#SLOE: People's Basketball Sim League

As he takes a long look at his mugshot, Damion McNary can't help but feel a little broken inside. Taking a drag from his Virginia Slims 100, he steps aside to stare into the distance as a lone tear rolls down his cheek. He always knew that he couldn't run away from his troubled past, but he didn't think that it would be this hard. "Is it possible," he contemplates to himself, "that a man can still serve God, while also entertaining the devil?"

It's November 12th, 2012, and Damion McNary is sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser, uncertain as to what his future holds after his latest run-in with law enforcement. The 16-year old hoodlum was once again caught — for the fifth time this year, in fact — with stolen merchandise in his jacket pocket. What was once a young, impressionable young man had quickly become a criminal hardened by the mean streets of Apple Valley, California. His thirst for theft? Insatiable. There was no risk too great, no low he wouldn't stoop in order to experience the rush, the unbridled excitement of taking something that wasn't his. Hell, the very thought of it excited him.

After four years of shoplifting, it all came crashing down in an instant: After grabbing the latest copy of Marley & Me: The Puppy Years on DVD and sliding it into his jacket pocket, he quickly looked around to make sure the coast was clear before creeping out of his dark corner in the store and made a beeline for the exit. This would have been a perfect heist had it not been for the shop owner, who had caught McNary in the act out of the corner of his eye.


"Somebody stop that boy!" screamed the shop owner, whose fleeting cry for help startled the teenager, who was now racing through the door. As alarms trailed him in the near distance, McNary thought he had gotten away with the heist — until an off-duty police officer tackled him onto the ground, turned him onto his stomach, and slapped a pair of handcuffs onto him. And just like that, it was all over.

But why? Damion McNary had no reason to steal; he nor his family was poor. In fact, his family was better off than most families in the area. The ugly truth of the matter was that young Damion suffered from kleptomania, the inability to refrain from the urge to steal items, which is usually done so for reasons unrelated to personal use or financial gain. First described in 1816, kleptomania is classified in psychiatry as an impulse control disorder. Simply put: Damion McNary loved the rush he experienced from stealing shit that wasn't his.

Standing before the judge, Damion McNary didn't exactly feel like the luckiest man in the world. He may have gotten away with it in the past, but four years of risk-taking had finally caught up with him and it was time to face the consequences.

"Young man, listen. I know what it's like to have to grow up in a dangerous neighborhood and you know what? I'm going to give you a pass," suggested Judge Tittytickler. "Rather than giving you an outstanding fine, I'm going to let you redeem yourself through community service. You can report to The New Olivet Baptist Church tomorrow. Talk to Father Fuxalot there — he'll tell you what you have to do to pay off this fine."

And just like that, Damion McNary had a new lease on life. "Redemption" had become the young man's new middle name.


It was 7:00 a.m., and Damion McNary was dressed to impress as he approached the front door of the resident priest, who lived nearby the church. Knocking on the door, he couldn't help but feel a little bit nervous — which is sort of funny considering his troubled past. An older man, perhaps half his size, opened the door to greet the youngster.

"Why, look at what we have here. Another hooligan looking to pay off his dues, I see!" the priest said with a chuckle. "My name is Father Fuxalot, but you can call me Fred — Fred Fuxalot. Here's a trash bag — now do me a f*cking favor and help clean up the parking lot. You wouldn't believe the amount of filth and sin that my congregation lays in!"

And just like that, Damion McNary was on his way. Sure, he was walking around with a trash bag, picking up beer cans and discarded items, but it sure as hell beat having to pay an outrageous fine. Not like he had the money for that, anyway. He had to save up his money for weed and cigarettes, after all.

After two hours of picking up trash, mopping floors, and doing other mindless tasks with the head priest by his side, he was finished for the day. Exhausted, he decided to enter the church and take a seat in one of the pews to relax for a little bit. It had been a long day, and he didn't have the energy to walk 45 minutes home just yet. Staring up at Christ on the cross, McNary felt at ease in the quiet church. And for the first time in his life, he found himself reaching down and picking up a Bible. Opening it up, he skimmed through the pages until he landed on a random page, and read the passage to himself:


Something clicked. Sitting in silence, Damion re-read the sentence over and over again until it made sense. Was he "wounded in the stones"? By no means was he a sissy; he had been hardened by the streets and he'll be damned if some book was going to tell him where he could and couldn't go. But as he continued to read from the book, he couldn't help but feel inspired by the words that were written oh so long ago. Without a second thought, he picked the Bible up and brought it with him as he exited the church. He wasn't going to steal this book — no, that would be too convenient now, wouldn't it — but instead, he was going to read it from front to back, and then promptly return it.

