Ode to 4th Ward Basketball

— Long live churchball

I was a watcher of churchball first. Sitting courtside with my pal Barry Warr, we were traumatized at a young age as a high priest with non-restrictive undershorts inbounded the ball right next to us. His protruding shlong, stretching the very fibers of his mesh shorts, was impossible to look away from. And that long ago memory pretty much encapsulates every characteristic of church ball: it's unrestrained, testosterone-filled, oblivious, hostile, uncomfortable, overextended, inappropriate in a church setting, and hilarious.

So yes my churchball career began with a bang. My watching career that is. My actual playing career ... not so much.

In my first official practice at the Granger West 4th building I overheard my hero Brent Warr complaining to his brother John that our defense was crap because "Spencer doesn't know how to play zone." He was right - I had no junior jazz instruction as a youth. My experience in hoops was playing make believe games in my driveway or scrappy rounds to 21 with Bunna and Andrew Emrazian in the street. Let's just say these were not contests you'd tape for future students to study. My play-by-play commentary was strong though.

So yes, Brent spoke truth. I was an unrefined prospect, much like 2015 Giannis but without height or talent. I fought back tears at the drinking fountain and decided to take defense personal from that day on. I became a menace, consistently leading our team in blocks, steals, and deflections, culminating in my greatest claim to fame, the time I blocked a NFL lineman, aka my old friend Ray Feinga, in the region championship game at the Peachwood Stake Center (née temple).

I needed to succeed at defense because my offensive game was trash. My NBA comp is Ricky Rubio meaning my passing vision is elite, my defense 1st-team worthy, my shooting ... look out below! Errant ricochets were my go to offensive move.

What sucks is I started out as a good shooter. Prior to age 12 I could fire from distance reliably. And then my cousin Newt informed me I shot the ball like a girl, propelling the ball equally with both arms, much like a crossbow. I abandoned my approach and I've been a Russel Westbrick ever since.

But wasn't this supposed to be about church ball? My apologies. Back to it.

My first career game came against that monolith of evil, the Granger West 9th ward. Boasting the aforementioned Rey Feinga, a tall Jake Keroac, and a crafty point guard named Clint Poole, this team played the Tiger Woods to our Sergio Garcia for years. That first game we lost by about 50. I suspect our star center Mike Talbot's decision to stop attending church stemmed from this humiliation.

Those first couple of years it always seemed like our team was outmanned, going up against bigger and better opponents, and not just because that one "kid" on the Spanish Ward always showed up for his games in a suit and carrying a briefcase. What was his plan exactly? Check out from his long day at Goldman Sachs and then go to the church to clobber some deacons?

And yet we grew. By the time I reached the teachers quorum our squad had decent balance. Our high schoolers led the way: Tyson Johnson was our nimble center, John Warr our enforcer down low, Brent Warr the guiding hand on offense. Lowerclassmen like myself, Mark Warr, Marc Weiss, and Josh Kushlan rounded out the remaining spots, with promising rookie Barry Warr waiting his chance. Our coach Mike Kushlan would draw up plays that made us laugh when they worked exactly as he expected.

Our seasons were predictable: we'd do well in stake, get killed by the 9th ward, advance a round in region, lose, complain about the officiating, and vow vengeance the following year.

In between seasons we'd attend the elders quorum games -- advancements in underclothes had made the viewing experience a lot less sexual assaulty -- and it was there I once was threatened with a technical foul for protesting an over-the-back call against my older brother. 

"That's crap!!" I yelled, (and it was by the way). The ref yelled back at me and the next day in school I met up with my friend Ty Flinton who was at the game.

"Can you believe that dumb ref yelled at me after he botched the call?" I said.

His reply: "That ref was my dad."

Thus another relationship was added to the list of church ball casualties.

By 2003 Tyson and John had left the team -- I can't remember if it was contract disputes or graduation -- but we were still good. Mark and Brent Warr were at the peak of their brotherly powers, operating like Baylor and Gunner Romney. They made the offense hum while Marc Weiss did the dirty work; nobody set a screen like Weiss. Coach continued to entertain us with intricate plays and I of course was good for five blocks and one hook shot per game.

