You see, Jerrold Folley was a basketball player.
His three-point shot was mediocre.
His free-throwing ability was sub-par.
He excelled with his short game and loved a good assist here and there.
But Jerrold's real aspirations had been flushed away with a knee injury in his senior year at Duke. There, he played about fifteen minutes a game with little to no national recognition. He excelled in school and with girls, but his true love had always been basketball.
When he was young, before his dad lost the battle with lung cancer, he and his father would practice under the street lamp of their cul-de-sac. Short jumpers, bank-shots, lay-ups, hundreds of free throws before dinner.
His dad believed in him.
Told him he could do anything.
Be anyone.
Go anywhere.
Crazy things was, Jerrold believed him. With his whole heart.
So, after high-school, and after his dad's passing, Jerrold accepted the full-ride to Duke and went on expecting with every fiber of his being that he would one day play in the NBA.
Let me, with unbearable amounts of regret, inform you that Jerrold does not play in the NBA. He doesn't even play in the D-leauge. Nor is he coaching at the college or even the high school level. Jerrold, after college, became depressed.
With a torn ACL and after two surgeries that did nothing to help Jerrold left basketball behind and, with great anxiety, entered the financial sector.
Punching keys.
Crunching numbers.
9-5.
Single.
Drinker.
He would spend most nights after work at The Dog and Duck pub on Westover Ave. Two pints and a chaser were the usual fare. Nothing to impressive but just enough to take a brick and smash the edge that had built up around his soul from that days grind.
But then, one night, at the pub Jerrold saw a commercial on TV that sparked his attention and brought life back into his eyes.
The Harlem Globetrotters were coming to town.
"What if I tried out for the 'Trotters?" He thought to himself.
He quickly quit his 9 to 5 and found himself searching for opportunities to try out for the revered team. The team of laughs. The team of hope. The Harlem Globetrotters. His days became consumed with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could play basketball again. Jerrold knew fully that this wasn't Laker's basketball and that he would be playing in college gyms around the nation and smaller venues around the world, but who cared? He wanted to hear the cheers again. he wanted to feel the pine beneath his feet. He wanted to feel the dimples of the ball rolling along his finger tips as he shot baskets once more.
"Please God!" He would day to himself under his breathe.
Again, I must be the bearer of bad news, Jerrold did not make the team. Besides the fact that he was white, had poor ball handling skill and a chubby beer belly, Jerrold was just simply not good enough to be a Globetrotter.
But...
Jerrold was just good enough to be a Washington General.
For those of you who are not up to date with your comical basketball acts, the Washington Generals are the team that the Globetrotters have beaten in every game since 1926. Fact.
It's a gag.
An act.
A play.
An exhibition.
But Jerrold doesn't care. How could he? He loves the game too much to throw away even the opportunity to lose every single night.
Jerrold plays the guy on the Generals who gets his jersey and shorts ripped off half-way through the first quarter and then proceeds to run around in his boxers. He doesn't mind, he likes making the kids and parents laugh. The smiles make it worth the effort. The pay doesn't seem so lousy after a good smile from a happy nine-year-old boy who is at his first Globetrotters game with his dad.
The teams travel by bus from town to town. It takes longer but Greyhound is an official sponsor so it's free. Free is good when you play for the Washington Generals. Sometimes, late at night, while in between towns with the rest of the team fast asleep, Jerrold will turn his eyes upward and, under his breathe, say in the most honest of tones, "Thank you God."
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