Jack Kukoda

I really do. They’re loud and they take up way too much room on the sidewalk when they’re walking in groups. And sometimes they yell at me and make me feel uncomfortable. But the main reason I currently hate teenagers is because I got absolutely schooled by one in pickup basketball over the weekend. On Friday afternoon, I went to the park across the street from my apartment looking for a game. There were some kids on the middle court and I asked them if anyone had winners from their previous game. They said no.

They said they were playing three on three so I asked if anyone wanted to be on my team. One kid, who looked pretty athletic immediately said yes. I was psyched. Then another kid, who was wearing jeans, said he would like to play. For those of you who don’t play much pickup basketball, here’s a tip: don’t play with the kid wearing jeans. He’s probably not very good. If he doesn’t even own a pair of athletic shorts, chances are he’s not the best athlete.

Anyway, the other team had a chubby kid and a girl on their side, so I figured, jeans-teammate or not, we’d win handily. I was wrong. Their third player was a quick little bastard who kept draining threes over me. When I came out to guard him, he would just break me down off the dribble. I hated him. I kept trying to casually mention how I’m not really in “basketball shape just yet,” which is true, but the teenagers didn’t really buy that as an excuse.

As the game wore on, I started to wonder if these kids regarded me the same way I used to regard old men who would come to the park for pickup basketball. “Doesn’t this guy have friends?” I imagined them saying to each other. “Shouldn’t he be at work? It’s 3 o’clock on a Friday.”

I also found myself wishing that I could play against these kids as my teenage self. “You wouldn’t pull this shit on Teenage Jack,” I wanted to tell them. “Teenage Jack was fast. Real fast. And his back didn’t make creaking sounds whenever he bent down to pick up his keys.”

We only ended up losing by 3 points, but I had had enough. After I had said my “good games,” I gathered up my stuff and my basketball, and went home. Then I went to the store and bought the makings of a Cinco de Mayo feast and a six pack of beer. Those teenage kids might have youth and optimism on their side, but I can buy beer when and wherever I please. Fireworks, too.

P.S. I’m having a beer and fireworks party at my apartment next week. 25 and up. I.D. required. See you there, teens. NOT!