When I was in high school, we had a basketball coach who fancied himself the next John Wooden and (no, I never had the opportunity to meet John Wooden) and in my junior year we had what looked like a very good team (we were ranked, pre-season, in the top ten in California). So, he booked us in tournaments (before this was the norm, remember 1973 and all that) to play against other power house high school teams and because our parents could afford to send us far away. Anyway, our first tournament was in Pittsburgh, PA. It was a big deal, 32 teams and some of the best high school teams in the East. When we got to the arena, we were told that Petersburg VA High School was in the tournament and we all knew that meant Moses Malone, the best high school player in the country was there. Now, a little about our team, we were pretty tall as high school teams go, our starting front line went 6'6", 6'7" and 6'5, plus our guards were both 6'3" and except for me, they were all seniors who were three year starters. Now, I was the center because my job was to get rebounds, make outlet passes and take charging fouls. If the ball came to me on offense, it was by mistake. The other guys were the stars and my job was to make them look good.
Okay, back to the story at hand. As we heading into the locker room to get ready for practice, we see the young Malone. I decide to speak to him simply because I was the only person on the team who could put together six words. I find that Malone can't either. I decide, seeing as how we would have to win two games and so would they to meet in the tourney, that my chances of facing him on the court were slim and none. I start talking to him and all I get back is a couple of single syllable words and a grunt, so I get wise ass and say, "Well, don't sweat it big guy, when you get to the NBA you can hire someone to speak for you...." Well, two games later, I am standing at half court ready to get my proverbial ass shown to me. I decide that I will do my best Vlade Divac and start flopping at the center tip. Refs weren't having any. First time he sets up on the post, I get on top of him and it was like I was fresh meat, he did a spin move and kind of jumped over me. This went on for a couple possessions when the coach suggested I lean on him. Oh boy, this guy is over seven feet and he has something like sixty pounds on my scrawny 165 lb frame. I did draw some fouls, but the payoff of getting shot into the stands when he did his drop step and went to the hole made it borderline suicidal. After he dropped either 35 or 40 on me and bruised me from head to toe, he puts his arm around me and tells me, "Thanks for the motivation, white meat. I would say see you in the pro's but you ain't getting anywhere near there unless your daddy buys you a ticket."
That's mine, have a good laugh.