I played basketball growing up, a lot; from about 3rd grade through college, basketball was pretty much life. The daily grind was school, practice, weights, more individual work, maybe some homework, and then college or NBA games on TV (a little obsessive perhaps). Some good friends and I once counted up how many hours we were in the gym in high school. It was 34. More than a day, not quite a full time job. So, you can guess I played in a lot of games. If you count scrimmages, summer camps, team camps, pre-season, regular season, and post season, I probably played in hundreds of games (I have no idea the actual total, but I would easily say 500).
My family was very supportive of this, as they all played basketball also. I think my parents only missed a handful of games in my entire life (and this is with 4 other children playing basketball, involved in activities, etc.), and these were very few and far between. Now, my family is very passionate about everything. My parents, grandparents, and sisters would cheer me on at every event. I have vivid memories of my grandfather, in his 80s, yelling at me 'Shoot it!' while I was at half court. Not the best advice, but he believed in me. My sisters and mother never met a referee that they liked or that they thought could call a game worth anything. And, my dad would yell all the time. He always wanted me to 'Shuck and jive, Bro, shuck and jive!'. To this day I'm not exactly sure how one goes about shucking and jiving on a basketball court, but I tried my best. However, all this yelling was hard to sit beside, so my parents rarely if ever sat near one another at a game. Dad would be on one end or one side of a gym, and my mom would be on the other. My sisters and grandmother sat with my mom (usually) and my grandfather sat with my dad. So, many times there was competing yelling, and competing instructions to me and insults to the referees.
So, returning to the name of the blog...
In college, my dad liked to sit behind our bench at home games. He would always give me a knowing nod during warm-ups, just to let me know that he was there and that he supported me. He would yell, like always. One game, he decided that he wanted to yell a nickname. During a slight lull in the action, he loudly and lustily shouted, 'GIVE IT TO THE MOUNTAIN MAN!', at the very top of his lungs. Of course, everyone knew that he was my dad, and that he was yelling for me (not that I disagreed, I wanted the ball, but I might've used a bit more tact about requesting more touches). My teammates, naturally, thought this was awesome, and the name stuck. They would take athletic tape and cover my nameplate on my locker with a new label, The Mountain Man.
At first, I was a bit ashamed of the name. I thought that it meant something negative. There are a lot of stereotypes about mountain people, and not very many are positive (and this blog will probably address them from time to time). But, as I have matured, I embrace the name. The mountains are where I'm from. The experience of driving home and watching the land rise and the view shorten is exhilarating. Nature's wonder and beauty are at their finest and most breathtaking in the mountains. The people in the mountains, misunderstood and pre-judged by outsiders who have never even been anywhere close, are truly the best in the world. Values like home, kin, honesty, humility, and courage are exhibited daily by some of the finest men and women anywhere. I am proud to be from Appalachia. I am proud to reflect the values of home. I am proud to be a man of the mountains, a Mountain Man.
A little picture pleasure, a view from near home...
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