MOMENTS, MEMORIES and MADNESS with STEVE CAMERON: Sometimes, the 'next level' isn't quite what you expected

The next level.

How often do we hear those three words in the world of sports?

Can Gonzaga’s freshmen adapt to the physicality of the next level — meaning from high school to college?

We heard the same thing about Washington State freshman quarterback Jayden de Laura?

Of course, the “next level” can refer to major league baseball.

Remember when we wondered if Mariners center fielder Kyle Lewis could adapt to better pitching at the next level.

Sure, Lewis has further steps to take, but given he had just a 60-game season, it feels like that AL Rookie of the Year award pretty much suggests that Lewis adapted.

There are, of course, athletes like LeBron James and Mike Trout, for whom the next level is, what?

Immortality?

Anyhow, I’ve been chuckling whenever I hear some reference to the next level — because it reminds me of a moment on the basketball court when I started giggling and just couldn’t stop.

NO, IT’S not the sort of embarrassment at the usual “next level” that would come straight to mind.

You know, like jumping up to a varsity high school team and discovering that everyone is a LOT taller.

Or even the hop from high school to college, where entire squads are not only taller but quicker, more skilled, yada, yada.

For the record, I did learn about that one during a spell at the University of San Francisco, where my roommate for a spell was a gentleman named Joe Ellis.

I had hoped to steal a spot on the freshman team at USF (this was during the years when freshmen were not eligible to play on college varsity teams).

Exactly where I fit in the basketball universe was made fairly plain by my roomie, who ALSO intended to play guard on the freshman team.

Ellis was 6-6, quick as a cat and could get off his feet so fast it seemed like a magic trick.

It wasn’t a fluke, either.

Joe wound up playing almost a decade in the NBA, so that gives you an idea of his skill level.

Reality came home to me one afternoon during a scrimmage, when I actually faked Joe completely off his feet.

I cut into the lane in front of him, went up for a quick jumper — and Ellis, who had last been seen airborne behind me, blocked the shot without touching me.

That was my lesson about the top, top “next level,” and it convinced me that I was doomed to be not much more than a clever 6-foot, 165-pound guard who could shoot (91 percent free throws), pass like crazy, and defend players roughly my size through sheer hustle.

But when guys 6 or 7 inches taller turned out to have the same skills, well…

Reality sets in.

THAT’S not today’s story of the “next level,” though.

Nah.

This one is about getting a little older, without playing and working out every day, and allowing a little rust to seep into your game.

While I was still in college (more or less), I moved into an apartment in downtown San Francisco.

I made a modest living as a professional dice player — we’ll talk about that another time — along with working one shift a week tending bar (illegally) at a saloon that was right downstairs.

The Chelsea Place.

It’s still there, by the way, not all that different — on Bush Street, just down the hill from Powell and all those famous hotels.

Anyhow, there were a lot of young professionals who hung out at the Chelsea, and it turned out that a few of them had played college hoops.

We got talking about it one night, and decided there were enough of us to play in a fairly high-level city league.

Before we got to that, though, someone noticed that there was an amateur tournament coming up — and that teams could pick their own competition.

OK, we knew we weren’t in great shape, and only had time for maybe one or two practices together, so we entered a mid-level tournament.

ON THE night of our first game, it appeared we’d either turned up at the wrong gym — or we’d chosen a level far below our combined skills.

The other team was composed entirely of kids who looked to be about 15 or 16.

And none of them had any size, at all.

Now, considering our post player was a 6-8 guy who had played a few years earlier at Michigan State, well…

We worried that we’d have to apologize, say we were in the wrong tournament, and go home.

But…

No.

The officials insisted we were at the proper level, and we needed to get on with it.

Like most groups of players who are a few years past their prime, naturally we played zone defense — and since our front line was 6-8, 6-5 and 6-4, these teenagers could barely get off a shot.

At the other end, we relentlessly fed the ball inside — and at one point, we led 31-5.

It seemed totally unfair.

AND, YES, it turned out to be unfair, indeed.

After racing out to that huge lead, we started noticing that it was getting harder to run an offense.

There were about 10 kids on the other team, and they kept subbing in and out.

By halftime, we were still barely ahead … but we were gassed.

Totally.

They were all over us.

We only had two subs, I think, and there weren’t enough timeouts to save us.

Pretty soon, we reached a point where these kids would toss up a shot, miss it, and three more of them were up by the rim to tip it in.

And then they started to press.

You want to know about the damn “next level”?

How about when it feels like there’s eight guys playing defense, you’ve lost the ability to breathe and none of your teammates have the energy left to get in position for a pass?

That’s just about when the funniest thing happened, the moment I mentioned way back at the beginning of this story.

ONE OF our guys put up a shot and missed.

Instantly, the kids had the rebound, and they were off and running.

I was backpedaling furiously (but hopelessly) and I looked over to see our other guard, Paul Miller, throwing his head back like he’d been shot.

His face was beet red.

Miller was no donkey out there, by the way. He’d played regularly at Oregon State, but…

Not lately.

Finally, Paul managed to look over at me and gasp…

“Oh, God, here they come again!”

We both fell down laughing.

Paul was fighting for breath, but at last he said, “I think this is the next level.”

Yep.

It isn’t all about talent.

You’ve got to be in shape.

Lesson learned.

Email: scameron@cdapress.com

Steve Cameron’s “Cheap Seats” columns appear in The Press on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. “Moments, Memories and Madness,” his reminiscences from several decades as a sports journalist, runs each Sunday.

Steve also writes Zags Tracker, a commentary on Gonzaga basketball, once per month during the offseason.