I’ve never been, but it feels like the right place.

Why?

Element exile. Welcome him to the jungle. An intense reminder there are things bigger and scarier than putting a ball in a hoop.

But all in all, we’re just a couple of hoopers boppin’ around Bangkok.

Rockin’ out with our shots out.

A whole bunch of ‘em. Tequila with the worm at the bottom, Picklebacks, Picklebacks hold the pickle. Rumplemintz, more Tequila, scorpion at the bottom, a Mother’s Milk, Rumplemintz, even a dance with Absinthe.

It’s the first step in a mad experiment of Sports Psychology, the likes of which the world has never seen... publicly. I’ve had many righteous successes over the years, but none this intense. A massive problem sometimes requires a mad solution. The goal — remove the Tray Young-sized blockade from the brain of this defensive stud, or whatever it is that keeps him shooting like a dud.

From there, we go where the night takes us.

Into the Uncaged Zoo

I’ll tell it as it happened.

Through poppy fields and Tiger-patrolled forests, into dark saunas and massage parlors, through trap houses and underground tattoo studios, we make our way to the camel races 15 minutes late because the sheep sacrifice ran long. All and all it’s an intense and adventurous reminder that there’s a world out there beyond the NBA and the echo chamber of doom that awaits within the fiery belly of the Philadelphia faithful.

But it’s not about where we roam.

It’s about finding our way home.

And home is where the hoop is.

On the outskirts of Bangkok, past the littered sand dunes and Kong Mama’s Haberdashery, you can find a real mangled, fucker of a basketball court. There are plenty in Bangkok. Lumphini Park is my personal favorite, but instead were here. Where two dick poles with peach baskets stand and sway with the wind on cavernous, nearly creaky clay.

The crowd?

Say “pass the rock” and you might catch something other than a basketball.

1 v 1

Shitfaced, freshly inked, and sexually extinguished, we arrive on matching mopeds ready to hoop. I’m certain my defensive prowess will limit him to jumpers, especially with that extra high dribble he’s so fond of.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

“But he’s an NBA player

You’re a fake Doctor with too much time on his hands.

You’re not stopping him at all.”

That would be true.

HOwever …..

I’M

NOT

THAT

DRUNK.

That’s right,

I lied.

Every Summer, for as long as I can remember, I’ve visited Thailand for three weeks at a time.

In a lifetime of visits, I’ve learned the land and I know the people. I’ve also been mighty fortunate to make ALLL the wrong connections one could ever ask for.

The arms, drugs, and etcetera dealing Barkeep at the Mad Monkey Hostel, the manipulative stick poke tattooist of Yan Nawa, a few of the city’s many snake wranglers, great guys to get drinks with, and I’ve even met THEE Snake Wrangler, who’s not that kind of snake wrangler at all. He’s the racketeering ring leader of the infamous Yarahara Cathedral Cartel—an undercover Ladyboy spy agency. At least that’s what they say they do. The authorities have dubbed them a violent blackmail operation, which I know first hand, is very very true. The Snake Wrangler’s real name is Illy Ang Ja Messayie, which translates roughly in English to “Silly Grandmama” and she ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.

I know the underbelly of Bangkok. Many of its biggest players have seen my ankles. Most often when I wear shorts & sandals.

So YES, the vices I’ve consumed throughout the day have all been phony or watered down. The pacifier I’ve been sucking on isn’t even coated in angel dust. That was a bold-faced lie I told him. To be honest, I’m not even sure HOW to coat a pacifier in angel dust. There’s simply no YouTube tutorial on the matter. Otherwise, I’d know.

But one thing I do know, is that I can fix this man’s jumpshot, and I intend to.

Yee-fuckin-haw.

*Photo courtesy of my own camera roll*
*Drugs courtesy of the Yarahara Cathedral*
`ขอบคุณมากเพื่อนของฉัน นั่นเป็นอึระดับบนสุดอย่างจริงจัง เหมือนเคย. - ชาโก`

A Well-Developed Program

My whiskey cokes were just Pepsi. His vodka sodas featured a teether’s splash of absinthe.

My hookah tube pulled from a mango-flavored tobacco. His, a delicate, strawberry-peach-flavored pinch of peyoté.

My “Big Sean Is A Very Underappreciated Rapper” tattoo is henna. His wounded butterfly, spreading its wings as it leaves a battered cocoon tramp stamp is very real and will inspire him for decades to come.

