New Zealand was one of my favorite stops of my career. We had a phenomenal team and built chemistry immediately. We would spend our days trying to physically destroy each other and our nights making equally responsible decisions.
Nick Horvath
@SledgevsBooks and I both had the same bonus in our contracts…$150 every time we got a double double. I assume ownership figured having two giant assholes fighting over rebounds would help the team, while also assuming there was a 0% chance they would have to pay the both of us.
Welp…that 2nd part did not go according to plan.
Nick and I fought for every rebound like someone stapled the $150 to the basketball. We endured black eyes, bruises, and stitches. There were rebounds we probably should’ve just let each other have…but we didn’t. If the ball hit the rim, our friendship was briefly suspended. Most nights the two of us outrebounded entire teams, collected our bonuses, then immediately began the very important process of putting that money directly back into the Wellington economy.
This usually involved something called a snake bite, which was lager mixed with cider, followed by shots, followed by more snakes, followed by more shots, followed by the completely logical conclusion that everyone should take their shirts off in the bar.
But we weren’t some sort of uncivilized swine. We simply pulled our shirts over our heads and left them hanging around our necks, which kept them from getting displaced…We called this Halvsies.
At that point in my life I had spent years trying to keep shirts on my body because I was built like Christian Bale in The Machinist. New Zealand changed that. I was lifting like a lunatic, playing some of the best basketball of my career, and finally had enough confidence to think, fuck it, I’m going to take my shirt off in a bar…apparently
That’s the shit the basketball card doesn’t tell you. It shows a professional basketball player…it doesn’t show how sometimes as an athlete you toe that “professionalism” line pretty close.