Volume 2, Issue 73: Summer Teeth
I am not a skilled pickup basketball player, but god do I love playing anyway. I am not tall, I am not fast, I am not quick, I'm an average shooter at best and I do not have a wide ass to clog up the lane. I'm just a regular white dude whose body was not built to excel at basketball. (I'm not sure what it was built for, frankly.) So I try to make myself useful out there. I've had Dad Game my whole life. I dive for loose balls, I throw elbows in the lane, I set screens, I constantly look to pass, I have been known to head fake so often that it looks like I am having some sort of seizure. That guy who is always tossing the ball of his defender's foot when he's falling out of bounds? It's me.
I've played everywhere; you can always find a game someplace. I've played in backyards on the grass in rural Illinois, I've played on the beach of Santa Monica, I've played at the famous West Fourth Street Courts in New York, I've played in the Gus Macker 3-on-3 Tournament in Champaign (losing to former Illini Steve Roth!), I've played at my kid's school here in Athens, I've even played on the floor of Madison Square Garden. (That's me in the picture above, wearing a frankly ridiculous outfit, against Knicks legend Charles Smith.) But the only game that still sticks with me today was 20 years ago last month. It's the one that'll follow me around forever.
I even know the day of it: July 10, 1999. I was 24 years old, and I had a date that night, after we all got together to watch the Women's World Cup final between the United States and China, now famously known as the Brandi Chastain game. I was working for The Sporting News, nights, mostly, but I had a rare weekend off, and a group of guys got together that Saturday morning for a sweltering pickup game at a local St. Louis park. It was a good crew, which is to say none of us were particularly skilled or tall and thus all the games would be mostly even. This is all one really asks of a good pickup game.
Anyone who regularly plays pickup basketball knows that some days your shot is falling and some days it isn't, and it's essentially random chance which day you will have. This was a day where my shot was falling, and I was appropriately cocky about it. Playing to 11, two points from beyond the arc, one point otherwise, gotta win by two, my team were up 10-7 after I hit an open trey from the corner. It is disturbing how clear I am about these exact memories. So clear that I suspect I'm probably wrong.
A guy named Ryan Smithson, who worked for NASCAR.com -- which was owned by TSN at the time and resided in our Creve Coeur offices -- guarded me at the point, and I checked the ball to him and he checked it back to me. I was feeling it, and he knew it, so I figured I had him: I faked a jumper at the top of the key, got him up in the air and drove hard for the basket. George Winkler, a big guy with deceptive and spry post moves, entered the lane to cut me off, but he'd recently had knee surgery and was mostly bolted in place by a brace. I slid by him easily, but I was so money at that point that I would slide by anyone easily; I glowed aflame, I'm ON FIRE, he's unconscious out there, better get a TO, baby, better call a TO. Safely past George, I switched the ball to my left hand and leapt for my game-winning layup. I let go of the ball, looked up to watch it fall through and then everything went black.
We were not playing at an official gym, where the hoops are suspended from the ceiling. We were outside at a public park, where the hoops are connected to a pole that is cemented in the ground. You know, like this:
The thing about that pole is that is happens to be right in the path of where you might land if you were ON FIRE and flying through the air for a game-winning layup. And when you come down while looking up at the basket, and thus not paying attention where you land, that pole is waiting for you. It is waiting for your face.
I remember lying on the ground, not entirely sure what just happened, and opening my eyes to see grass in front of me. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, and I noticed something white in the grass. I picked it up. It was the bottom half of my front tooth. Hello, old friend. I see at last you are ready to leave this body and make your own way in this world. Godspeed to you. Be well.
Everybody freaked out, of course: No one is more squeamish than single white dudes in their 20s whose lives have no real challenges or have face few ramifications for their actions. There was an explosion of guys running around in a blur in every direction. One guy, bless him, actually drove to the store to get milk for me to put my half-tooth in, as if that would preserve it. (This is actually smart.) No dentist offices are open on Saturdays, but I had that date that night, and also oh yes there was this strange shooting pain that sprinted up the roof of my mouth every time I inhaled, so I went to the emergency room. I handed them the tooth. The nurse actually laughed. "Uh, thank you, but I think you're gonna have to say goodbye to that one," she said.
They operated on me for three hours. Putting on the fake tooth is easy: You just slide it on. The real work comes from grinding down what's left of the old tooth to a fine point, so you can slip the fake tooth over it. The grinding takes a long time. I sort of blacked out, Jonathan Pryce-in-Brazil-style, during that part.
When they were done, they let me know I'd have to come back in a month. Because it was a Saturday, they only had a temporary cap; I'd have to return for the real one at a scheduled visit with my regular dentist. When I got to my car, I looked in the rearviewmirror. The tooth was blinding white, contrasting dramatically with the lightly yellow smoker's teeth that made up the rest of my mouth. I felt embarrassed. I still lit up a smoke.
The date did not go well. But the U.S. won. It was still a good day.
When I returned a month later, they yanked on that fake tooth for half an hour before giving up. The dental assistant shrugged. "I guess it's a permanent one now!" she said, not particularly reassuring.
It did not turn out to be a permanent one. Four years later, in a different city and a different life all together, I was sitting at my desk at Registered Rep. magazine on 17th Street in New York City, typing up some boring story about bond markets that I didn't entirely understand, when something started feeling loose and uneasy in my mouth. I rolled my tongue over my lip ... and my front tooth fell out right on my keyboard. Men have this nightmare so often that I am still not entirely sure I did not dream this.
