My high school was a quaint institution located in between two corn fields and a golf course. Being a private school kid caused me to learn a few things about the privileged in our society: that every child in the upper-middle class is a spoiled little shit. I would go to chapel every single day and recite the Lord’s Prayer, be heckled when I told my teachers that the Earth revolved around the sun, and feel very awkward when a teacher would say, “that’s so gay”. There were two distinct groups of people at my school, those who felt they were entitled to something, and those who at least to some degree appreciated the fact that their parents fed them with a silver spoon covered in caviar and the tears of starving children in Africa. I like to think I was part of the latter, and I probably was, but in reality I straddled that line like a drunk cowboy at a bull riding competition.

There was one thing about my school which put a smile on my face, which caused me to get out of bed in the morning and actually be excited about going to school, and that was basketball. Drawing from an eligible pool of maybe 18 male students, we were always able to field a relatively good team. This was partly due to the fact that the same core group of players was together since grade eight, but mostly due to the fact we had a coach (Mr. Katsube) who cared about winning more than we did. Our starting line-up was a mish-mash of kids who worked their asses off just to get a spot on the team (myself, our point guard) and individuals who were blessed with athleticism. It was our center, an individual by the name of Brian Schmidt who took us to the promise land, and inches away from Ontario Private School titles in grade eleven and twelve. Schmidty (a pseudo-nickname he has carried with him since before his birth) was a bit of an enigma, although clearly a monster compared to other players on the court, he also carried with him an ability to run the point and pull up for the three. He could play at 60%, while eating a sandwich during the game (known to have happened) and still drop 30 points and pull down 20 rebounds. That being said, everything about him was hilarious, he was a coaches nightmare, because he could do absolutely nothing, put in no effort, and still be the best player on the floor. There are stories about this kid that will forever live in infamy, he once strangled an anemic Asian kid during an intramural game, he was once ejected for mouthing off to every player and fan who didn’t respect his authority, and he had to be held back from outright killing an opponent on numerous occasions. Schmidty wasn’t the fittest person by any stretch of the imagination and in the name of acceptance actually embraced this role. He lives his life much like he plays basketball, an orgy of grunting, panting, and violence that only a mother could love.

Schmidty (far back) seconds before doing something violent.

I could talk about this kid for weeks. To be honest I’m not sure if I love his existence or absolutely despise it, but that’s what makes hanging out with Schmidty so wonderful. He keeps you on your toes and deep down he has a good heart, it’s just covered in a thick glaze of testosterone.

So with that introduction, here’s the story. We were warming up for a game against St. Andrews College, a team we were slated to massacre, but ended up having to go on a disgusting 18 point run at the end of the game to win. Schmidty was dating a girl by the name of Oregano Blacky (name changed to protect the innocent) and it was common practice to make fun of each players girlfriends. Schmidty would always make quasi-clever jabs towards my girlfriend, but it rolled off my back because the insults were generally ill-informed and lacked any concept of proper grammar. Anyway, my brother Ben (who will be making dozens of appearances in this countdown) started to mouth off at the sea monster that is Schmidty, claiming that should he produce child with Oregano that the children would have hooves. Being the loving brother I am, I started to get in on the fun, recounting some of Brian’s hilarious adventures with Oregano. I don’t know if was the adrenaline he had bathed in before the game or the fact that his nipples were chaffing like mad under his basketball jersey, but Schmidty lost it. And I mean fucking lost it. He threw a punch directed at my brother, that if he had made contact, would have killed my brother. I screamed “Schmidty go back to the zoo you fucking gorilla,” not wise. He turned and ran towards me, and if it hadn’t been for the fact I was insanely quick, he would have swallowed me whole. Before we knew it, Schmidty was chasing me and my brother around the gym, to the laughter of the opposing team and the complete frustration of our coach. If Mr. Katsube hadn’t calmed Brian down, we would have been killed that day. Schmidty, obviously exhausted from chasing two little pipsqueaks around the gym, said in a huff, “Schmidty needs a squirt.” The players looked at each other and quietly recognized that it was the funniest thing he had ever said, not only was it Schmidty referring to himself in the third person, but also the fact he referred to a drink of water as a squirt. From then on anytime someone on the team needed a quick break during practice; it was proudly proclaimed that Schmidty needed a squirt.

It should be noted that I absolutely respect Brian Schmidt now; I think he’s a wonderful little scamp, and I can only imagine he’ll look back on this story and appreciate his hilarity back when he was seventeen.

Love ya, boo.