The Basketball Diaries

They’re fast, they’re tough, and they really know how to work a singlet. The East Sydney basketball team are on the road to Gay Games glory. Team-member Tim Denoon kept this journal.



Week One

When I arrive at the King George V stadium for my first official match since high school wearing Dunlop volleys, snug shorts and tight Gowings singlet it’s clear that basketball fashion has rapidly progressed under the auspices of the House of Nike, Snoop Doggy Dogg and Video Hits. Apparently singlets must now be loose, perforated and shimmer like a disco ball, while shorts should be pulled down to reveal as much underwear as is Calvinly possible. Thankfully the basic rules of the game haven’t changed, but I’m forced to re-acquaint myself with some terminology being bandied around by my East Sydney team mates. In 10 minutes I’m reminded that ‘travelling’ is not a sojourn in Paris or a layover in Honkers, a ‘basket’ is decidedly above eye level, and that ‘to charge’ is something you can’t do with a credit card unless you poke it shamelessly into your opponent’s eye. In 20 minutes I also find myself gasping for more breath than the latest tobacco lawsuit complainant.
Casualties : One collapsed lung.
Result : Our captain assures us that a heavy loss can often motivate a team to play more skilfully the following week.

Week Two

After an intense week of cardio work searching for a pair of Air Britneys along Oxford Street I’m ready to face our next opponents. The match is close and the other team tries to intimidate us with Milwaulkee accents and much grunting. One of them elbows me in the head which is something I barely tolerate even on the dance floor at Palms. At the end of the game we’re exhausted, emotional and in dire need of amber hydration.
Casualties : One sprained ankle, one nose bleed.
Result : We lose by two baskets.

Week Three

Through some strange mass delusion we’ve all misread our match sheet and have arrived two hours early for the game. We have a choice of practising our lay-ups or downing a few coldies at the pub across the road.
Casualties : One large beer stain on a perfectly fresh singlet.
Result : We lose by the exact number of schooners consumed before the game.
Note to self : Beer goggles should not be used as protective eyewear in any sport.

Week Four

Our first match crisis (except for last week when Anthony brought his ‘Friday clubbing trainers’ instead of his ‘cross trainer trainers’.) Only four of us have turned up and the match is about to start. Three are stuck in emotional traffic (it’s Valentine’s Day; they’re all single and spitting the dummy) and one is still recovering from a one night stand with Monsieur Absinthe. Seeing as we need a minimum of five players to start the game (sporty boyband anyone?) we rope in a cute, straight, New Zealand spectator to run around and look ‘real’ until someone else arrives. Someone mentions conversion at half time and I don’t think they’re taking about the cross-Tasman currency.
Casualties : Two jarred fingers and a knee scrape.
Result : Despite a late scoring frenzy we still manage to lose by a disrespectable margin.

Week Five

As a cross section of the wider gay community I’d thought that our team was fairly diverse and non-scene, among them a toxicologist living in domestic bliss, a doctor taking acting classes on the side, and a sales assistant with a penchant for meditation. Closer inspection however reveals that half of us have Gaydar profiles while the other half have an intimate knowledge of the feng shui at Arq.
Tonight’s match is one of the toughest so far, and with three of our players injured I’m determined to augment my personal butch factor by pushing, shoving and blocking as fiercely as I can. When I’m sent off the court after foul number five I’m so hyped by this turn of events that I continue my aggressive tactics in the car park and accidentally foul someone’s very expensive car.
Casualties : One tail light and some precision German paintwork.
Result : Mercedes Benz will not be sponsoring our quest for Games glory.

Week Six

Saturdays have been our hallowed practice day for most of the season, however a more important event has thrown our schedule into happy chaos. Mardi Gras. Training has been cancelled for two weeks so that we can practise a different sort of dribbling at the Harbour/Underwear/Recovery parties. One of our star players is also busy rehearsing his jelly wrestling performance which is to take place on the Hordern main stage. No mention of this sport has been made in the official Gay Games handbook, although I’ve been informed that text messaging will form part of the festival’s cultural component. Our lack of practice time this week means our game is scrappy and full of clumsy mistakes, and for the first time our frustration crosses the demilitarised zone when someone’s ‘fist’ accidentally makes contact with an opponent’s ‘face’. The game has to be stopped for ten minutes while the referee and the offending players argue with Ally McBeal righteousness over the incident. Those players who are planning to attend Mardi Gras retreat to the sidelines and do ‘solidarity at a distance’ in the hope of avoiding any need for cosmetic surgery before the big night.
Collateral damage : Severely bruised egos on both sides.

