When I was like 13 years old, my friends and I used to play trampoline basketball. It was like Slam Ball before there was Slam Ball. We had one of those huge trampolines and put it right underneath a regulation hoop. Best time of my life.

Anyway, this one day we were playing trampoline ball and I was kicking all my friends’ asses. Just in the zone. Soaring through the air like you couldn’t believe, dunking on all my friends’ domes. I’m talking some mammoth, chest to chest, Vince Carter on Alonzo Mourning type dunks. I was like Wilt’s 100, Jordan’s 63 against the Celtics, Paul Pierce’s 41 in Game 7 against the Cavs. Nobody could stop me.

I went up for a dunk late in the game and saw my friend try to challenge me. Worst decision of his life. I cocked back my arm, felt my chest bump against my friend’s, let out a primal roar and tomahawk dunked it so hard I broke my damn finger. Seriously, I really broke my finger. It was the best dunk never caught on tape. I’m telling you, if that baby was on YouTube I’d be a legend right now.

So what was the moral of this long-winded and pointless story about some trampoline dunk that happened ten years ago? When I need a trampoline, James White only needs a pair of sneakers.