My high school basketball career peaked during my sophomore year, and the peak was base camp at best.

I was the 6th man for the Lakeside Junior Varsity team, a team comprised of boys who were either too bulky and lumbering or too gawky and passive to be considered school-pride-worthy varsity players. To be honest, we were just a random assortment of wrestlers, cross-country runners, football players, and rowers just biding our time for the sports we were better built for to be in season.

Personally, I was not much of a threat on the offensive end. I was neither a prolific scorer, an agile passer nor a banger underneath the basket. Defensively, I was only a little bit better, picking up quick cheap fouls thanks to the excessive handsiness befitting a boy my age and virginity level.

In short, I was middling at best.

But I did have a thing.

A go-to move.

Something my teammates loved to watch whenever it happened with a healthy mix of genuine support and grimacing schadenfreude.

Specifically, I was the guy who, at the faintest sign of an opponent’s impending drive to the basket, would plant his feet, close his eyes, and with a dedication unsummonable in any other venue, take the offensive charge.

With a contact-inducing grunt, a mildly-spastic flop to the ground, and the resultant referee’s whistle signalling yet another successful foul-inducing spill, I had perfected one of sport’s least elegant plays. Even better, my skill at this particular move was enough to earn me a nickname I proudly embodied: I was, and still am, The Vanilla Gorilla.

Like his fellow rough-edged legends the Sasquatch and Grimace, the Vanilla Gorilla exists primarily in blurry memories and oral history. There are no conclusive videos of him in action, and photos of him were long ago tossed in the trash in a Marie Kondo-inspired sweep. But his legend is cemented in lore by one incident that embodied The Vanilla Gorilla at his best and his worst, his most triumphant and his most tragic, his coming-out, and his funeral.

On a late November afternoon in 1986, we took the floor in a road game at O’Dea High School, the shitty opening act before the evening’s main event of our respective school’s equally-matched and state-ranked varsity squads. Before that could happen, though, the JV teams had to stumble around the court in front of sparsely populated bleachers, dotted with a few parents and bored friends who would wander in and out through the doors at the end of the gym.

Comparing our respective squads, one could easily and correctly conclude that one school emphasized academics over athletics. With ancient, ill-fitting uniforms that either hung on bony frames or strangled huge teen guts and butts, we were no match for an O’Dea team that was comprised of actual basketball players who’s placement on the JV was due only to the fact that there were a collection of future college and NBA players on the varsity.

As we warmed up, our Bad News Bears-looking crew lined up to do our simple little lay-up drills while at the opposite end of the floor, player after player hit long jumpers or performed rim-rattling dunks. Passing the ball to me after rebounding yet another missed lay-up, one of my teammates shook his head and muttered what we all knew.

“Dude, we’re so fucked.”

 From the moment the game started, the outcome was never in question. We fouled them a lot, if only to keep them from dunking on us too much, a feat none of our collection of misfits could even dream of replicating. At halftime, they led by 20+ points, and the main goal for the rest of the game was to simply not let it get too embarrassing.

Unfortunately, I must not have heard that directive, for as the teams made their way to the court for the 2ndhalf, an unwelcome spark still flickered in the eyes of this husky young man wearing the number 14. Yes, the Vanilla Gorilla was ready to take a charge.

 A little backstory before getting to my highlight. If you don’t know the name Demetrius Dubose, you can Google him. (Hint: he would soon become an All-American linebacker for Notre Dame and an NFL 2nd-round pick by Tampa Bay.) But before that, back in November 1986, he was taking the court for O’Dea for the second half of their Junior Varsity basketball game against Lakeside. Basketball was his second sport, but he still carried with him the same massive frame that made him such a lethal football player. And that afternoon, that hulking man-boy was lucky enough to be matched against me, a pasty white kid with bad posture who spent the majority of the first half on the floor missing free throws and falling down. A kid who also had no idea what was about to hit him, literally and figuratively.

Midway through the 3rd quarter, a missed shot by someone on our team started a fast break by O’Dea, the ball settling into the hands of the aforementioned Demetrius Dubose. Rarely involved in any offensive play, I stood at the opposite end of the court, which suddenly made me the last line of defense between this snowplow of a human and a pride-shattering dunk on the other end.

Everyone on my team knew what needed to happen.

I knew what needed to happen.

I’m sure everyone in the gym thought, Oh God, no, I hope that kid doesn’t think he knows what needs to happen.

Yep. It was time for The Vanilla Gorilla to take the offensive charge.

Eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fear, I went through the usual preparations.

I planted my feet.

I bent my knees.

And I prepared for impact.

And just like that, the same shoulders that would one day take down John Elway and Joe Montana slammed into my chest.

My body.

My soul.

The impact landed with such force that after my butt hit the floor, I slid not only off the court, but, thanks to an open pair of doors under the basket, out of the entire gymnasium itself.

If someone had been recording it, I would’ve 100% been a meme.

The crowd that had started to gather for the later game laughed and bellowed oohs and ahhhs. There were plenty of screams “Oh shit!” and “No fucking way!” With a bruised ego and rib cage, I slunk back into the gym, and back onto the court where I received an even more brutal verdict. The referee blew his whistle and pointed at me.

“Foul! Number 14! Number 14 has fouled out of the game.”

Yes, yes I was.

The Vanilla Gorilla was dead. Long live The Vanilla Gorilla.