Days turned into weeks, and Damion McNary arrived at the church every single day at 7 a.m. sharp to fulfill his duties. He toiled endlessly there, applying himself wherever and whenever he could. In all honesty, he had no clue what had overcame him. What had become of the thug that once wandered the streets in search of thrills? Now he was helping Father Fuxalot on a daily basis, and in the meantime found himself reading from the Bible and even praying in the pews. Even at night, he would read from the Bible as he laid down. He couldn't help but contemplate life and whether or not he had truly become a changed man.

On his last day at the church, he approached Father Fuxalot to tell him that his work there was done. Heading home, he couldn't help but tear up at the thought of never stepping foot in that holy house again. He would truly miss that place, after all. He would miss reading — something he usually only did on the toilet — and he would miss Father Fuxalot, too. That night, he laid down to sleep, when suddenly Jesus Christ himself appeared before him, standing at his bedside.


"Be still, my child. For it is I, your humble Lord and savior," said the hologram Jesus as he spit his Skoal chewing tobacco onto the floor. "You may be confused now, but listen here and listen well. You have a purpose in life: And that purpose, my son, is to play power forward for the Milwaukee Bucks of the PBSL, an independent internet basketball league."

In an instant, Damion shot up in bed, awakening from the dream in a passionate fervor. Drenched in sweat, he panted like a dog eager to catch his breath. What the hell did he just see? Was that really Jesus standing before him, or had he eaten too many magic mushrooms again? He looked at the clock: 6:30 a.m. Springing out of bed, Damion threw on some clothes as quickly as he could as he raced for the door. There was no time to waste! He had to go down to the church to tell Father Fuxalot about his revelation. What was Jesus trying to tell him?

Running to the church as fast as he could, it wasn't long until he arrived at Father Fuxalot's home. Pounding furiously upon the door, images of Jesus spitting chewing tobacco onto his bedroom floor raced through his head — but not nearly as quickly as the beads of sweat poured down his face. Opening the door, Father Fuxalot took a moment to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

"Damion, is that you...?" he asked while tucking his Hustler magazine into his back pocket.

"Fred, you won't believe this. Jesus just appeared before me. He stood at the foot of my bed, and he was chewing tobacco, and he had a southern draw, and he told me that my purpose in life was to play for some online basketball league that I've never heard of. What the hell does all of this mean?" Damion asked as he struggled to catch his breath.

Taking a moment to take it all in, Father Fuxalot sighed in relief.

"Well, Damion. It sounds like you've finally found what you've been looking for all this time. Have you ever even played basketball before?" asked the priest.

"No, not really, no. But why should that matter?" Damion asked quizzically.

"Well maybe it's about goddamn time you did. Meet me at the court tomorrow evening, 9:00 p.m. sharp. Don't be late. You hear me you little shit?" the priest demanded of the teenage boy.

"Y-y-yes father—I mean Fred. I'll see you there," Damion responded, as Father Fuxalot slammed the door in his face.



The next morning, Damion arrived at the basketball court wearing his signature Nike shorts and black undershirt. The court was dark and only lit by one street lamp. But right there, standing in front of the net, was Father Fuxalot, decked out in Converse sneakers and arm sleeves, dribbling the basketball faster than a bat out of hell.

"I knew you'd show up. Now let me show you how we get down on God's Court," Father Fuxalot suggested as he angrily passed the ball into Damion's abdomen. Catching it, Damion began to dribble the ball himself, albeit nervously at first. As he grew more comfortably with how to dribble, he began to approach the priest, who was prepared to snatch the ball away if Damion wasn't quick or alert enough.

"Now attack the basket. I want to see you burn this court down like the cities of Sodom & Gomorrah. Do it, do it now you p*ssy!" the priest shouted at Damion, who was getting increasingly frustrated with his arrogance. Posting up the priest, he backed him down into the post until he was close enough to turn around and slam the ball into the basket. With two hands, he furiously slam dunked the ball, his momentum hurling the priest onto the ground.

"Father! I didn't mean to do that, I promise!" Damion insisted.

Father Fuxalot glanced up at Damion with a smile spread across his face.

"The next time you want to steal something, just remember this moment. Remember the moment that, for the first time in the history of all of Roman Catholicism, it was the teenage boy giving it to the priest — and not the other way around," the priest joked as Damion helped him to his feet.

"Come on, let's go, I know a place where everybody knows your name. And not only that, but they're always glad you came," Father Fuxalot insisted as he put his arm around Damion, encouraging him.

As they walked off into the sunset toward the bar on Mill Street, Damion suddenly felt at peace with himself. He no longer wanted to steal; all he wanted to do was serve God, and to do so in the only way he could: getting buckets. And somewhere in the far distance, Jesus was watching over him, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"That'll do, pig, that'll do," Jesus whispered, as he spit his chewing tobacco onto earth.

And that is the story of how Damion McNary found his purpose in life.

What in the living fk

You're capped homie!

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