P-C delivers March Madness ... with donkeys

CHURDAN — For a fleeting moment, as I pulled myself atop the stoic beast, I felt what any man should feel while on the back of a donkey.

“This,” I proudly observed, “is my God-given right.”

In my arm, I cradled a miniature basketball.

I don’t often lay claim to my birthright, but on this night in the Paton-Churdan school gym, those of us playing basketball on donkeyback were clearly using the rights and privileges bestowed on us by virtue of being at the top of the food chain.

Only one word came to mind.

“Dominion!”

I swung my arm back, then heaved the ball up toward the rim.

Of course, the Bible — Deuteronomy 23:1, to be exact — also warns, “He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord.”

I never actually saw where the shot went — because I fell off the donkey.

I toppled onto the hardwood with such force that little sparkles of light briefly clouded my vision.

For the record, the time between me mounting the donkey, taking the shot and falling off said donkey was probably all of 1.3 seconds.

I spent the remainder of my playing time just trying to get back on the donkey, as my teammates went on playing a basketball game around me.

I’m not sure how my name came up when the Paton-Churdan student council went about trying to find people to participate in its donkey basketball fundraiser last Wednesday — but I’m glad it did.

I long ago gave up on the idea of trying to pursue Pulitzer-worthy journalism.

When I was contacted by P-C to see if I’d want to play donkey basketball, I emailed back, “You had me at the words donkey basketball.”

I’m hoping that before my journalism career ends, I get asked to box a kangaroo and wrestle an alligator, too.

The P-C student council hired Wisconsin-based Dairyland Donkey Ball for the night, a company that provides 18 states with donkeys for charity sporting events.

Their donkeys play basketball, baseball and run races.

What, no hockey?

The event last week ended up raising just under $1,000 for P-C’s student council, but was clearly the hottest ticket that night in Churdan. The gym was packed tighter than a manger in Bethlehem.

Teams of students, faculty, alumni and community members (my team) all squared off on donkeyback. (I honestly never thought I’d ever use the word “donkeyback,” but I’ve so far used it twice.)

No, animal rights groups don’t approve of donkey basketball.

PETA has a section on its website called, “Donkey Basketball: Cruelty on the Court.”

It says, “Donkey basketball fundraisers send kids the message that it’s OK to abuse and humiliate those who are weaker than they are.”

Tell me about it — when I fell off that donkey, the laughter was deafening.

Players were required to not only sign a waiver acknowledging the “inherent risks of domesticated animal activities” but to attend a meeting an hour beforehand.

Derek, the donkey handler/referee, rattled off the rules and his expectations for us.

“Don’t pull their hair,” he sternly warned. “I don’t want a bunch of bald donkeys.”

Seemed like a reasonable request.

Another reasonable request?

“If they pee out there,” he said, “just hold ’em there. Don’t move ’em.”

But then we were told about the lady who dislocated her knee and the guy in Colorado who laid lifeless on the floor for a good five minutes after being kicked in the, well, stones.

Derek warned us that if we were to get hurt, “There’s nothing I can do.”

“You’re entering the gym at your own risk,” he said.

Naturally, we all chuckled, but part of me started to grow concerned.

I had gone in feeling confident.

“If I could be so literal and crude at the same time,” I boasted the night before to my wife, “I’m going to take my ass to the glass.”

Before the pre-game meeting, I confidently joked to Amy van der Meer, a Greene County High School Spanish teacher, that she wouldn’t be riding a  donkey — but, rather, a burro.

Frankly, it’s the only Spanish word I know.

Suddenly, though, Derek’s speech made me think about my wife and my son.

“God,” I thought, “please spare them the shame of having to tell people I was crushed to death in a domesticated donkey show.”

Derek then brought up the strict weight limit of 225 pounds. Anyone 225 or heavier would need to leave the room.

He took a slow look around.

I looked down, hoping not to make eye contact, like someone trying to escape from Nazi Germany.

“Well,” he said, “it looks like everybody’s good here.”

In reality, at my last doctor appointment, I had the good fortune of learning that I’d not only gained weight, I’d lost height.

I’m getting fatter AND shorter — two things that make mounting any sort of four-legged mammal shy of a cat, a poodle or maybe a newborn Shetland pony next to impossible.

Still, for the first time in my life, I was picked to start.

Back in middle school here in town, I used to be on the basketball “B team,” which means our games were held on Saturday mornings, when no one was around, in the cave-like Scranton gym.

But, now, I was ready for prime-time. The opportunity to become the LeBron of donkey basketball was one I didn’t plan to squander.

And then I actually tried to get on the donkey.

It seems that just as my gargantuan thigh cleared one side of the donkey’s back, the sheer weight of it would pull my entire body over the donkey onto the floor.

The next time I play donkey basketball, I’m totally bringing a stepstool.

I made it up approximately twice.

The first, I got greedy and took that hasty shot, promptly falling off.

The second, I grabbed hold of the rope and let out a, “Hee-yaw!”

Only nothing happened.

“Let’s go!” I yelled to my donkey, hoping it would rear up and take off.

Again. Nothing.

Derek finally came over, matter-of-factly telling me, “Oh, this one doesn’t really go.”

I rolled off and slowly led him by the rope down the court — two gentle beasts who clearly didn’t belong.