The “basketball gene”

I was born a bastard child in the early ’90s. Never knew my father — not officially, but the clues were there, quietly boxing out the truth in the corners of my childhood.

Mom was a single parent, a massage therapist working out of a little studio just a bounce pass from the University of Utah. We didn’t have much, but somehow — as if by magic — we always had great seats at the Huntsman Center. The game rubbed off on me, and I had the knack for being a Coach Majerus disciple. I was the only third-grader who knew how to point to man and ball while in a perfect triangle on help defense. I was weird and different from the other kids. I didn’t dream of dunking. I dreamed of closing out properly. Of taking a charge. Of being the guy who yelled, “Hands up!” just a half-second before the other team’s swing pass. I even took a charge on my own teammate during Jr. Jazz just to learn how to perfect it.

The love of the game came early. The truth came late.

Mom never talked about my dad. Not once. But I started noticing this weird thing: every time Utah played an away game on TV, and the camera panned to Coach Rick Majerus — sweating like he’d just deep-cleaned a lasagna pan, his sweater vacuum-sealed around his belly like Saran Wrap over a Christmas ham — my mom would go quiet. Her eyes would glaze over, not sad, just… reminiscent. As if she were recalling a memory, both sweet and haunting.

Eventually, once an adult, I got it out of her. Two glasses into a box of wine, she stared longingly at a framed photo of the Huntsman Center and said:

“Sweetie… let’s just say he paid for your school supplies, school lunches, and school clothing. In cash. With sweaty bills.”

It all came tumbling out. Back in ’90, she was doing deep tissue work on players, coaches, and some professors, the occasional booster with a bad hip. And then one day, in waddled Rick Majerus — like a winded polar bear in a Utah Utes tracksuit, hairline retreating faster than a team down 30 in the second half.

“He had the tightest hamstrings I’d ever seen,” she said. “And the softest voice when he asked if the table had a weight limit.”

They had a brief… connection. She said he’d mumble play calls while she worked on his calves and once fell asleep mid-session holding a cheeseburger. Apparently, the massage table at his hotel room was much sturdier and their sessions moved to that loacation. It was 100% professional until it wasn’t and he ended it shortly after. But not before leaving behind a 9-pound legacy with a natural affinity for boxing out.

The Signs Were Always There
Looking back, it’s painfully obvious.

I had a receding hairline by 16. I sweat during everything — spelling bees, job interviews, and any Utah game that’s within two possessions. I wore khaki sweaters to school dances. I once told a date I couldn’t focus because the guy two tables over “wasn’t sliding well laterally.”

I’m drawn to buffets like seagulls to a boardwalk french fry. I’ve eaten a full meatball sub during a 30-second timeout. I instinctively yell “BOX OUT!” whenever partygoers say “shots” before drinks. I once grounded myself after failing to close out on a shooter. These things… they aren’t learned. They’re inherited.

A Fantasy Reunion
I never met Coach Majerus. But if I had, I imagine it would’ve gone like this:

“Hi Dad, I’m your son.”
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
“You wanna go over zone defense after wings?”
“God yes.”

That would’ve been enough.

A March Ritual
Now, every March Madness, I light a candle — a meatball-scented one I found on Etsy — and I say a quiet prayer for the man whose DNA lives in my post game, my cholesterol, and my unshakable belief that effort on the defensive end is non-negotiable.

Thanks, Coach. I’ll always be your secret starting point guard.

And I promise: if I ever coach, everyone runs baseline slides.

Even the managers.