Gotta holla if you wanna be a baller

I was born with a disease, a horrible birth defect that has left me unable to play basketball with any sort of finesse. It's called whiteness, and there's no known cure.

Ever since my hands were big enough to fit around a basketball, I have been trying to form some semblance of a well-rounded game. But as hard as I try, my shot just isn't wet enough, my passes just aren't crisp enough and my hops just aren't, well, hoppy enough to elevate my game past mediocrity.

For some, it's easy. Junior Rafi Hill, a member of the boys' varsity basketball team, believes that being a great basketball player takes athletic ability, intense desire and a carefully tailored look. "You've got to sport the nice sneakers with the big ‘fro or braids," Hill says. "And you have to bring your ‘A' game so you don't get kicked off the court. You never want to get kicked off the court."

I've considered ways to compensate for my look. There are flashy blue headbands, but blue just doesn't bring out my eyes. I've also tried knee-high socks, but I look less like a baller and more like a 14-year-old Catholic schoolgirl, only much hairier.

After so many failures, I had only one place left to turn. I bought every basketball highlight video known to man, including the And 1 Mix Tape collection, Ball Above All and my personal favorite Ballin' Outta Control.

So, with my newly acquired knowledge, I laced up my Chucks and walked out the door. I was headed to the nation's basketball mecca, where true ballers go head to head in some of the fiercest competition known to man: the Pine Crest Elementary School gymnasium.

As I burst through the gym's double doors, I quickly glanced around the room, scouting out my competition.

In a moment I was surrounded by a group of intimidating basketball players. They barraged me with questions, attempting to find out just who this mysterious new baller was.

"What's your name?" their ring leader asked me.

"Name, eh?" I thought to myself. I had examined the And 1 Mix Tapes closely, and every great player had a fitting, creative nickname. My favorite is Toronto Raptors player Rafer Alston, aka "Skip To My Lou."

To make a good first impression, I knew I would have to provide a clever yet intimidating moniker.

"The name is … uhh … Jaws," I said. Yeah, Jaws is my name."

Jaws didn't seem like too much of a stretch. But they wanted a rationale, so I did some quick thinking.

"Well, Jaws is the world's most dangerous Great White Shark. And that describes me perfectly—great, white and ready to inflict pain," I stammered.

The game began, and, to my surprise, I dominated. From the tip-off, my behind-the-back passes hit their targets. My no-look-through-the-legs-off-the-scoreboard-and-into-the-hoop shot didn't work quite as well, but I was still playing some of my best ball.

With my success came trash talking from the other team. After I badly missed a wide-open three-point attempt, an opponent yelled, "Wow, you've thrown up enough bricks to build a house."

On the very next play, he missed a five-footer from inside the paint. Looking right in his eyes with the intensity of a pouncing gazelle, I said, "You're less effective than the Articles of Confederation were at establishing the federal government's ability to tax its citizens."
I looked around the gym, waiting for roars of laughter and congratulations. But they must've been too focused on the game to respond.

In the end it didn't matter. I didn't need a quick wit, flashy gear or interesting hair. I had heart. I had passion. I had purpose.
And it didn't hurt that I played against fifth graders.