Pissing off the NBA

I've always wanted to be a professional basketball player.

OK, that is not entirely true. I hate the sport and have never had any inspirations of playing basketball, professionally, recreationally or as part of a drug-induced hallucination. In fact, I am a truly atrocious basketball player. There is little question that Jon, Kate and any of those 8 could school me on the court. However, this did not stop me from sending a letter to the NBA in 1993, making myself eligible for the upcoming draft.

For the record, April 26, 1993 was a Monday, meaning I was not drunk, stoned or otherwise impaired (even at UMass, we rested on Mondays). Although, in the interest of fair disclosure, the idea might have been hatched the previous weekend, while my friends and I were enjoying the crisp refreshing taste of Olympia Beer, a truly disgusting, yet extremely affordable lager.

Besides, as a certifiable whack job, I tend to enjoy riling people up (see wife, my and Gorman, Lou). Plus, I was curious as to what response, if any, would come from the NBA.

After a couple of weeks passed with no reply from the league, I figured that my letter was sent directly to the circular file. Until I found a FedEx waiting for me at my dorm one Friday afternoon:

I was excited. Clearly, the league was conducting a background check so that they could invite me to sit in the Green Room at Madison Square Garden on draft night. Despite the long odds and uphill struggles, my 3-week old dream of becoming a pro was one step closer to reality. Hardly able to contain myself, I immediately called Mr. Richardson. The conversation went pretty much like this:

HIM: I want to confirm that you are still enrolled as a student at UMass.

ME: Yes, sir.

HIM: I don't see your name on the basketball team's roster. Or for that matter, any roster on any NCAA team. What is your basketball experience?

ME: Intramurals.

The phone call ended a few minutes later and sufficed to say, Mr. Richardson was not pleased. Something about me wasting his time. I don't know what it is about security people, but they don't seem to have much of a sense of humor.

Crushed, I told my friends the sad news. They sympathized - we laughed, we cried, we hugged. I was just thankful they were there for me during that difficult time. Finishing up the semester, I went home and tried to put the pieces of my shattered life back together. A couple of days later, I received this:

So you're saying there's a chance? Clearly, the powers-that-be had a change of heart and decided that I should be permitted to meet my destiny. Either that, or this was a standard legal disclaimer that the league sends to all of the morons like me who pull this stunt. Either way, imagine my excitement when I tuned into the draft a month later. Hey, stranger things have happened, right?

Nope. Not only did I not watch the draft, I completely forgot about it. Stunningly, I was not selected. At least, I don't think I was. Although to this day, I wonder if maybe I was picked and it was my responsibility to have called my new team and report for training camp?

Wow, now that is a depressing thought. I missed out on what would have been a 2.5 minute career as a pro hoops player because I was at the movies watching Cliffhanger. This seems like a "Where Are They Now" story waiting to happen.