Ode to the Junkyard Dog

First appeared on June 10, 2015
in The Lebanon Reporter

By nature a Junkyard Dog is an uninviting creature. An amalgamation of various pieces and parts, he is not the stately Doberman, loyal Labrador or feisty Yorkie; rather he is all three.

He is a crude beast, unkempt, foul smelling, hard on the eyes and prone to fits of unusual behavior. Their single-minded mission in life is protecting the lot. They prowl their automotive graveyards, determined to mark every tire and drooling for that highly coveted opportunity to run down anyone desperate enough to scale the fence at 2 a.m. looking to steal a carburetor.

Nobody wants to be a Junkyard Dog and nobody wants to face a Junkyard Dog, but in the basketball world, everybody needs a Junkyard Dog. Stephen Curry is a league MVP who is currently flirting with basketball immortality, but he also might be the furthest thing from a Junkyard Dog there is. Klay Thompson, with his machine like shooting form and lightning quick release, can put a lot of things on his basketball resume but Junkyard Dog is not one of them. Even LeBron James, Earth’s best player and one who routinely dominates multiple phases of the game, can’t boast being a Junkyard Dog.

Color commentators don’t typically slobber over the Junkyard Dogs. And, unless they are standing next to LeBron James during a time out or are on the business end of a massive, ‘drive straight down the lane and slam the ball so hard a guy nearly dislocates his wrist’ type of dunk, the Dogs don’t typically find themselves on the Jumbo-Tron either.

With no microphones to dodge, they can be found lurking in the shadows during postgame interviews. They are the unsung and often unknown, but don’t think for a moment they are unimportant. Golden State doesn’t reach the Finals this year without Draymond Green and Cleveland is on a beach somewhere if Tristan Thompson is wearing a different uniform.

Green and Thompson are Junkyard Dogs. Important cogs in a giant wheel rolling down the freeway of basketball life. They are part of a relentless breed, renown for their hard fouling, hustling, board-hogging, sacrifice your body at all costs demeanor.

SportsCenter inundates us with spectacular passes, unbelievable dunks and an endless supply of high scorers. Meanwhile the Junkyard Dogs are there, grabbing key rebounds, scoring timely put backs and throwing themselves on the floor with no regard for the science that lies behind force meeting immovable objects.

They are the closest thing the NBA has to a punter or utility infielder and they’re just as popular. No kid hits the driveway pretending to be Draymond Green. No rabid, beer guzzling thirty something is going to walk the streets howling obscenities and photobombing the local newscaster in a post-win fervor wearing a Tristan Thompson jersey. And yet the paradox remains.

With them you have a chance, without them, you struggle.And yet they remain largely unappreciated. The faceless, chain-smoking powers that be in the control booth shove one spectacular play after another down your throat, hoping your brain turns to mush and you rise each morning longing for more. But you are a well-informed fan of the game, albeit one who was never picked first at the park or had machine like form.

Unlike the faceless powers that be, you understand the value of the Junkyard Dog. In fact you've always identified with them. When your boss took Stevenson from Accounts to Vegas for that huge conference instead of you, he was quick to say the office needed you to stay back and "do the dirty work".

Your Seventh Grade coach suggested Backgammon before cutting you, but deep in your heart you know their failure in the 1993 Montgomery County Tournament ran deeper than just the other team’s Division One recruit. That historic loss, your mother always maintained, could have been easily avoided with you, the Junkyard Dog, scrapping and flailing around on the floor.

So rest well ye Junkyard Dogs for you may not be the prettiest or most desirable beasts alive, but amongst those who know the game well, and a few overbearing mothers, you will always have a place in the basketball world.

© 2015 Eric Walker Williams