Of Supercomputers, Pistols, and Problem-Solving

The first shot I ever took. In my first-ever, real game.

I’d wager that few if any basketball players can say they remember that moment. But I do. I remember it because the first shot I ever took is also the most embarrassing shot I ever took.

I was 12. An awkward, skinny sapling in a league filled with giant redwoods. Which meant my chances of a) getting into a real game and b) getting my hands on the ball were somewhere between zero and you’ve got to be kidding.

It was during a routine timeout in a routine game when, riding the pine as per usual, I heard a strange sound. It sounded at once familiar and alien. Probably because I’d never heard anything like it during a timeout. And probably because it was directed toward me. It was my name.

“Dunny! Look alive. You’re in.”

The huddle dispersed, but I stood there, dazed. “In” what? Frozen, I got a not-so-gentle shove from the coach to get me onto the court. The referee’s whistle sounded, and then, miracle of miracles, I was finally in a real game.

What happened next is still a blur. I remember navigating the impossibly tall human trees; then finding myself alone, under the basket; then seeing a glorious, orange-leather orb called The Ball sailing toward me; then catching said Ball (another miracle); then feeling like I was clearly destined to become the next Magic Johnson — or more appropriately Larry Bird, given my pigment-challenged ancestry.

I recall thinking: I’ve got this. I’d practiced it a thousand times. It was just a matter of my motor skills kicking in. Dribble, drive, shoot. I knew exactly what to do.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I didn’t know. A big thing. Like, where I was.

I dribbled and looked up. Instead of staring at the hoop, I was staring at a pimply kid on the opposing team’s bench. I panicked, realizing in a horrifying instant that my eager rookie legs had carried me clean past the basket — now a good six feet behind me. The opposing team’s pine-rider flashed an ominous smile before the sky darkened.

Giant tree limbs filled the air. The redwoods descended. Visions of Magic and Bird and Eternal Sports Glory evaporated. I clutched the ball, surrounded. There was no escape, and no teammate in sight. I was in deep doo-doo.

It’s remarkable what happens when you’re backed into a corner. Something kicks in. It’s often called the survival instinct, but I think it’s something less primal and more… mathematical. The organic supercomputer sloshing around inside our skulls gets busy crunching numbers: nerdily solving algorithms in nanoseconds and broadcasting thousands of complicated tasks to muscles and sinews. Arms and legs and feet and hands and fingers spring into action to get you out of the direst of pickles… often spurring you to attempt something utterly outlandish.

Case in point: in that moment, my squishy, grey, ‘80s-model motherboard immediately offered up a ridiculous course of action: Take the shot anyway.

I knew it was nuts. But there was no time to question, argue, analyze or overthink. My 12-year-old self simply obeyed. I craned my neck to the rafters, arched my back as far as it would go, and took the stupidest shot I would ever take.

Backwards, over my head.                                                                           

I never saw what happened next: I had to un-crane my head — by far the heaviest thing on my skeletal frame — or I would have gone down. After which I heard something I can’t forget.

A roar.

Of laughter and ridicule. Moms and dads and coaches and players howled. Whistled. My wrinkly supercomputer, having performed its mysterious mathematical functions, retreated back into sleep mode. And in its place, Ego came raging back to the fore. What were you thinking?

I could feel my face growing red. My adolescent Dumbo ears burned. I shuffled over to the Bench of Shame, sat down and put my head in my hands.

My coach’s shoes appeared in front me. Oh boy, here it comes. I’d let him down, not to mention the entire team. I’d squandered my chance. Massive tree limbs once again clouded the sky. The redwoods were back. I was surrounded for a second time.

But this time the lanky giants weren’t swatting so much as… back-slapping. Cheering. Celebrating. Me. A realization slowly dawned: the jeers were in fact cheers. The laughing was gleeful. The crowd, forgive the cliché, was going wild.

My stupid, inadvisable and totally backward prayer of a shot… had somehow gone in. Swoosh. I wasn’t a pariah, but a priest.

For one brief moment. Because just like that, before I had a chance to take it all in, much less bask in the moment, I found myself physically shoved back onto the hardwood. Second time.

In other words, great shot, kid. Can’t believe you made it. But this ain’t over yet. Get back in there. The game goes on.

Thanks, coach.

Truth be told, I was relieved the moment was over. Sure, the shot went in, but I still felt so stupid — like I didn’t have any business trying what I tried, didn’t really earn those two points, didn’t deserve any adulation. Team, crowd or otherwise.

It was a foolish fluke. So I did what Ego demanded I do at the time: ears still burning brightly, I buried what happened. Put it in the Safe of Awkward and Painful Memories and very quickly forgot the first shot I ever took

Until just recently.

The memory might have been triggered by an outlandish concept I heard in a meeting from a junior art director or copywriter. Or maybe I saw a truly fresh piece of thinking from a creative sapling being batted down by some giant redwoods around the table.

But I’m convinced the real reason my first shot bubbled back up into the ol' consciousness was a YouTube video. It was of Pistol Pete Maravich, basketball’s ultimate creative confounder, wielding an otherworldly sports magic way ahead of his time. His star burned out before my time, which is why I invoked Magic and Bird and not Maravich when I was 12.

Pete was a revelation, and still is today, decades after his death. He was an artist, a muse, a wizard, and so far ahead of his time. Suffice it to say that watching The Pistol in grainy ‘60s and ‘70s action helped me finally realize what my first shot really meant. Not only as an athlete, but as a creative. I’ll share:

Stupid is smart. It’s easy to call fresh thinking stupid. Hell, it may even be stupid. But it doesn’t mean that it isn’t right, and won’t solve a complex problem in a sublimely “stupid” way. Even if that means taking a backwards shot over your head. Improbable? Crazy? Okay, I’ll try it. Pete would have. And he would have found a brilliant way to make it.

Trust your supercomputer. I’m bad at biology, and even worse at math. But I know that our God-given calculator is amazing at solving really complex problems — quickly and creatively. And the more we trust that 100% natural supercomputer, the faster we’ll arrive at fresh, maybe even outlandishly perfect answers. In other words, obey the grey. Not the higher-functioning, overthinking lobes, but your guttural, primordial survival-at-all-costs brain-stem grey matter. Its math may seem like low level-type stuff, but it’s beautiful stuff. Because it’s what keeps you alive and kicking.

You’ve got to solve the actual problem. It’s easy to mistake hubris for true creativity. At 12 years old I could have decided that beaning the other team’s coach with the ball (instead of shooting it backwards) was a more creative way to get out of the pickle I was in. Certainly more clever, maybe even laugh-out-loud funny. But ultimately ill-advised, illegal and devoid of charm or style. No, my KPIs and ROIs in that moment were clear: I had to solve a very real business problem… that of putting the ball in the basket. Watch Pete Maravich: there’s no highlight reel of his failures, only his improbable successes. The shots that go in are the only ones that matter. Otherwise you’re just a jester, a clown on the court. Comic relief from the real game. The results.

Of course, I had to wait a few decades to grasp all of this. I’m still learning these lessons every day. Obviously I didn’t become the next Magic or Bird or Maravich, but I do throw out ideas on a daily basis. I’d like to think some of them are pretty good shots tossed toward the rafters.

And every once in a while, I see someone who's trapped in a creative corner let fly with an idea so ridiculous, so ill-advised, and so right that no redwood on earth can swat it down. I’ve been there. It’s invigorating. It’s often embarrassing. It’s also unbelievably inspiring.

And that’s what keeps me going.