They got me a legitimate permanent fake front tooth that time. They even matched it to the lightly stained rest of my teeth, which I appreciated; I wonder if "fake tooth stainer" is a job somewhere. I never think about my fake tooth much anymore, but when I do, it always feels vaguely fraudulent. There's enamel and gum and gristle and then just a big chunk of porcelain right there in the middle of my face. It's a lie every time I smile.
I was at the dentist this week. I'm always having teeth problems, even long after I quit smoking; my dentist told me Wednesday that "you build up tartar faster than anyone any of us have ever seen before," and hey, as Dirk Diggler said, everyone's given one special thing. They showed me X-rays of my mouth, and there it was, that fake tooth, standing out like an alien being glowing in a family picture.
I do not know what will happen in my life. I do not know where this world will take me. But that foreign body will be with my the rest of my life. Someday I'd be dead and buried, and I'll be nothing but ash and bones and that one little piece of porcelain, all shiny and off-white while the rest of me has eroded long away. It'll outlast me. It'll outlast us all. All because I felt cocky about my crossover one morning in suburban St. Louis. Sometimes one day, out of nowhere, gives us something that never leaves us.
I'll have you know: I made the shot. We won the game. It was all well worth it.
A NOTE ABOUT DEADSPIN
Megan Greenwell, the fifth editor of Deadspin, resigned last week because of continued issues with Great Hill Partners, the private equity firm that bought Gizmodo Media Group at a discounted rate earlier this year, and Jim Spanfeller, the former Forbes.com content farmer inexplicably put in charge over there. She wrote a jaw-dropper of a piece on her last day that was instantly one of the best things Deadspin has ever published. It's about Deadspin, but really, it's about the craven, mediocre dopes that have slowly drained the love, joy, quality and, yeah, successful business strategy out of digital media over the last decade. I usually try to stay out of this stuff: I made the decision a long time ago that my job was to keep my head down and just write. But everything Megan said is true, and it's very, very depressing. Here's to the great staff of Deadspin: May they all stay the hell out of your way. I'm proud (and fortunate to have) of my connection to Deadspin. I hope it's something I can continue to be proud of. It's lesser without Megan: That's for certain.
Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality. You may disagree. It is your wont.
1. The Best Players Weekend Nicknames, MLB.com. Every once in a while, you just decide a piece is just gonna be nothing but jokes.
2. Cleveland Browns, America's Team, New York. My oldest son has gotten obsessed with the Browns. He even wears a Browns jersey to Georgia games.
3. Data Decade: Best Managers of the Decade, MLB.com. I was on MLB Network with Chris Russo this week as I tried to explain to him the concept of this series ... with, I'll confess, limited success. I'm proud to have Grierson's Wilco book, Woody and Jason Motte in the back of my office shot, though.
4. If the Season Ended Today ... MLB.com. This is a fun little series we'll be doing until the end of the season.
5. Debate Club: Scariest Movie Teachers, MLB.com. I forgot about Jon Stewart in The Faculty.
6. The Thirty: Every Team's Next Retired Number, MLB.com. Yadi, or Pujols? Not sure yet.
THE WILL LEITCH SHOW
Season Three has been slightly delayed, but only slightly. Catch up on all the ones you've missed on Amazon or on SI TV.
PODCASTS
Grierson & Leitch, "Where'd You Go, Bernadette," "Blinded by the Light," "The Lost Boys"
Seeing Red, Bernie and I are back and still confused.
Waitin' Since Last Saturday, lots of stuff this week, from our big UGA season preview to my interview with terrific The Athletic beat reporter Seth Emerson. Season's almost here!
GET THIS LUNATIC OUT OF HERE 2020 PRESIDENTIAL POWER RANKINGS
Jay Inslee is the first candidate from my top 10 to drop out: He was No. 7 on my list. Read my editor David Wallace-Wells' terrific exit interview with him. If (when!) we get a new President next year, hopefully Inslee will be a big part of the administration. Other Leitch favorite Seth Moulton -- a vet who attempted to hide his Bronze Star because he felt it unbecoming for a military man to boast of accomplishments in the line of duty -- dropped out this week too. None of those Republicans pretending to take on Trump have officially declared yet, so we're not including them yet. But they are highly encouraged to get in!
1. Kamala Harris
2. Elizabeth Warren
3. Beto O'Rourke
4. Cory Booker
5. Amy Klobuchar
6. Joe Biden
7. Kirsten Gillibrand
8. Pete Buttigieg
9. Steve Bullock
10. Julian Castro
11. Bernie Sanders
12. Michael Bennet
13. Tim Ryan
14. Tulsi Gabbard
15. Marianne Williamson
16. William Weld
17. Tom Steyer
18. Bill de Blasio
19. Andrew Yang
20. John Delaney
21. Wayne Messam
ONGOING LETTER-WRITING PROJECT!
If you feel like you aren't sure whether or not you and I should talk, whether it's a good thing or a bad thing, why don't you try writing me a letter? I promise it is fun and helpful.
Will Leitch
P.O. Box 48
Athens GA 30603
CURRENTLY LISTENING TO
"Ramblin', Gamblin' Man," Bob Seger. Perhaps not surprisingly, the new Tarantino movie has me listening to its soundtrack obsessively. This is without question the standout. We should talk about Bob Seger more!
I am the leader of the hounds, and they will follow me into Hell.
Have a great weekend, all.
Best,
Will