

We've all done it, and by it I mean we've all been the savior who has brought his or her team back from down ten and 30 seconds to go on the five foot basketball goal in the driveway. The buzzer beater that takes you 5 tries as you count down from three but in reality takes a minute and a half. You finally hit the game winner and throw your hands up in the air like Christian Laettner against Kentucky (just go ahead and start counting the Duke references). At the time, you're thinking the rest of your basketball career is going to be exactly like the reenactment. Well, I'm here to tell you what happens when your career doesn't go down the road of collegiate fame. Welcome to the life and times of a Purdue women's basketball practice player, or as I call it, the practice bitch.

I grew up a short, white, and slow coach's son just across the river from Purdue's campus. My dad coached girls basketball at Lafayette Jeff until I was about 10 or 11, then coached with the boy's team from my 6th grade year to the time I graduated (Top 20 in my class, so shove it National Honor Society). I always tagged along with my dad, no matter where he went. He would take me scouting, on the bus to away games, and we would be the last ones to leave the school after games. I loved the game and couldn't get enough. I thought I was well on my way to an outstanding high school career.

Let's fast forward to my high school career. There I stood, a freakish 5' 6", 135 lb. sophomore who's body wasn't even considering hitting puberty. I was getting solid JV minutes and had only one skill, putting the ball in the hoop from a long way away. I was essentially a high school junior varsity version of JJ Redick. It was at this time that I figured out college basketball wasn't an option for me. To summarize the rest of my career, I grew six inches by the time I graduated, played at a high level of Indiana basketball, and ended up at Purdue.

I arrived at Purdue with no way of knowing what I was going to do. I had to be involved in basketball somehow, it had been my life up until that point. I applied to be a manager for the men's basketball team, but was let down easy Billy Currington style. With an air-soft gun to my head wondering what I was going to do with my life, I caught word of the women's basketball team needing guys to help them with practice. I got in contact with the powers that be, signed more compliance forms than I ever wished to, and technically became a student athlete. I paid the fee, I signed the forms, and I get to use the student athlete entrance into Mackey Arena. So, I took that as meaning I should be able to get into frat parties even if I don't know anyone in the fraternity, have people do my homework for me, and show up late to class with my hoodie up and Beats by Dre on then proceed to nap during lecture. I was getting ready to live the high life, and was planning on having that black guy from the Miller High Life commercials follow me around everywhere. But, I was in for a rude awakening.

I show up to the first day of practice without any of the cool gear the players were wearing, and not really knowing what exactly I'm supposed to do. I just remember running around like a fool at 100 MPH and trying to score on everyone. There were two distinct moments that I remember because after head coach Sharon Versyp yelled at me for doing these things I felt like I had brought shame to my family name. The first instance occurred when I was fronting one of the players in the post, and a guard tried to pass it over me (for those of you who don't know what fronting is, it's when you're too afraid to get backed down in the post so you stand in front of the player). Naturally, I jump up like Blake Griffin and steal the pass. Coach Versyp blows the whistle immediately after. I don't recall the exact words, but it was similar to getting the "you can't do that" chant yelled at you. The second instance was when I made probably the most athletic move I've ever made and blocked one of the girls' shot up against the backboard. Again, the "you can't do that" chant came my way. I had taken something away from that day. I was basically told that part of being a practice player was not playing defense, which came naturally to me anyways. By the time a few weeks of practice had passed, I realized that my role of a practice player was to physically get my ass beat by girls for three hours a day. If this sort of thing happened in elementary school, I'd be the kid they pick last for kickball. At Purdue, I get rewarded with some shirts, shorts, shoes, and a bruise the size of an orange on my thigh all winter. Welcome to the life of a practice bitch.