My mom ruined my dunking career before it ever really began

Personal sporting tragedy is a childhood rite of passage. The missed goal, the woefully botched shot that would have won the game, stepping out of bounds on a wide-open field on what would have been a touchdown. Mine was a little different. Just a 10-year-old boy with a dunk contest dream and a mom’s mistake that ruined it all.

There aren’t adequate words to describe how amazing my mom is. She basically raised me single-handedly after my parents got divorced when I was 7, and she did her best to support my hobbies — even when it was a huge inconvenience.

Twice a week, we’d take two buses so I could play in the “JAAM Youth Basketball League” in Sydney, Australia. This is all a preamble and disclaimer to ensure y’all know my mom is amazing before I go on to detail how she left me crying outside a gym when I was 10.

The 1995 season was a good one for a young James Dator. I was placed on the Sonics (every team was named after an NBA equivalent), I got Shawn Kemp’s number (which was awesome), and perhaps most importantly I hit this sweet spot of growth where I was taller and heftier than most other kids in the league. For one brief year, I was my own Charles Barkley — grabbing boards and manhandling kids; a brief blip in my existence before my Italian genes kicked in and stunted me at my current height.

I remember a specific game against the Knicks. They had a player named Alex Gold, who was just the worst. He was a spitting image of Ivan Drago from Rocky IV and an attitude to match. To make matters worse, he was the only kid in the league to wear a mouthguard while playing — which even at the age of 10 I took as a pretentious affront. His parents, who my fleeting memory remembers as “bulldog-esque,” would bark instructions from the bleachers and trash talk other kids. In this game, they kept yelling “Go after the big one,” and “He’s slow.”

This little brat elbowed me hard in the paint at the end of the first half, and immediately I wanted my revenge. All game, I waited for the perfect moment and there it was — he went down to one knee for a brief second to tie his shoe. In ‘95, my go-to move was a layup where I led with the knee. Most of the time kids would be scared of getting kneed, so they’d get out of the way or move enough that I never got hit with charging.

When I saw Gold on one knee in the key, I knew what had to happen. I called for the ball and immediately charged into the lane with my signature layup. My knee connected underneath his nose like I was in Ong-Bak, and it exploded like a blood piñata in a nauseating crunch of cartilage. It was the grossest thing I’ve ever done and still one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. That probably says a lot.

That whole “destroying Alex Gold’s nose with my knee” was more for catharsis than this particular story, but all-in-all it meant I was good. Really good. I averaged 16 points and eight boards a game in 20-minute halves, got selected to the All-Star team, and most importantly, I was named as one of the five kids who would take part in a dunk contest.

When you’re 10 years old in 1995, there is nothing cooler in sports than the dunk contest. Isaiah Rider threw down the between-the-legs dunk in ‘94, Michael Jordan and Dominique Wilkins are fresh in your mind — and you don’t even care that your dunk contest is taking place on a 7’0 rim with a size three basketball. You’re a damn superstar waiting to happen.

I had six weeks to prepare for the dunk contest, and how does a kid living in an apartment prepare? With the Nerf hoop attached to the back of your door. Every single day after school, I’d practice dunks. I was distracted during dinner thinking up creative ways to throw it down. I would get so worked up and sweaty practicing in my tiny bedroom that I spent my allowance on stocking the fridge with Gatorade because I thought that would help me.

After one week, I had a small but solid repertoire of Kemp-like power moves. Then I got more creative, throwing the ball from behind my back, bouncing it off the backboard, putting my hand over my eyes — you name it. Sure, my moves probably looked like the dancing hippos from Fantasia, but I was convinced I was a friggin’ superstar.

On Fridays, my mom would let me rent a tape from the video store. For six weeks, every single rental was a basketball mix tape — Michael Jordan’s Playground was my favorite. I wanted to emulate all MJ’s moves in preparation for the dunk contest, and by the time the six weeks were up, was absolutely ready.

The contest took place at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning right before the All-Star game at noon. I remember waking up abnormally early, even for a cartoon-loving 10-year-old. I began harassing my mom around 6:30 a.m., asking if we could leave.

“Jamie, sweetheart. It only takes 35 minutes to get to Randwick. We’ll leave at 7:45, and you’ll have plenty of time.”

It was sweet of her to even give up that much sleep time on a Sunday. I patiently waited, lacing and relacing my sneakers for maximum comfort and precision tightness. I didn’t practice that morning but sat in a chair palming the tiny ball and practicing windmills at the breakfast table.

The first bus was five minutes late. No big deal — we were good. The second bus was another 10 minutes late. I was sweating it so badly. Now I’d only have, like, 20 minutes to get ready. I just wanted us to get there — to be in the zone, relax, and be prepared for the contest.

We pull up to the bus stop at 8:37; that’s what my digital watch said. Everything was OK. We made it. You totally thought we were going to leave late, or the bus would break down, didn’t you? Nah, it’s way worse than that.

Mom and I walk up to the gym, and there’s a ton of noise coming out of it. A bizarre amount for how early it was. We open the door, and I see a kid from the Warriors throwing down a two-handed reverse. Friggin’ amateur.

“These better be his warm-up dunks,” I think to myself.

I walk over to the official to check in, and before I get to him he says, “James, mate — where were you?” Confused I look at the clock in the gym: It says 9:42. My heart starts pounding. I’m confused. I look back to mom, and her eyes are wide with terror.

It was Daylight Savings, and she didn’t turn the clocks forward.

All the practice for nothing. All my dunks were pointless. That Gatorade ... I blew all my money on Gatorade! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?! I clenched my jaw as tightly as I could while mom came over to see how I was. I just barked out “I’m OK,” because I was at that point where I knew if I said anything else I’d burst into tears.

I quickly told mom I needed to go to the bathroom and went outside and immediately broke down in tears. I was absolutely crushed that I’d never get to compete in the dunk contest, perhaps never again. I knew that being away for too long would make it weird, but my face was covered in tears. I splashed some water on my face and returned to the gym.

I arrived just in time to see the winner receive his trophy. It was effing Alex Gold.