By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
This might be a serious game and all, but there's no getting around it -- some big bellies are on the floor.
"Skins got too many fat guys," says one courtside critic, slumped on a bench at the downtown YMCA. "You've got big fat Jim and big fat Dave trying to do the scoop. Looks like you're carrying a baby out there, Dave. You can't get that baby out of the way, much less make the shot. Come on, skins. Can't win with so many fat guys out there!"
How true. But it's also true that some of these players have been coming to this gym for thirty years. Every weekday from 10:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., they bring their big bellies, blown ankles, blown knees and blown layups to the dingy court, where they battle players half their age.
"Damn man. Foul!"
"This ain't hack-a-Shaq!"
It ain't what it used to be, either. Not so long ago, Denver's premier hoopsters laced up their Jordans at the downtown Y. It wasn't uncommon to find a former Bronco posting up a former Nugget going baseline on a former University of Colorado player.
But a fee increase, competition from other gyms and Father Time put an end to that. "Now it's basically a bunch of old dudes who have been here since I was a kid," says one younger, slimmer player. "But it's a decent game."
"I'd give it a B," says another.
"More like a B minus," says a third.
If Jon Bowman, the Y's volunteer basketball activities director, has anything to say about it, though, the game is about to change. Bowman, who has a modest midsection of his own, recently launched a three-on-three Thursday game to lure leapers into the gym. With a quicker game (the first one to ten wins), a league structure (round robin) and balanced team competition (players are matched according to size), Bowman hopes to create an intense competition that lets players polish their moves and work up a sweat.
"You have to work harder," Bowman says. "You can't hang back like you do with five-on-five and watch the younger guys run the break."
He should know: Bowman has been a lunchtime regular for the past fifteen years. And at age 51, he's been known to hang himself back on occasion.
"We call him math-challenged," says one of his middle-aged comrades. "We never let him keep score. The man will argue about anything."
He'll also talk your ear off. Bowman will talk about the similarities between basketball and marriage: "Basketball players make the best wives because they know when to pass, when to set a pick and when to shoot." He'll talk about his most prized possession: "My pair of red, black and green Clyde Frazier Pumas." He'll talk about trash talk: "It's only a problem if you can't back it up." And he'll talk about his basketball jones.
"I grew up in gyms," he says. "Literally. I was a gym rat before there were gym rats. I remember being so short and shooting so many baskets that my neck hurt, because the rim was too high."
He also remembers traveling from gym to gym with his dad, Henry, an Illinois Hall of Fame referee who officiated everything from wheelchair hoops to the 1960 Olympics before becoming the first black referee in the Big Ten Athletic Conference. "If you wanted to spend time with him, you went to the games," Bowman recalls. "On the way home, we'd analyze the games to keep each other awake. It was like a post-game breakdown without the film."
Back home, Bowman acted out his own highlight reel for kids in the neighborhood. "Our first hoop was a square milk crate held on the lowest hook on the telephone pole," he says. "There was no backboard, either, so everything had to go in straight. It was one of those deals where you played around the obstacles."
Bowman played well enough to make his high school team, but he traded in his Converse All Stars for a pair of baseball cleats after a year. In college, basketball took a backseat to baseball, football and tennis, but he always made time for a pick-up game of 21.
"Everyone played basketball," he says. "You played other sports, but you still played hoops. No matter how fat you were, how tall you were, how fast or how slow, everyone played. Where I grew up, that's just the way it was."
It was also a tradition for Bowman and his buddies to attend the renowned Rucker tournaments in New York City, where hoops gods like Julius Erving first polished their moves. "Anyone who was anyone went to the Rucker," Bowman explains. "People used to watch those games literally hanging on the chain-link fence."
Even after Bowman settled down, married and had a son and daughter, he still got in some pick-up games. "I took them with me," he says of his kids. "And now they're big-time gym rats."
Bowman also coached his son's parochial-school basketball team to a city championship. He coached his daughter's teams to city, state and national championships. He even played in Denver's early three-on-three tournaments, where his teams won six titles.