It began innocently enough. The Brandeis baller sauntered in wearing an oversized gray sweatsuit and sporting a blue iPod around the arm. A black gym bag slung loosely over the shoulder, this "conquistador of the court" nonchalantly bounced a basketball while surveying the day's unsuspecting victims. Taking a moment to undress, slip on a sports bra and ankle brace and lace up her sneakers, she launched herself full-throttle into the "shoot-around" game that was already in full swing.This baller, who happened to be me, didn't know what force took hold of her, but as she stood on the sidelines, she found herself yearning to cross over the magical barrier into the "Land of Pick-Up Basketball," the place where a person is identified more by a jump-shot and some sweat stains than name, or, she hoped, gender.

As the shoot-around game began to get more intense, guys slowly started shuffling into the gym. I felt as if I was entering another municipality in this strange realm of pick-up ball as teams were formed and the full-court games began. Boys I would never have described as competitive or athletic suddenly became stone-faced creatures on the court: reaching, snatching and snarling, ripping the ball out of their opponents' sweaty hands, barking orders to their teammates.

I entered the game, tentatively at first, sure that my lack of basketball know-how would conjure eye rolls and groans from the "all-star" team on the court. Surprisingly, however, my teammates' irritation with my lack of talent was overshadowed by their respect for my hard work. I couldn't jump, shoot or dribble all that well, but by God I was scrappy! The boys were surprised that anyone who wears heels could make such an impact on the court.

I was equally amazed to witness the transformation from average Joe to "in-your-face baller" as the games went on. The same boy I had watched an hour earlier, struggling with a five-minute bout on the elliptical in the cardio room, suddenly sprinted down the court with the ball on his fingertips, touching the ground as lightly as a deer in full lope. Outside the gym, he would probably be labeled a "Brandeisian geek," but as I watched him battle for every ball and challenge guys three inches taller than he was, I was strangely attracted to this tall, gangly, glasses-wearing, Jew-froed stranger. When he angrily drove his shoulder into an opponent's chest, I had to control the urge to go home and check out his Facebook profile to find which hippie jam-band he liked the most.

As I studied the intense focus on the players' faces, I was struck by its similarities to something in which I took part as a student in Kenya, the celebration of the Maasai Warriors. The men formed a circle and took turns in the middle, jumping as high as they could. Each time a man attempted a jump, his fellow warriors shouted their approval. The organized outpouring of aggression and emotion was both rigidly ritualistic and unabashedly visceral at the same time.

Suddenly, I was snapped out of my stupor when a very tall player jumped up over my head and slammed the ball out of my teammate's hands. As his feet smashed to the ground a few inches from mine, a mighty roar came from his lips as the testosterone pumped through his veins. His pulse raced faster with every pat on the butt from his teammates, and I could almost hear him thinking, "I am the man," out loud.

I had to stifle a laugh. However hard I tried, I could not take this "friendly match" as seriously as my teammates. When I missed a bounce pass and the ball rolled out of bounds, I jumped to retrieve it for the other team.

Why couldn't I shake the feeling that I was on the outside of the circle looking in at this well-practiced, choreographed ritual? For instance, I seemed like the only one in the gym who didn't innately know how to make a foul shot look cool, or how to hand the ball to my opponent in a casual yet intimidating way. Is this what they taught the boys when we split up for sex education classes in middle school?

As the games ended, I could feel myself returning to the Brandeis I knew and loved. Before leaving, I stopped to take one more look around pick-up basketball land. I hoped that they would remember me for my tenacity and not just as another awkward, not entirely welcome, visitor.

Either way, I knew that it would be a long while before I would ever return. For now, I will leave this game to those who know it best. But just wait until intramural soccer.

Editor's Note: Micah Barth Rogers '07 is a Justice Staff Photographer.