The Story of Stanislaus Gross (Ch. 1)

Well shiver me Timberlakes, you’re Justin time. You’re gonna want to take a seat there captain, because I’m about to tell you the tale of the Great Stanislaus Gross. (Pronounced like it rhymes with moss, even though the dude was absolutely disgusting on the court.)

Some people say the meaning of life is love, others take a biological route and claim the meaning of life is to create more life, many claim meaning can only be found by swallowing a cucumber and pooping out a pickle, but whatever you think about life or love or penis-shaped fruit (yeah, a cucumber is a fruit you willy-eyed wallaby) one thing can’t be denied: Stanislaus Gross.

Born in the San Commando Valley, the youngest of the Gross brothers was born to be breaking through walls like the Kool-aide man and wreaking havoc on the local Boys and Girls Club straight from the jump. Legend has it he once dropped 96 points during snack time on the camp counselors because they wouldn’t give him the right Capri Sun.

Even the famous Taint Tickler McGoo couldn’t stop the Gross kid from crossing him up like a pretzel at a Twister convention. Shoot he dunked on Davis Dilkenson so hard he gave the poor kid diverticulitis. The perfect combination of quickness, speed, agility, and cream, young Stanislaus was quickly garnering attention around the county. Mothers, brothers, sisters, and lovers gathered at the middle school gym in ‘79 just to catch a glimpse of the glorious little Gross.

He was a small kid who looked like the bastard stepchild of Einstein and Elvis, but tickle me silly and call me Chili Davis could that kid ball. Poor mountain kids never saw it coming. They had the money and the training up there in those cabin homes, but they didn’t have no Stanislaus Gross no sir they did not. Never have, never will. It don’t matter if you’re six foot seven and spending 80 grand a year on agility drills alone, that Gross kid gonna make an example out of you.

Just ask young Harold Hunkenmeyer. Gross hit so many mid-range jumpers right in the kid’s eye he couldn’t help but go home and commit seppuku. Tore the whole town a part for a hot minute there. It’s not every Tuesday a kid ritualistically cuts himself open to send himself to the Japanese Gods just cause he couldn’t stop the mid-range J. But I’ll be damned and forgotten if young Stanislaus didn’t have the best pull-up west of Texas.

Sometimes people say a jump shot was wet, but if that’s the case then this dude was soaking like a porn star at a water park. Jesus H. Christ this kid was something else. I told the kid myself he could have any daughter of his choosing. None of my of course, but whoever’s daughter he wanted to shag I would support it. Funny enough he ended up sliding into the comfort crevasse of a mountain girl. Said he couldn’t get enough of pounding those mountain pussies into oblivion, on the court or off it.

Pardon my expletives, but those were his words, not mine; and when a savage talks, you only listen or repeat. Listen. Or. Repeat. Don’t question. Don’t answer. And especially, don’t mock. If you mock a savage you gonna get eat. I repeat: if you mock a savage, you gonna get eat.

Speaking of eat, rumor has it that Stanislaus Gross had a pregame ritual where he would swallow a bunch of ice-cold boogers. Now I don’t know if there’s any truth to this or not but I gotta be honest, I wouldn’t be shocked. Like I said, Gross was a savage and savages are gonna do savage things. Pre-game rituals get weird sometimes and if you gotta ice up a little nose candy then so be it.

Remember, don’t question. Just watch the greatness unfold. And man was it great. I’ll never forget his freshman year of high school, the coach brought him off the bench the first game. Thought he was too small and not stout enough on defense to be in the starting lineup. The mountain kids were raining buckets on San Commando Valley like it was hurricane season, and they went up by 18 points half way through the second quarter.

Coach knew he needed buckets and he needed them quick, so he had no choice but to call on Gross. Kid was pissed, I could see it in his eyes, and he wasn’t going to let coach take him out of the game once he got in. First possession. Cross to the left, pull up. BUCKET. Little mountain goat point guard came down the other end and tried to cross young Gross up with the same move but got his pocket picked quicker than a tourist in Tulum. Stanislaus flew to the other side of the court about as quick as you could fix your britches and thunder-dunked that sonbitch with an authority typically reserved for nobody but the Pope himself.

Four points in the blink of an eye. One of the mountain kids went down and clanked one like he was best friends with Ratchet as the Cyclones grabbed the board. Outlet pass to Gross. Crossed an ambitious little bugger in the back court and I knew it was downhill sledding from there. You give this kid a head of steam and you better start whipping the cream cause there’s gonna be sugar on your tits before dinner even hits the stove.

Hesi. Quick hesi on the hopeless forward from the Goats. Hit him with that HESI. Blow by. By yooooouuuu. STEP BACK. Nothing but nylon, put it in the books. 7 points in 20 seconds. Somebody call McGrady, this dude out here putting up numbers QUICK. 18 point lead knocked down to 11, better call a time out “Coach of the Year.” Nope. Didn’t do it. Mistake. Can’t give a savage a mistake or he gonna eat your soul cause what does a savage do? He eats.

Another ticket to the iron convention for the Goats. Boys better start welding if they’re gonna get to know metal like that. Rebound, outlet. Gross dribbles up the court, they hit him with the double team but SPLIT. By yoooouuuuu. Sick behind the back pass to the cutter for an easy score, lead knocked down to 9. Yeah, now you call the time out. If coach was smart he would have just left the gym and saved himself the trouble.

I’ll save you the trouble myself and tell you that the next five possessions resulted in bucket, bucket, bucket, bucket, BUCKET and you better like chicken and lettuce cause that’s a wrap, folks. Coach never left young Gross on the bench ever again after that dirty little display of dominance. Gross averaged a sick little 26 a game his freshman year before a case of Twinkletoe took him out for the season. Poor kid’s toes were shining like a Kesha concert on Christmas and no doctor in the region could explain why or how. Dude had glitter blisters the size of chicken fingers all up and down his feet, couldn’t even put his shoes on for weeks. You’ll be hard pressed to find a man who understands a condition like that but I’ll be slammed into the cabinets and called a whore if that ain’t the damn silliest illness I’ve ever done seen.

To say young Gross was chomping at the bit to get back on the court would be like saying I couldn’t feel my pecker after spin class. Some things in this world are so clearly true they hardly need to be stated. But you can slap me sideways and call the cops for domestic violence because young Stanislaus came back for his second season stout and starry-eyed, by golly with a side of hollandaise sauce was that boy on a mission.

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