I’d had an on-again, off-again relationship with basketball over the years. From near-fanatic playing in my early 20s, to a long period where my exploits were restricted to NBA Jam. It didn’t help that I managed to break wrists and ankles (mine) with alarming frequency.

Since moving to Los Angeles however, I’m once again in the saddle. And while you’d think the skill level in a town that houses the NBA champion Lakers – home to such legendary hoops heaven as the Venice Beach courts – would eclipse Australia, you’d be surprised. It’s really not that higher a bar.

At least I thought that for the first few weeks of my “comeback”. Dragging my tired, sweaty, sunburnt butt up and down courts all over west LA taught me there’s a greater talent spread than you might find elsewhere. So while there’s plenty of mediocrity – the good players are stupidly good.

Witness the two guys who single-handedly demolished our 5s game in Santa Monica. Both of them looked all of 18 max – yet they were lightning fast. A quick step or two, an almost effortless jumper, and bank it. They drove with the kind of fearless abandon that had me wincing when I remembered how long it had been since I would hurl myself into a pile of bodies secure in my immortality.

Only a couple of days ago on the usually more sedate outdoor park courts near UCLA in Westwood I copped another beatdown, this time in 2s. There’s something faintly demoralising about being the *worst* player on court. The opposition: a short, Ben Stiller lookalike with a chiselled physique. His teammate was a chap about my size, but light years ahead in agility. My teammate – a dead ringer for David Beckham – only with a better sixpack. The LA heat can be withering in summer, but there was no way I was going to flaunt my midriff amidst such perfection.

Of course, all three players were exceptional. Stiller-lookalike was super fast and I swear shot around 80% from the three point line. The chap who was my size blew past me like I was glued to the court (to them i probably was) and put on a clinic: running layups, reverses, and infeasibly successful bank shots. Meanwhile Beckham-alike valiantly tried to stem the tide, but ended up forcing the pace in his efforts to carry the deadweight (c’est moi).

One thing that strikes me about LA ball is the spirit it’s played in (well, usually). Fouls are usually called, winners are magnanimous, and losers gracious. Note: how I said usually. There’s always an exception, and embarrassingly enough – it’s my demographic: middle aged, skills that have seen better years – who are it.

Take the guy who I matched up with today in 2s. I should have known from seeing the nike mouthguard he was wearing we were in for trouble. Tubby, tall (my height), unshaven, Suicidal Tendencies tank top – he looked odd. But he was here to ball man. He and a limber dude who looked 15 years younger than him (i.e 20) ended up matched with yours truly and a gent of latino origin – probably all of 5’6 in his shoes.

Even before we started our intense friend was entering a zone I know all to well: the mouth zone. I love to talk it up on court but reality and an awareness of how sad it is when the oldies talk shit keeps my repertoire light. This guy: no such restrictions. First the rest of us endured a rapid fire interrogation/confirmation of the rules – akin to us agreeing to ceasefire terms on the Gaza Strip. To get the full impression, imagine this being said a-la the drill instructor from Full Metal Jacket:

“To 15?”

“Yep”

“2s from outside?”

“Sure”

“Take it outside on change of possession?”

“Yep”

“-even for steals?”

“Yes”

“- and defensive rebounds?”

“Yes”

“Call our own fouls?”

“YES”

Of course, this was a mere taste of things to come.

I made the mistake of observing before we started how my game plan was to expend minimal effort. That lead to a lecture which could be summed up as “no pain, no gain”. Coming from a bloated middle-aged fool this was especially amusing.

We started up, and it probably won’t surprise anyone to discover this guy was awful. Elbows everywhere, lots of fancy “streetball” tricks which he couldn”t pull off, and a ball hog to boot.

Naturally his poor teammate got the blame. We quickly went out to a 7 to 2 lead (if I recall) – on the back of my teammate hitting some nice shots with me generally screening and passing.

I decide to take a shot – I post up captain chubster and bank one in. Walking back to the three point line he can’t help himself:

“So … what’s the score – 8 to 2?” he asks?

“Yep – whatever,” I respond, as I usually don’t bother keeping count.

“And that’s your first points?” lardarse queries?

“Yep,” I reply.

To my incredulity, the guy smirks and shoots his teammate a “even chumps get lucky huh?” look. Now I’m generally my harshest critic and all too aware of my shortcomings as a player, but this was hilarious to me.

Still, ego took over – and it was a mark of how poor this guy was that I felt so cocky – and so I decided to drop the rest of the points remaining on him. After four buckets in quick succession on him – all by taking him inside – he ordered his teammate to switch onto me instead. Again done with an air of “you’re not doing it right” to his long suffering teammate.

Said teammate was too short to really prevent me down low, so we ran away with the game. No dap fro the big guy, naturally.

Did he want to run it back? You betcha. Did he want to shake the teams up? Hell no!

Revenge was in the air apparently. So was sweat: it’s been a scorching day, and so our bold driving degenerated into fadeaways and long bombs. Which in turn meant the opposing team jumped out to a whopping 5-4 lead. Piggy was still woofing away, and had regained enough verve to want to match on someone his own size. My teammate and I – seeing how the guy was a black hole on offence – opted to double team him. The turnovers and tears came in quick succession.

Surprise surprise, his teammate copped the brunt of the blame. He was trying to break the “constant double team” but man, you need to get in position for “the dish”.

My teammate by this time was pooped and settling for jumpers at range, and then (who else) starts popping off about my “moving screen”. Which – to be fair – is something I am occasionally prone to doing, but I was on my best behaviour here. I had to laugh – the complaints were coming without me even making contact with the guy.

At any stretch before long midlife crisis guy was demanding his teammate switch to me, and the same result ended up occurring. Post up, back in, score over the shorter guy. We ended up winning around 15- 8, enough to send the big mouth’s teammate packing – he’d had enough.

But not our hero. Now he wanted to play 21, a way of redeeming his superior 1-on-2 skills. I was beat, but agreed, knowing that throwing this guy a bone might save some poor long suffering girlfriend or cat some abuse. The dude starts playing while me and the latino guy are still chatting – announcing his score as 5 before we even realised it was on. Then to his credit, he drops in another 8 or so before we start taking it seriously.

Latino guy is in the hunt – around 6 points off the pace but I’m playing like a dog. A lazy one. Before long our friend has hit 21. Game over? Not quite. He lines up behind the three point line, where he has nailed a few. “This one or I go back to 15″ he trumpets, still insanely cocksure. Sure enough – he misses. I muffle my laughter, consider my score (2) and vow to ensure this guy loses.

Latino guy is on the move: before long they’re neck and neck on 17 or so. So I start messing with the big boy. Stealing, blocking, posting him up, scoring…and counting only one for every bucket.

Before long he gets wind something is not quite right with my score – I’ve just dropped 4 jumpers in a row and I’m claiming my score is 8.

“You do know it’s 2 points a bucket, right?” he asks.

“Yeah I know it – I’m just only taking one point per bucket,” I reply before knocking another down on him.

“That’s 9,” I chime in merrily.

“Just play properly,” he snarls, decorum rapidly fading.

“Nah… it’s not like we’re playing seriously anyway,” I chirp, sounding a lot more chipper than I’m feeling.

My tubby friend has gone a deeper shade of purple, apparently affronted that I may actually be the same score as him but claiming…less…and somehow robbing him of his just victory.

Latino guy has stealthily moved to 19 points. I “accidentally” tip a rebound to him. Bang – he drains a 2 pointer. He’s now at 21.

“Oh man!” I exclaim. “I just BET he nails the three and wins!”

He nailed it. Good times.