Of kryptonite, nerds and the biggest, baddest upset in ward ball history

Editor's note: By request, a few names have been changed.

By Branigan Knowlton

March 9, 2005 | No one likes to be beaten by a nerd.

Put yourself back in the seventh grade. Can you still smell the cheap cologne bought from Albertson's? You know, the one the boys used to cover up the body odor accumulated during gym class. It was a mix between pine-scented air fresheners and Lysol.

What about during gym class, do you remember how every once in a while the class nerd, mismatching socks and all, would mount up enough strength to pick up the red, tire-smelling, Voit dodge ball and strike the best athlete in school?

What if the nerd was able to do that for an entire gym class? What would that do to the real athletes?

Groups of self-proclaimed "real athletes" gather weekly, late at night, to play basketball in Logan. They travel in packs like wolves. Instead of snarling teeth and fur, these guys have Air Jordans and the latest hair style. These are the guys who played a few minutes of junior varsity ball their sophomore year, but would have you believe they were all-staters. There is usually one good player among a group and the rest just ride on his shoulders, kind of an Arthur Fonzarelli thing, but with basketball not motorcycles and chicks.

They don't play at the campus field house because there are already too many athletes there. They don't want to be beaten by guys they don't know, let alone lose in front of the babes working out. So, they wait until late at night, usually 11 p.m., and go to a Mormon church were they can control who plays with them. They take 10 or 12 guys. That way if other players show up they can say, "Our game is locked."

According to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints' general handbook of instructions, activities in church facilities are to end at 10 p.m. But, these returned Mormon missionaries justify their rule breaking by righteously proclaiming, "Basketball keeps us from doing things we shouldn't late at night."

"It's our release, it keeps us sane," said Danny Jacobsen, a late-night basketball regular. "No refs, no outsiders, it's just buddies playing ball."

Because they play so late and none of them has a key to a church, they have to sneak in. One player said he once taped the door latch shut so they could sneak in through a side door. Another said he stole keys from a church leader just so they could play. Like crack addicts, these guys will do anything for their basketball fix.

"We don't even worry about the ‘time to leave' policy anymore," said Jacobsen.

Ty Newman should have adhered to that policy.

Ty Newman is the good player of his group. In fact, he's the great player of his group. He was an all-state basketball player and shortstop while attending high school in Salt Lake City. He was also homecoming king and valedictorian. He's built like a Greek god and his girlfriend is a mix between Heidi Klum and Jessica Simpson. The man has it all. And everyone around him knows it.

"Ty is the guy you want to be like," said Rich McHenry, a friend of Newman's. "When you are around Ty you have more confidence in yourself."

A guy wearing two magnifying glasses strapped to his head now owns a piece of Newman's confidence.

Newman got hit with the metaphorical Voit dodge ball, over and over again. For one night, in a small church gym in Logan, a nerd ruled the basketball world.

The night started out like any other. Petty fights over foul calls, language that would make sailors cry, and Newman's team winning every game. No one could stop him from scoring. He must be a Klingon because it seemed no one could penetrate his force field.

Newman was the Harlem Globetrotters and everyone else was the Washington Generals. Like the Generals, the other guys got sick of losing and left the gym. Now short on players, the remaining guys wore out their cell phones trying to get more players.

"I know some kids from my ward that might play," said Jacobsen. "I don't think they'll be very good, though."

"Get them here," said Newman. "We just need bodies."

Ten minutes after Jacobsen's call the white Steve Urkel and the long lost Mario brother showed up. The latter wasn't even wearing basketball shoes.

Without anytime to warm up, the two new players were thrown on separate teams. The first game they played in they didn't even touch the ball.

They just ran up and down the court with the flow of the game, kind of like they were running ladders.

It didn't take long for either of them to work up a sweat. Urkel was a skin (playing without a jersey), but the sweat pouring off his body clothed him like a shirt. He became an oil-based product, a lubricant if you will. If you touched him, you would slide right off. Such was the case in the second game.

With the score notched at 8-8, Urkel got the ball. He got it because a player tripped, started falling out bounds and then wildly threw the ball in the air. It landed in Urkel's hands. He made a quick shot fake, slid under his defender and laid the ball up for two points. The score was 10-8.

No one could believe what just happened. From the looks on their faces, you would have thought Elvis made that shot. Even Urkel's buddy was stunned, like he just found out his roommate was Superman.

Angrily, Newman took the inbounds pass and marched down the court. As he hit half court he took off like a sprinter who just heard the starting pistol. He weaved through two defenders like a slalom skier and then leaped toward the basket like a gazelle. Then it happened.

Newman's shot was blocked.

David just killed Goliath. Vanuatu just took over America. Urkel just swatted Newman.

As nine players stood cemented to the court, Urkel swept up the ball, sped down the court, made a lay-up, and won the game.

The metaphorical Voit dodge balls didn't stop there.

Newman was determined not to lose the last game of the night. Like a KGB agent behind enemy lines, he whispered to the best players in the gym to miss their shot that would determine the teams. The best players missed their shots and Newman had his dream team. Urkel and the Mario brother calmly took to the line, made their shots and were teamed up with three other mediocre players.

One minute into the game the score was 8-0, but the dream team wasn't winning. Urkel had hit four buckets in a row. Three of which had come from steals. The dream team was experiencing a nightmare.

Newman was not going to go down without a fight, even if it took dirty play. He ordered his troops to swarm Urkel like sharks to blood every time he got the ball. They elbowed him, pushed him, they even tackled him. At first, Urkel tried to call the fouls, but after his pleas were rejected he stopped calling them altogether. He was too passive to fight back, so he just took the beatings.

Newman's team, playing like the third Reich, managed to take the lead, but Urkel wasn't about to wave the white flag.

With the score at 10-9 for Newman's team, Urkel dribbled the ball up the court. He wasn't the most graceful dribbler. He looked more like John Lennon than he did John Stockton. He came right at Newman, who was guarding him. Newman stopped Urkel's penetration with a forearm push on his hip, followed by a few swipes at the dribbler's hands.

Urkel, un-phased by Newman's assaults, backed up for another attempt at the hoop. He lulled Newman out to the three point line, dagger eyeing him the whole time. He made a hard fake to the right then crossed over to the left. The fake put Newman's legs into a knot and he fell to the floor.

Urkel had the red, tire-smelling, Voit dodge ball cocked and ready and Newman was pinned in the gym corner.

With a smirk on his face, Urkel took two steps back, looked at Newman and then shot a 3-pointer. Swish, 12-10, game over.

Urkel, walking proudly off the court, again looked at Newman, he didn't say it, but the look on his face said, "You're out."

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