Whenever cinephiles get together and discuss the great sports films of the past, a worthy, if predictable list tends to emerge: Rocky, The Pride of the Yankees, Field of Dreams, Remember the Titans, and Hoosiers. You might even hear a call for Rudy or The Sandlot. I’m not here to speak against any of them, even if, had I been invited to the party, I might have been more apt to defend the likes of Requiem for a Heavyweight or Raging Bull. As expected, I’m congenitally opposed to trumped up victories, happy endings, or artificial uplift. Still, I’m no asshole. Having devoted a large chunk of my childhood to sport – spectating, not participating, obviously – I’m not about to judge anyone who has been brought to the brink by what Wide World of Sports once called “the human drama of athletic competition.” After all, I continue to insist that over a lifetime of heartbreak, horror, and general malaise, Game Six of the 1986 World Series remains the single greatest experience I’ve ever known. If it hasn’t been topped, it’s because it couldn’t be. Lightning only strikes once in that regard.
So while it would be expected that if tears and triumph are the measuring stick, we’d want to push anything and everything whereby adversity is vanquished. Where heroes emerge, because, well, they must. Tough talk, square jaws, and iron grips, all in the service of an ideal. Fair enough. But when it’s my turn at the podium, I’ll begin and end with the Beacontown Beavers. The 1985 variety, from Teen Wolf of all places. Because if the 1980’s stood for anything, it’s that ragtag was the starting point for audience sympathy. And yes, this basketball team defined the type. When Michael J. Fox, all 5’4” of him, is your best player, well, you know you’ve hit the jackpot. It’s the sort of group so destined for awfulness that the coach is ready to concede before the crowd has even gotten settled. Only there’s no crowd. Not when you haven’t hit double figures in weeks.
But I’m not here to discuss Mr. Fox and his transition to furry superstar. That would be too easy. No, my champion, if I must have one, is the inimitable Chubby. Number 55. Position unknown because he’s inclined to wander. The guy who may have graduated in 1971 and just hung around because no one had the heart to chase him away. More likely, he never graduated at all and, because there’s a state law requiring a certain number of eligible players, he served a purpose. A warm body to keep forfeits to a minimum. Sure, his hairline and overall wear and tear suggest a man pushing middle age, but he’s suited up when the whistle blows. Maybe this time, he thinks, he can help a banner reach the rafters.
When we first encounter Chubby, he’s being shoved to the floor. He’ll spend half the game on the ground, of course, but he never fails to get up. He has no business being anywhere near a basketball court, but while you’re mocking him from the stands, his enormous, pasty thighs are chugging along with can-do ferocity. His stat lines might read like someone who never emerged from the locker room, but the varsity letter on his jacket shines just as brightly as the McDonald’s All-American the next district over. He’s the loser made good. The guy who tries out for the school play despite never bothering to learn the lines. The member of the choir who can’t sing a lick. Nothing to justify his existence except that unquenchable need to be in the moment.
Most forty-somethings still chasing the dream might come off as pathetic, but not our Chubby. He doesn’t push, nor does he hog the spotlight. He just wants his shot. After all, he’s earned it after a dozen years of repeating the 10th grade. So what inspires him? Where does he get this unparalleled moxie? Perhaps it’s the liverwurst that long ago replaced the blood pumping through his saturated veins. All ball players have traditions and rituals, and Chubby’s is, given his moniker, eating. After the game, preferably, but during it, if needed. His locker is stuffed with a who’s who of sugary, heart-stopping snacks, and it is they who propel Chubby to his greatness. No, nothing statistically, but when has he ever failed to finish a game? Standing up, thank you very much. He can’t pass, can’t shoot, can’t even face the right way at times. But he’s alive. And ready for the next bloodbath.
Still, Chubby is more than just an athlete. He’s the man of the hour. The life of the party. Every time there’s a gathering, he’s there with a smile, especially when he’s called upon to devour a bowl of green Jell-O that’s been dumped down a chick’s shirt. The scene proves his popularity among those young enough to be his children, but more than that, it bears repeating that as he carries off the hysterical young lady, she is in no way protesting. If anything, she contrived the hookup to have the unique honor. If that seems odd somehow, or unlikely given high school’s fanaticism for good looks and a youthful glow, remember, this is the same institution where a werewolf – not an excessively hairy new student from the Mediterranean, but an actual fucking werewolf – was accepted in full after only thirty seconds of odd looks and raised eyebrows. By game’s end, he’s lifted on shoulders and carried into the night. Where there is one, there is the other. And Chubby made it all possible.
Leave a Reply