Laimbeer and the Little Guy

I un-rack my chips and get settled at my 8-16 game on a typical Thursday night.  The first thing I notice about the game is its liveliness; that is to say, many players are yammering, and while some of the commentary is friendly, much of it is angry irritation and frustrated tilt.  I need only wait two hands to understand my table atmosphere, as the 4-6 off-suit and 10-3 off-suit are the first victories I witness.  Fair enough.  Buckle up.

The next senses stimulated are my ears and my nose.  As it turns out, my position in the two-seat is right between two gentlemen who, while their banter seems largely innocuous, had a preexisting rivalry of sorts.  Imagine, in soprano screeches, “You donkey!”  ”No, you donkey!” back and forth, being recited as though their only means of communication was through my head.  As if the close proximity of totally self-indulgent rubes with no respect for the volume of their whimpering wasn’t enough, I realize that each time they speak my mouth crinkled in a disgusted uncontrollable response to their scent.  Their breath (inches from my face, mind you) could not have smelled worse if they had been eating diarrhea for a week.

So, here I am, stewing in the atmosphere of squealing morons, while attempting to protect my nose from the vomit-breath wafting about my face.  It is at this very moment that I happen to catch eyes with the five-seat, and begin questioning my familiarity.  Is that…?  Is that… Bill Laimbeer?

Yes, indeed.  Silent as an empty chair, current Timberwolves assistant coach, and notorious bad-boy Bill Laimbeer is sitting at my poker table!  How he managed to cram himself into the five-seat is still an incredible exercise in physics, as the man is as enormous as you’d imagine.

The novelty of having a former NBA star at my table briefly distracted me from the idiot-war I happened to find myself betwixt.  And then a funny situation occurred.  A hand came up between the rude gentleman to my left, and Laimbeer.  The river was dealt, and the three-seat bet.  Laimbeer thought for a moment, and called.  The three-seat turned over his winning hand, and Laimbeer quietly mucked.  At this point, the three-seat began berating Laimbeer: “How can you call me?  You call me, you always gon’ lose.  I gamble, you can’t beat me.  If I bet, I have better hand than you.”

Now, initially, this occurrence would go largely unnoticed, as verbal taunting is constantly present at the poker table.  But I began really pondering the dynamic between the two players in this exchange.  Bill Laimbeer is not only a notorious brawler and a world-class athlete.  These things are secondary to the very primary fact that he is a huge human being.  The three-seat, on the other hand, clocked in at 5’5″ and 135 lbs.  I truly don’t believe the small man had any idea who Laimbeer was.  But that’s the point.  It doesn’t matter.  You can see his incredible stature.  Shut your mouth!

Of course, realistically speaking, the three-seat had nothing to worry about.  In addition to the fact that the taunting happened in public, where no real incident could occur, Bill Laimbeer is a sweetheart of a man, and absolutely let the taunting roll off his back.

But it got me to thinking.  I long for the days when little wieners had to fear large men.  The possibility of a beating hardly exists any more, and in turn, little wieners like this man are created.  The fear of physical retribution kept quality control.  Even when I was a kid, which wasn’t that long ago, you knew not to talk shit to the larger guys.  It was just simple math.  ”He’s 6’5″ and I’m 5’10″.  Twelve minus seven, carry the one… yeah, I’m gonna’ leave that guy alone.”

Let’s be clear, I’m not saying Bill Laimbeer should have beaten the crap out of this guy.  All I’m saying is that I was shocked into the reality of our modern world, when a 5’5″ little guy can openly and antagonistically berate a 6’11″ 260 lb man with virtually no fear of consequences.  He should have to hesitate slightly before open derision, that’s all I’m saying.