I love the game of basketball. For 25 years I played pickup ball in gyms, parks, and driveways four or five days a week. I was never great at it, but it didn’t matter. Basketball is my church. The hoop is the alter, the ball my Bible. Three hours at a go, time would stop, I’d get lost in the game, and my troubles would fade into the background. It was my Zen space.
I love so many things about the game. It is simple and requires relatively little in terms of equipment. It can be played between two people or ten. The quality of play is comprised of equal parts strategy, teamwork, athleticism, skill, and artistry. Communication – verbal or non – is paramount. Players move with varying degrees of grace in an athletic dance to silent music with ever-changing rhythm and time signature. They can improvise their games like Charlie Parker on the saxophone.
I can still shoot free throws and midrange shots but haven’t really been able to play since my bilateral knee replacements left me unable to run or jump without paying dearly for it the next day. I have grieved over the loss of this activity by practicing acceptance, as with any other loss.
Since I cannot play anymore myself, I get a vicarious fix by following the NBA. I enjoy the excitement of March Madness, but the level of play in the NBA is echelons above college ball. The instinctual Basketball IQs, fundamentals practiced with muscle memory, unselfish teamwork, elite athleticism, and extraordinary skills on display are astonishing. The diversity of personalities among the players, announcers, and commentators is entertaining, and the league is infused with a vibrant, youthful culture. It’s just fun to watch.
I’ve attended two NBA games in person. I saw the Rockets play in 1988 when they had the “twin towers,” Hakeem Olajuwon and Ralph Sampson. I was in DC for a job in 2002 when I saw the Wizards play. A past-his-prime Michael Jordan - who still averaged 22 ppg that season – was a step or two slower than he’d been with the Bulls.
I recall one of Jordan’s leaning jumpers getting blocked by an opponent, prompting a fan seated behind me to stand up and yell, “Sit your old ass down!” I remember feeling a little bit sorry for Jordan in that moment. He was 39 years old, having played 80 games or more (of an 82-game season) eleven times in his career. There was no load management in those days. Players were expected to buck up and play for the fans no matter what. If my knee cartilage was destroyed playing pickup ball, what kind of pain must Jordan have endured?
Load management, and advances in medicine and technology have prolonged the high-performance careers of players like Steph, LeBron, and KD, and I’m grateful for that. Seeing players from multiple generations compete with one another at that level is remarkable. I wish I’d managed my playing load and had access to a cryochamber in my day. I miss running up and down the court with a group of strangers, working together to put the ball in the hoop.