This is all part of a rigidly structured, minute-to-minute, habit-fixer system that I’ve developed over a lifetime of basketball and drinking in the steamy Thai summers. It’s a program that can be used to kick just about any bad habit by creating another. In this case, the habit, some may consider it unethical. But again, large problems require large solutions.

Understand, it’s Dr. Shago Marlin, PHD, OPP — Scientist & Psychologist. Not Basketball Trainer.

We’re not out here playing in front of thousands. We’re playing on a dingy back alley court with a gaggle of locals. Many of whom are toothless. A few wear nothing more than loincloths. One strapping old man has the flaps hung about the hips, nothing up front. it appears he’s firing finger guns at us like an old westerner with unlimited bullets.

Oh.

No.

Sorry.

He’s masturbating in a strange, double-hand exchange sort of fashion, and I’m nearsighted.

So anyway, we play 1 on 1…

He can’t feel his legs and dribbling is out of the question. Intoxicated by everything the Uncaged Zoo has to offer, he’s fully reliant on jumpers and a merciful bout with gravity. Stationary J’s. That’s really all he’s got.

All part of the plan.

He shoots and misses in every direction imaginable. I’ve never seen a shot missed backwards that wasn’t blocked until today. not important. What is, is that my man keeps firing. Keeps putting them up. That’s the magic of cocaine. It’s also what you call progress.

The lesson is so young and we’re already seeing improvement in his mental fortitude.

With each miss, the stroke looks a little cleaner. A step further in a long journey back to natural. An intergalatic voyage away from average. But we’ll get there. Or maybe we won’t. Only time will tell. MKG never did.

Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy

Mentally speaking, he looks loose and relaxed, which is arguably more important than the mechanics of his shot, at least for now. This is, in part, thanks to a long line IV drip. Its administration by a small Scandinavian boy nerved me, but clearly he knew what he was doing and refused to give me the needle.

We record the game to watch later, using the same tripod that came in handy during the Ladyboy encounter earlier. The tape will serve as a visible reminder of how it looks like to shoot the ball so effortlessly, in such a relaxed state—his motor control running at a steady 50% clip reduction.

Eventually, the ball actually goes in. The man soils himself he’s so elated. This is a solid indication that he’s lost control of his bowels—dipping that 50% rate a bit further.

Still, I score at will and win Game 1.

11-1.

It was important to leave him with a pebble of hope for Game 2, nothing more. This life aint for suckas.

This also indicates that I’ll likely have to stab him with adrenaline as we near game point. This will help him develop a false sense of bravado with the game of the line, tricking his mind into thinking he actually wants the ball in crunch time. Studied psychologists should be able to recognize that this is an aggressive introduction to Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy. An intense hello that I’m able to rationalize with fantastic results in previous cases.

NEW FRIENDS & FIENDs

All in all, what is this really?

At its core, truly a pure scene. Like a couple of Midwestern suburban boys at the local park missing on double rims, shooting amongst the pines on a fall afternoon after church.

Or at least it would have felt that way if Old “Scared-to-Shoot” over here wasn’t absolutely fiending for more angel dust.

We just ran out and I need to save the adrenaline shot for later.

This could prove to be a problem.

In between jumpers, he’s chewing on his shooting hand—already a debatable enough a label of either hand—so this will not help. Since we were robbed at bow-and-arrow-point mere moments into our bender, we’re forced to ask the local affiliation to make a wager.

We need money.

Or more angel dust, whatever comes first.

I did not forsee this addiction developing in real-time. I thought at the earliest it would be a tomorrow situation. At this point, all we have to gamble with is our souls, the affiliation (read: gang) determines the wager and they decide to pit he and I against each other in a new game.

Winner gets cut ( of drugs & money )

Loser gets cut ( with a knife )

Now, this affiliation has a propensity for deal baiting, so I doubt they’ll pay up, but they will certainly deliver the drugs to hook him on the mess for further business. That I can count on. And I’d bet my bottom dollar they’ll deliver the knife. We simply have no other option. The Aussie could lose a thumb before you know it.

For this second game to appear even remotely fair, I need to act obliterated, but I also have no intention of being knifed so I’ll selfishly keep the adrenaline to myself to win the game, if I need be. He can take the incision. He won’t feel it.

We play on despite the shooting in the background (of guns), for the love of the game.