One of my proudest church ball moments came on a hook from three that almost split the net, the swoosh was so pure, and who was there to celebrate? Not my neighborhood crush of course, because life isn't fair, but someone almost as good! The patriarch of the Warr clan, the grandfather Stan. To receive a standing ovation from this community hero who himself was a convert due to churchball (another story for another day) was like getting a head nod from my personal Mr. Miagi.

My worst moment came that same season too. As of 2003 we had never been beaten the 9th ward nor had we come close. This was the year we finally we made it a tight contest. I didn't usually get too nervous in church ball games because you know -- they don't actually matter --but when we were tied with 10 seconds left my stomach was churning and my butt was clenched. A 9th warder dribbled into the paint. I deflected the ball and was called for a foul.

My reach-in gave our rival two free throws to beat us again. I wanted to die.

But I had forgotten this was churchball, where the league-wide free throw percentage is 26%. Both attempts predictably clanked and I grabbed the rebound. Hope! Instantly I was surrounded by opponents. My skin was scratched. My eyes poked. One industrious 9th warder tried to snap my calf like Vecna. I screamed for timeout.

Alas, we didn't have one.

Sorrow. Heartbreak. Over a span of about 4 seconds of game time I had sabotaged our chances at winning twice. I would never be given the favorable route in fast offerings ever again.

While coach handed me a Chris Webber jersey the refs handed the 9th ward possession for my folly.11. You might ask, shouldn't my timeout violation have resulted in free throws for the 9th ward? Probably. But for some reason the stake athletic director just gave them the ball. Two seconds remained on the clock.

The 9th ward inbounded. Barry closed on the ball handler. The player passed. Clint Poole caught the ball. He dribbled away from Mark Warr and attempted a game-winning three. The shot had amazing loft, nearly brushing the stake center ceiling. And then as my life flashed before me -- not surprisingly the 1996 cotton bowl dominated that near-death recap -- the ball bricked away to the sideline. Yes!!! Overtime. Another chance. I might be able to show my face at church again!

And yet.

As the ball rolled to the sideline a 9th warder picked it up. It wasn't Clint or Rey or any of our primary torturers. It was their 7th man. He grabbed the ball, walked it up to the hoop while we celebrated and laid it in casually.

We weren't worried because we knew that to receive the inbound pass, pass the ball, make a move, shoot an arching three, recover the rebound, walk to the hoop, and shoot a layup would take more than the two seconds that were left on the clock. There was no way that layup counted.

Unfortunately, no one told the clock operator. He must have wanted to get home for an episode of Frasier because he didn't start the clock until the 7th man picked it up in the corner. 

When it dawned on our team that we had lost to our most hated rival on a layup that happened 10 seconds after the clock should have expired, well let's just say none of our coaches or parents or ward leaders were too upset when Marc Weiss started swearing or Barry tossed a chair into center court in rage. Years earlier the church ball season had nearly been cancelled when the son of the 1st counselor in the stake presidency broke his hand after punching through a glass-encased fire extinguisher. We had to recite a sportsmanship pledge prior to each game after that. But there would be no such repercussions for our unruly behavior after this loss. All parties knew our outbursts were justified.

That summer our stake did trek and when a 9th warder was assigned to my handcart, it didn't matter that he wasn't on their church ball team, it didn't matter that he was in fact a she, what mattered was she was a 9th warder and the silent treatment is all she would get from me that trip. (Ok fine, in this case "silent treatment" really means "too afraid to talk to a girl" but same diff right?)

Against that backdrop of fury I entered my senior year and final season of church ball. We lost our talisman Brent Warr to BYU and we lost our big man Marc Weiss to early retirement. Though Marc was my same age he never returned to church ball after the clock incident from the year before. Add another tally to the list of members leaving the church due to LGBTQ issues (Losing Games Because of Timing Quandaries). This meant I was now the oldest on this team, thrust into a leadership role years of video game basketball had prepared me for.

We cruised through the regular season, falling only to the 9th ward (of course). Our lack of size accidentally introduced us to small ball years before Steph would revolutionize the game. Between Mark Warr, Barry Warr, Josh Kushlan, and Jason Johnson, we had four players capable of initiating offense. It also helped that I was playing the best ball of my career, raising my shooting percentage from 18% to 29%. My typical stat lines remain a wonder these many years later:

2 points on 1/5 shooting, with 5 rebounds, 4 assists, 4 blocks, 3 steals, and 2 airballs a game. Somewhere Ben Simmons smiles.

