When one enforcer type happens upon another, no matter the sport, it becomes a game within a game. Actually, that's a lie. The larger game—the one with teammates and a score—ceases to matter. It becomes a primal battle. It becomes you against him. It becomes, in a word, stupid.
Dirk was the other goon in my neighborhood. He was built roughly like a washing machine. And frankly, I'd rather hit the latter. We got along fine outside of the field of play, but once the first hip-check was thrown, it was balls-out.
I threw the first hip-check during a pickup basketball game, knocking a sprinting Dirk ass-over-teakettle into some empty risers beside the court. Unlike mortal men, he gathered himself and returned to the game. He didn't even attempt to stop bleeding first. He only paused to pull a long, thin shard of steel out of his arm. It was like the end of a Terminator movie.
I was a dead man walking.
Dirk could touch the rim, which is pretty amazing feat for someone 5'6" and 225 pounds. I don't know if he could dunk. I couldn't take the chance. ("No one has ever dunked on me," I still stupidly boast.) When Dirk came charging down the court toward me looking for all the world like he intended to dunk, I defended him. He leapt into the air, knees up, toward me and, roughly, the basket. He drove one knee into my throat and the other into my nose.
I do not know if he made the shot. The next thing I remember was waking up face-down on the court, my nose broken and the game continuing at the other end. Thoughtful.