Great Scott

June 24, 2009 // 7:47 pm

JCC Locker Room

By Michael James Nelson

“Gotta drop dem knees down now,” shouted a tall black man to a bunch of small Jewish kids on a basketball court. “Make sure you protect that basket! Don’t let ‘em drive the lane! Clog the middle!” I grabbed the ball, cut right, cut left, weaved in-and-out of each defender, and took it right down the middle to the basket. A whistle blew.

“No, no, no,” the tall black man said, moving onto the court, directing some of the kids. “Ovi, you let him go right past you. And Ben, you gotta get low to the floor. Guys, you gotta clog the middle so he can’t go straight to the hole!” I just stood off to the side, with a grin on my face. It was 1995 and I was the “Michael Jordan” at the Jewish Community Center’s (JCC) Summer Basketball Camp. And that tall black man was our coach, Dennis Scott.

Dennis Scott was a local star at the time. He played for the NBA’s Orlando Magic, but more importantly, he was a celebrity that drove a “pimped-out ride” and was on television every other night. So, as he would stand there, holding our shoulders, placing us where we needed to be on the court, we just kept telling ourselves, “Oh my God, Dennis Scott is talking to me.” We were star struck, all his words went in one ear and out the other.

After camp, we would always congregate in the men’s locker room to get into our street clothes, discuss the activities of the day, and just hang out. But before we would enter this very large locker room, one boy would always peak inside first and then give the “all clear” sign. What were we trying to avoid in that locker room? Old, naked Jewish men.

The men’s locker room at the JCC was notorious for it’s old, naked Jewish men. These old men would roam the locker room, their wrinkly asses reflecting the ultraviolet light from the bulbs above as their testicles demonstrated the true forces of Earth’s gravity.

We got the “all clear” and moved in. Fifteen minutes passed and we were pretty much dressed in our regular clothes, just talking about camp and planning the rest of the day. Then, all of a sudden enters Dennis Scott. All goes silent. No way!!! Dennis Scott!!!

After what seemed like a month, a kid named Jordan stood-up and slowly approached him. “Hey Mr. Scott, how are you,” Jordan nervously asked, extending his hand. “I’m fine Jordan,” Dennis said, his enormous black hand encasing Jordan’s. “Good job out there today guys. A lot of hard work.” And then Dennis looked right at me. “And nice game today, Michael,” Dennis said. “Loved that last drive to the hole.” And then he started walking towards me, extending his hand. At that moment, time slowed to a snail’s speed. A sink ran in the other room. A basketball bounced in the gym. The air conditioner softly hummed. And I was a deer in headlights. Dennis Scott, a pro basketball player, complimented me on my game and was about to shake my hand. This moment would go down in Jewish history.

Suddenly, a white, wrinkly ass appeared two inches from my face. I immediately jerked my head back. An old Jewish man had come out of nowhere, blocked me, and shook Dennis’ hand. At first, I don’t think that Dennis realized the man was naked, but after the shake, Dennis jumped back a foot or two.

Then, like zombies rising from the dead, old, naked Jewish men started slowly walking towards Dennis from every direction. They came from the showers, from the steam rooms, from behind lockers. Everywhere! How did these old men move as if one entity? Did they communicate in some flagellant language, but at a frequency too low for the human ear?

Dennis was trapped with only one way to go, out the door. He announced he was late for a meeting and bolted. The old, naked Jewish men looked at each other, shrugged it off, and went back into the depths of the locker room. I was crushed, and then decided that I was going to get my handshake. I stood up and in between the door and I stood three old, naked Jewish men. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, cut right, cut left, weaving in-and out each old man, and went out the door.

I rounded the corner outside the JCC, caught up with Dennis. “Hey, Dennis, its Michael,” I said, sweat sliding down my forehead. “You know, down the middle?”

“Yes, Michael. Again, great job out there.” Dennis said, extending his hand. “You got some game, son.”

I was fixated on the enormous black hand suspended in front of me. That hand looked huge, like it could take out my mom’s house with one swipe. But, this mammoth hand was the same hand that cuddled the ball ever so gently and flung it through the air, floating to the hoop like poetry. Swish! He was a very skilled celebrity.

So, I snapped out of it and reciprocated. Shaking his hand, I was in heaven. Then, from somewhere behind me, I heard a door aggressively open, accompanied with some shuffling and muttering. It was the herd of naked Jewish men, now fully clothed. I have to admit it was odd to see the old men clothed because I had become so accustomed to them grazing everyday with not a centimeter of clothing on them.

They all slowly walked past Dennis and me as we shook hands. I am pretty sure Dennis kept shaking my hand because he needed to look occupied. I kept shaking his hand because he is a professional basketball player. The old men slowly continued to walk by, squinting their eyes, as if to say, “The locker room is our turf little boy. Be careful. Be very, very careful.” I suddenly imaged them all in the locker room, creeping towards us like in West Side Story, but instead of snapping, with each step, they would release a pungent fart.