We made the deepest run into region we'd ever done, because it was my senior year and of course weird and magical things happen during senior year. In the semi-finals we faced an old elementary friend, Tyler Wilson, no relation to Zach, though like Zach he had great hair, skin, and basketball skill. And like Zach we were willing to face any team, anytime, anywhere when it came to region games, but for the first time in our church career we had a home playoff game. This meant the Granger stake center was packed and both teams put on a show. 

The high-scoring affair was tied with 5 seconds left in the game when Tyler called for a screen. I jumped between he and the screener, knocked the ball loose, and found Barry streaking for a fast break. I threw the ball ahead but sadly this time the scorekeeper was spot on, and without an extra unofficial 10 seconds of game time to play with, Barry had to heave from half court to send us to the championship.

The shot missed.

But it didn't matter! We prevailed in overtime, thanks to some clutch free throws from the cousins Barry and Mark. We were headed to the region finals, and who would await us?

Weird, magical things happen during senior year, remember?

So it was that I took the court against the 9th ward one was last time, with every ounce of 17-year-old glory on the line. The Peachwood Stake Center hosted the championship game, and given it was played on a Saturday morning the crowd was WNBA-esque compared to the semi-final. Thank goodness because I've never been more nervous. The last thing I needed was more people in attendance.

The game was close throughout and we came to the last moments down 3 with possession. We called timeout and instead of drawing up a play I told the team to shoot a three as quickly as possible, hoping that if it didn't go in we could catch a long rebound and get a second shot at tying the game. So naturally Barry received the inbound and drove straight to the hoop for a layup. 

"Dude, didn't we literally just talk about this!?!"

Man I'm glad he didn't listen to me.

Trailing by 1 with about 5 seconds left, we pressured the inbounder. The ball found its way to the youngest member of the 9th ward team, Clint Poole's brother, an up-and-comer yes, but an inexperienced deacon playing in a title game. I instantly lifted the lad up into the air, ensuring that the refs knew I was intentionally fouling.

Please now allow me a brief aside in this already lengthy tour de memory to say that although I've given the 9th ward much grief in this post, they were class acts throughout our years of rivalry. They were the anti-Utes. Clint was then and likely now remains a stud, Rey was a gentle giant who never said an ill word to anyone even if he could break bones with a simple punch, and Jake was friendly to the end, always about with a smile on his face. Our fracases were intense, but never hostile. So after I picked up Clint's younger brother, I almost felt sad, knowing I was sending an unprepared 12-year-old to shoot free throws that could potentially seal a region championship.

But not that sad.

Clint the younger missed both shots and then a weird and magical thing happened because weird and magical things happen during senior years. I grabbed the rebound and tossed it ahead to Mark Warr. It was a reckless pass, the type that should have been stolen, but somehow it wiggled between three defenders, fell right into Mark's hands, much like the most famous of Stockton-to-Malone heaves, and next thing I knew Mark had a clear path to the hoop. Two ticks left on the clock.

He shot. One second left. The ball bounced on the rim.

I ran with a level of speed known only to those who have lost to their rival for 8 years in a row. I teleported from one end of the court to the other, settled under the hoop, ready to tip in the miss.

But I didn't need to. Mark's shot bounced one more time, then fell through the net for a score. The buzzer sounded. In the final game of my churchball career we had triumphed. We were region champs for the first time. We had finally toppled the 9th ward. Eight seasons of blowouts and brutal losses were erased by a buzzer beater. Perhaps I blacked out during the celebration, for my only memory of the seconds following Mark's shot was seeing a huge Dave Warr smile on the bench. 

During the postgame handshakes, Clint, ever the gentleman, told me if he had to lose the championship to someone, at least it was "to you guys." And though I risk sounding as corny as the parting message of a Boy Meets World episode, let me say those words make up one of the most meaningful compliments I've received in my whole life. And I can understand why he said it. 

Our guys were special. I had spent my whole life with the Warr and the Johnson clans so it wasn't until I moved away that I realized the key point that a decade of churchball and campouts and Sunday schools and mutual activities and pickup football games in front of our chapel had unwittingly taught me. 

Not many wards are as great as the Granger West 4th.