Week Seven

Our first sponsor (Abbott Virology, a medical diagnostics company) has come forward with a thousand smackers to help pave the gold medal road to November. I’ve been assured that we won’t have to make any personal appearances at experimental laboratories, but I’m starting to think that an Incredible Hulk-style chemical mishap may be our only chance at beating some of the taller, fitter American teams. Before I can say ‘amyl nitrate’ someone else reminds me that the Gay Games are all about personal best and international goodwill, which is a good thing since my strike rate with cute tourists could do with some work.
This week the Anzac Day holiday has been declared a team bonding night and after a nutritious meal of protein, vino and LSD we all stumble to the nearest Casa del Disco. After waking up with a hangover the size of an average volcano I vow that this is the last trip I’ll take that doesn’t involve frequent flyer points and an evacuation contingency.
Casualties : Sensory perception has never been so indecently propositioned since La Ciccone belted out the soundtrack for Dick Tracy.
Note to self : Do not attempt to slam dunk the mirror ball when night club security has a coordinated defense strategy.

Week Eight

At this week’s training session Steve decides to introduce punishments for anyone dropping the ball or throwing a wayward pass. I’m the only one who seems to have developed fumble fingers and am shocked to discover that indiscretions will not be penalised by whips or nipple clamps but with the humble push up. Cruel and unusual laughter from my team mates now makes me understand the effectiveness of the 19th century public stockade. It also makes me realise how long it’s been since someone’s officially demanded that I drop to the floor and give them ten.

Week Nine

Warwick has turned up to the game with a team singlet that looks suspiciously smaller than usual. He breaks down under brutal interrogation and admits to visiting a tailor during the week for several ‘minor adjustments’. To his credit the tighter fit seems to have aerodynamic benefits since he makes several fast breaks and leaves our opponents flat-footed and in awe of invisible stitching.
Casualties : The eyesight of an underpaid migrant seamstress.
Result : Half the team will claim next week that their singlets ‘just shrank in the wash.’

Week Ten

Discussion has been raised about the latest research concerning the effect of sexual activity on sporting performance. The coach of the Italian World Cup soccer team has cited a 1994 study that revealed an increase in stamina and coordination after pre-match sex and confirms that he will allow his players to be entertained by geishas in karaoke back rooms. Spanking the Korean monkey will also be permitted. My team mates seem unconcerned by this revelation of sports science and are determined to continue with Operation Shakira. Wherever. Whenever.
This week a miracle has occurred to rival the famous Oompaloompah victory against the Harlem Globetrotters : everyone has turned up on time with correct footwear and no lingering injuries. The only thing missing is our no-show opponents who may have been scared off by our bold new tactic : lady, get that ball in the hoop.
Result : The official NBA terminology is ‘winning by default’ but we prefer to call it a stunning victory against insurmountable odds. Matt H. decides to shout us to some of the finest ale that future corporate sponsorship can provide.

Week Eleven

Panic in the bleachers. With less than two weeks to go before registrations for basketball close, the Games organisers have informed us that we are still two players short of being declared an ‘official’ team. Someone suggests that we set up an embassy for volleyball defectors, but Brendan thinks we should just kidnap anyone who has to duck on their way into the Green Park Hotel. Our other concern is that the KGV finals have now begun which means that if we lose a game we’re out of the competition.
Result : For the crucial match Steve has suppressed his bloodthirsty tactics and Stubbs has taken his focus pill so that we scrape through to the semi-final rounds.



Week Twelve

Thank you South Australia for your perky, interesting wines and representative basketball players, one of whom has just been naturalised as a Sydney East sharp shooter. ‘Tinseltown’ is tall, athletic and has proved his fitness at hi-energy, consecutive dance parties during his week long trial period. Training has also become more disciplined with everyone being asked to switch off their mobile phones. After an hour of stretching, shooting and sprinting we all feel confident about our next game even though our opponents have the fittest and most distracting legs this side of the equator. During the match we receive a number of tech fouls for squealing while our opponents are taking their shots. Let’s just put it down to over excitement and over indulgence in our new sponsor Red Bull.
Casualties : Several hoarse throats.
Result : With determination, luck and something called taurine we’ve made it into the grand final!

Week Thirteen

The tension on the big night is palpable and a crowd has even appeared to add some dramatic expectation, but before the match has even begun there’s a crisis. Both teams have turned up wearing the same colour uniform. Despite various arguments that our shirts are clearly vermilion while theirs are cerise the referee decides that one team has to wear stadium issue singlets. Not wanting to swap our custom fitted tops for pillow cases we decide to shoot baskets to decide the matter, and never let it be said that we can’t aim straight when style is at stake. Go team.
During the match we are constantly thwarted by an opponent who seems to be able to fly through the air like a Hogwarts quidditch player. After weaving through our vermilion defence he slams the ball into the hoop like it’s a letterbox and he’s the world’s most efficient postman. Luckily the rest of their team find it harder to deliver and we grab the lead with the help of a few perfectly placed three point shots. When the final buzzer sounds we’re gasping for breath and full of astonishment. We have achieved our biggest victory and finally get our hands on the coveted faux-marble trophy that signals our ambition for the Gay Games: participation, personal best, and as many international phone numbers as our sim cards can hold.

First published in Blue #41 October 2002