Someone starts playing “Eye of the Tiger,” no surprise it’s a hit, even in the jungles of Thailand. It’s an all-time classic. Even outside of Philadelphia. There’s simply no denying it.

*This is NOT the court we played on. This is the one I played on in elementary school and it’s much nicer. I’m glad they’ve kept it up. It looks beautiful.*

Game 2 Tightens

He sinks another jumper as his legs start to come back. His backers, bleeding on the side of the court from the shooting, cheer the make. A smile creeps about his face. I walk past him for an easy layup to keep it interesting.

Sober or not, I’m a better shooter, but I miss the next on purpose, feeling the affiliation is onto me.

Mind you, I’m scoring at will on the man who was once an All-NBA defender. He’s barely moved more than 5 feet the entire game. He says the top of the key is his “spot” but we all know it’s because his knees are locked in place by a lack of motor function below the waist.

However, his claiming a “spot” is yet another massive step forward and my mission towards confidence is churning in the right direction.

Although I’m giving him 10+ feet—to him—it feels like I’m right in his face as his depth sensory neurons are totally fried.

But then, the game is shaken and the playing field levels as a rattlesnake is now within striking distance of my chiseled calves. I’m too scared to move. The snake seems calm and I have no intentions of disrupting its zen so right wing, foul line extended is now my “spot.” I’d prefer left wing but it will have to do.

We’re now locked in a heated game of 1-on-1 in Bangkok with money, hard drugs, and a shanking on the line, and neither one of us is capable of moving.

He fights through the uncomfort to sink another. And another. In a game to 11 he ties the game at 10. If he makes another I will quickly claim we agreed to “win by 2,” banking on his drug-induced negligence to veer from the knife.

His legs fully returned, he swats the daylights out of what would have been my game-winner. The swatted shot bounces off a dying man’s kneecap and drops back into play. Unfortunately, the he’s bitten by the rattlesnake in the process. Loin-cloth hip shooter sprints over and sucks the venom out. They both enjoy the process more than necessary and exchange sheepish smiles before returning to the game.

He has the ball and the game in his hands. The rattlesnake has slithered off the court to commiserate with the affiliation, so I can really D up. Nothing easy now. I take the adrenaline, stabbing myself on the thigh because I’M A WINNER. High cross right is nearly plucked and be settles for an ugly 3-pointer. MISS.

My ball.

He gets into his All-NBA defensive stance.

I cross left. He’s there. I cross right he almost pickpockets me. I sling the ball at his face and break his nose. Back to me. I shoot and miss. He swings and misses. You can tell he’s a lover, not a fighter and still in a bit of a tussle with gravity.

We get back to the game. Mostly because the affiliation tells us to with weaponry that dates both my dead WWII-veteran grandfathers.

His ball. Game point. A stabbing on the line, what will he do? There’s no one to pass to.

He drives right. I’m there. Left. I’m a step behind. Despite his newfound lower limb motor skills, he goes for a layup, I foul the ever-loving shit out of him. Typically we don’t take free throws in 1-on-1 but this game is different and he’s now forced to the free throw line. The snake is gone but he’s so deep into an acid experience that he thinks the line is actually a python. This is a potentially life-altering/ending free throw in more ways than one—the local affiliation & the imaginary snake vs. a sun 50% playoff free throw shooter.

His awkward, semi-double-handed form rises from his hip, above, and slightly behind his head, in just the way it shouldn’t, the release is disgusting, both hands flop outwards, mirroring his elbow distance, looking like a middle schooler who only plays basketball in jeans, but I’ll be darned, that fucker goes in.

He wins.

I slug some scorpion tequila and I’m sliced about the scapula. He bites the dust, as they say.

12 stitches and I’ll be good.

Another 12 trips to Thailand and so will he.

We’re on our way.

Basketball, once again, is fun.

Day 1 was a great experience for us both. Another hundred days of my regimen and he’ll look like Reddick at the line.

Of course, we’ll have to wean him off the angel dust, peyote, and absinthe, and that will take time, but once he’s back from rehab he’ll be the player he was always meant to be, a very average free throw shooter who’s not terrified to have the ball in his hands in crunch time.

So MATISSE,

you happy Aussie you, give me a call. I’m here to help and will travel to wherever Daryl trades you the next time a 2016 Houston Rocket becomes available.

— Dr. Shago Marlin

Fixing The Jumpshot of a Particular Ex-Sixer in Thailand