As you may know I was hired (unpaid) to write a couple of stories for McSweeney’s magazine, a San Francisco publication. One story, in particular, is about athletic recruiting infractions.

For the last two days I have been attending San Francisco’s Professional and Amateur summer league games in hopes of getting a player to talk to me about their recruiting experience. So far it has been extremely dull and easy. The players have been easy to talk to but haven’t really offered much gossip. I even developed a correspondence with one of the star’s of this summer’s league, Javon Harris.

My confidence is up and I’m feeling like Hunter and Capote and Gladwell. I’m even channeling Ms. Dowd.

With one minute left on the clock I make my way over to the the locker room entrance, pen and red and white polka-dot notebook in hand.

There’s 6 seconds left in the game and there is a man according to my notes named Jamario Davidson standing in the key under the net directly across from me. Some technical basketball thing happened at the other end of the court and I hear him yell, “Fuck!” as the whistle is blown and the opposing team takes another shot. Jamario Davidson, or so I thought that’s who he was, waits two seconds, with 3 seconds left in the game, and then storms off the court. Players and coaches are still conversing and forming last attempt plays and he just walks off the court. He breezed past me in three graceful strides with a look of pure rage. I wasn’t going to ask him any questions. I tell myself, “I’ll just get the next player.”

After talking to a bunch of international players Matt Barnes finally walks out of the locker room. I approach him eagerly and with full confidence, “Matt Barnes, Matt Barnes. Hi, I’m Brittany Owens from McSweeney’s Magazine can I ask you a couple questions?”

“Umm, who do you think I am?”

“Matt Barnes?”

“No you have the wrong guy. That’s him over there.”

I hadn’t realized that through this whole exchange we were still shaking hands and so I throw his hand from mine in disgust at this ‘nobody’.

“Well then, who are you?”

“I’m Jamario Davidson.”

I am completely dumbfounded. At this point I grovel and apologize repeatedly and tell him that I was looking for him too and that I needed to talk to him anyway. “I don’t think I can talk to you. I’m a free agent.”

“Please just let me ask you a few questions. It can be off the record.”

A smirk rises on his overgrown face. “Come on now. Nothing is off the record and you know that.”

I plead that I am legit and won’t let the conversation leave beyond this point. “Sorry, I can’t.”

At this point I realize that I have already made several mistakes when texting the two people I know who would care about meeting a basketball player.

Matt Barnes DOES NOT have a Louis Vutton backpack. Jamario Davidson does. Matt Barnes is the poor-sport who stormed off the court when his team lost the championship.

In retrospect I realize that I was the perfect person to talk to Barnes and Davidson. There was no chance of me being star struck. I had no idea who they were until I got home later tonight.  Also, I should have stopped Barnes when he passed me on the way to the locker room. I should have yelled out “Jamario Davidson!” and hoped for the worst. I couldn’t write a better headline: YOUNG JOURNALIST SCREAMED AT BY MATT “THE DIVA” BARNES FOR MISTAKING HIM FOR HIS TEAMMATE. I also should have just asked Jamario Davidson a question without delay or hesitation. I should have just asked him if he was a homosexual or something. I could have told Davidson that I was as secure as Deep Throat. But I wouldn’t want any awkward misinterpretations and he probably doesn’t know who that is anyway.