Aria DeLang is cursed with three things: Sasquatch height, crippling social anxiety, and an Honorary Dick. That means Aria's love life is as non-existent as James Harden's defense.
The first two she was born with, the third was an unintentional gif...
In 9th grade, balance was restored to the universe.
I was reunited with my first love — the secret sauce that had been missing from my life. I was finally old enough to try out for the high school basketball team. I couldn't play with guys, but it was the next best thing.
After school I had to hustle out the doors and literally sprint to practice. Despite the daily mile-long trek, that extra conditioning served me well.
The Pepperwood Panthers had a near perfect record. I started out as a solid role player on the varsity squad and by the end of the season, I became our leading scorer.
And perhaps most impressive of all, I started making girl friends.
The night of the championship game was a particularly cold evening, with crusty old snow clinging to the asphalt wherever you stepped. The air had an orange tint to it from the inversion, which left a metallic taste in my mouth every time I went outside.
We were sitting in a giant, white, 90's camper-van that I'd nick-named, "The Mystik," because of the weird paint job, groovy curtains, and the spark of magic required to get it to start (aka lifting the hood and rubbing two wires together).
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| The Mystik in all its glory. My dad wouldn't let me drive it to school because he thought I'd get too much "action" in the back seat. Can confirm: Did not. |
My dad was an enormous Irishman, and on the surface, he fit into our quiet neighborhood. Watch him for a minute though, and you could tell he wasn't from around there by the strut in his step. If that didn't do it, the mixtape blasting West Coast rap from his cobalt blue low-rider would.
For a white, suburban, family, we were oddly invested in the West vs. East coast hip hop war. Hailing from Oakland, California, my dad permitted only music from the West coast in our house, with one exception—the song, "Big Poppa," by Notorious B.I.G. He popped in one of his CD's as the Mystik rumbled to a halt.
He instructed me to close my eyes and visualize myself doing everything right, every shot going in. I was slightly confused by this, because he'd never done this before, but I indulged him.
He cranked up the volume as high as it would go, and the discordant piano chords of, "Still D.R.E." began to blast through the Mystik's speakers, startling passerbys on the sidewalk.
Looking back, I think this was my dad's attempt at Phil Jackson's mindfulness technique — this guy coached the G.O.A.T., so he must have been onto something. Who knew my dad was so enlightened?
| "Still D.R.E." By Dr. Dre captures the essence of West Coast rap |
When the song ended, my dad thumped my fist and said, "Take it to the hoop."
