Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
Real talk: we don’t have a fancy arena yet. Our “home court” is a high-school gym in PG County that still has a championship banner from 1998 hanging crooked. The scoreboard sometimes thinks it’s a slot machine. One hoop is literally half an inch higher than the other. We call it character building.
The locker room smells like a mixture of Icy Hot, Febreze “Hawaiian Aloha,” and whatever died in the vending machine in 2019. Someone once found a full slice of pepperoni pizza behind the bleachers that had its own ecosystem. We named it Doug. Doug is still there. Doug is family now.
But here’s the thing: every single dude on this roster would rather run suicides on that janky floor than play on some shiny college court with free towels and a smoothie bar. Why? Because when we win the TBL chip in May, nobody’s gonna care that we practiced next to Doug the Immortal Pizza. They’re just gonna remember we showed up, we outworked everybody, and we did it in a gym that smells like hustle and regret.
So yeah, come through to an open practice if you want. Doors open at 6 a.m. Bring nose plugs and a dream. We got the rest.
See you in the trenches. And somebody please feed Doug.
