Donkey-ballin'

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com

Art by Turtle

Zeek Productions

I’m trying to get some projects done today, but I seem to be distracted by a hankering to watch a good ol’ game of donkey basketball.

That’s right. For clarity, and to tweak those search engines, I’ll say it again:

Donkey basketball.

I figure to have been about seven years old the first time I watched some real-live donkey basketball. Cousin Tommy treated me to a game in the local high-school gym—a charity event, I think. It proved quite the paradigm-shifting experience. Used to be, in the ’60s and ’70s, you could find a rip-roaring donkey game every now and then, and although that’s still possible, it’s a bit of a rarity nowadays.

I’m not sure about the origin of the concept, nor do I feel a burning need to research it, but I imagine there’s quite a story behind the first time somebody took a notion to introduce a bit of the old hee-haw to the noble tradition of b-ball. Let’s just say everybody really ought to see it played at least once in a lifetime.

Donkey basketball is not what you might picture; the animals don’t dribble the ball or shoot baskets, no matter how impressive their repertoire of sporting skills. They don’t appear to be very motivated, either. I doubt your average donkey aspires to earn fame and adulation, the big paydays, a long career in the endorsement industry. Rather, it’s people who play the game, each teammate sitting astride his very own jackass—or she-ass, I suppose, a detail I’m not sure matters.

Watching is fun because the donkey can be counted on to do only one thing—well, two, if you include that mess plopping all over the floor. You see, apparently each donkey is tasked with the role he does best, which is not to cooperate with the intentions of his unwelcome cohort.

Picture the frustrated donkey-rider: “All right! I’ve got the ball! Let’s drive to the basket! Let’s go—just drive to the basket! C’mon, let’s—hey! No, not that way. Where you going? We’re playing this end. Hey, why’d you stop? What are you—? Oh cripe, don’t do that here—ugh, what did you eat?”

Yeah, it’s a real hoot to watch the unfolding drama, but to those frustrated, mission-thwarted players, that donkey can be a real ass.

So I found myself there in the gym at the big-kids’ school, as thoroughly entertained by all the floor-plopping as any typical seven-year-old, thinking that something about this doesn’t quite make sense. I mean, why ride the donkey? Just get off it and go take the shot. Seriously.

Eventually one player did just that—or tried. See, he didn’t watch where he stepped. The way he wound up proved quite the sight, sitting there in . . .  well, let’s just say the shot sailed wide. Just as well, because it wouldn’t have counted. Even donkey-ball has rules, rather like the game of life. If you want to score, you should play by the rules, no matter how many jackasses you have to deal with.

So how do those determined players cope with the challenges and limitations of riding stubborn brayers? They develop strategies. They learn to flip a leg over and play side-back, or turn around and ride backwards. They sharpen their passing skills, increase their reliance on savvy teamwork. They abandon all notions of individual hot-dogging in favor of a rather haphazard form of zone offense. You see, possessing the ball isn’t quite as important as striving for the best placement, so if you can get your donkey to wander anywhere near your opponents’ basket, your job is to keep him there until the ball comes to you.

Be ready to take your shot.

Life is like that, too—working with what you got, respecting the rules, and overcoming impediments so you can maneuver to the best place at the right time, ready to take your shot.

The older I get, the more I find myself dismayed by the lack of follow-through from those around me claiming ambition they seem unbothered to pursue. It’s like they pass their days lingering idly on the back of some donkey, when really they could achieve more.

They sabotage themselves, make the job unnecessarily hard, refuse to turn themselves around and sight the goal. They join forces with contrary cohorts, let themselves be led the wrong way, count on others who don’t really care.

Sometimes those rules do make the game especially difficult, our limitations unduly cumbersome, our goals seeming to recede into the distance, our teammates unable to help. Still, we smile, bear down, and get to work.

Sure, playing life’s game from the back of a donkey can be quite fun . . .  but only for a little while.

You see, if you truly want to get something done, sometimes you just need to get off your ass.

Oh, and watch where you step.

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