You Let Some Girl Beat You? Read Online Free PDF Page A

there, waiting for test results. I exhaled slowly. Was this really happening? Was I really about to become the first woman to make it into the NBA?
    Then I heard Slick mumble something about wishing those guys had my heart.
    I was so naïve. I still thought I’d made it. I didn’t realize that some people like to prop you up before they lower the boom.
    â€œI wish you had their height,” he said next.
    Everything after that was just a jumble of sounds, the wonky-talk of Charlie Brown’s teacher. He never said the words you’re cut. But that was all I heard from that point on. I put my head down, and stared at the floor. I didn’t ask why they weren’t afraid to draft Charlie Criss at 5’8”. Why bother? We both knew what Slick was really thinking: Hey you got your shot, now get lost . I felt sick, it was hard to breathe. I could feel my throat tightening and the sting of tears forming around the backs of my eyes, tears that would spill over onto my cheeks if I blinked, confirming Slick’s bible-like conviction that no woman, anywhere, was tough enough to play in the NBA. I kept looking straight down at that scuffed-up classroom floor, breathing through my mouth, eyes wide-open the whole time. There was no way I’d cry in front of Slick, and I refused to give the press the satisfaction. I waited until I got back to my hotel room to cry, where it was hard to stop.
    I believed I had what it took to make it in the NBA, not as a starting player, or even a sixth player, necessarily, but as a team member. I couldn’t justify Slick’s decision. I knew I’d played hard, run the offense efficiently, and hit plenty of shots during the tryout. Had he not seen them? Sure, he’d have gotten all sorts of flak from the press and probably would have taken some nasty remarks from fans who thought the whole idea of a woman playing in the NBA was preposterous. But we both knew I had the support of the owner. It was doubtful Slick had missed the newspaper quote from assistant coach, Jack McCloskey, saying I was fundamentally better than half the players out there.
    I had spent the last three days playing my heart out against the top NBA players in the country, and everything from my sneakers to my forehead showed the wear and tear. Yes, they were bigger and stronger, but I had played smart, the way any good, small player must. I had given it everything I had. I had forfeited my chance to play in the ’80 Olympics (none of us knew then there would be no ’80 Olympics), and I’d trained like never before. And I had prayed. I had done everything within my power to prove that I could play among the best. But none of it was enough to convince Slick. I felt empty, discarded, spent. I was devastated.
    I realize now that it would have taken a Bill Veck, the owner of the Cleveland Indians who hired a midget named Eddie Gaedel to bat, or a Phil Esposito, or a Charley Finley to have made my dream happen. It would have taken someone who was willing to try something unusual and say “to hell with the flak”—a Barnum and Bailey kind of guy who realized that sometimes you have to shake things up to get people in the stands. And at that time, the Pacers were having trouble filling up the seats. Sam Nassi was exactly that guy. He believed in me. He knew I could get the job done. It was unfortunate his coach couldn’t get beyond my size and plumbing. Of course, back then it didn’t feel unfortunate , it felt like I’d taken a wrecking ball straight to the gut. I sank into my hotel bed that night and eventually drifted off to the sounds of metal springs and sobbing, and descended into a world where basketballs, coaches, and the Hinkle Fieldhouse didn’t exist.
    The next morning, I took a cold rag to eyes mercifully too young to fully reveal the previous night’s anguish, then slipped into a beautiful crimson dress. Gazing at my reflection, I knew I looked