by Derek Neal
I’ve recently started playing pickup basketball again. When I was younger, I played basketball all the time. At two or three years old, we had a toy hoop with a bright orange rim, white backboard, blue pole, and black base. It was, I believe, a “Little Tikes” brand hoop; I’ve just looked it up online, and my research seems to confirm this. In any case, I will now remember it this way—the vague memory I hold has solidified into one canonical version. But it might have been a different brand, the base of the hoop might have been a different color.
When we moved to a new house at four years old, my parents installed a hoop in the driveway. It could be raised to 10 feet, regulation size, or it could be lowered to 7.5 feet, allowing you to dunk. I played every day. Later my parents discovered that the neighborhood association didn’t allow for the installation of permanent basketball hoops with cement, but at this point it was too late. The basketball hoop is still there. I am 30 years old.
Some years later a full-size court was created along with a small park up the street from my house. We played 2 on 2, 3 on 3, or 5 on 5 full court if the group was big enough. Sometimes we just shot around or played horse. This location became known simply as “the courts,” plural even though there was only ever one. In addition to basketball, it also served other purposes. The park was accessible from two separate bike paths, which connected two different neighborhoods. If I was headed to the courts with the guys from my neighborhood, we could reasonably expect that the girls from the other neighborhood might be there as well.
My interest in writing is connected to basketball, too. I hold the distinction, at least in my mind, of being the youngest ever subscriber to SLAM magazine. I haven’t read it in many years, but when I was about 10 years old, SLAM was a basketball and cultural magazine, focused specifically on the intersection of hip hop and basketball. This put it in opposition to mainstream magazines like Sports Illustrated and ESPN. Each month, in the letters to the editor section, there would be a letter from someone in prison. I read each issue cover to cover, and I’m not simply using this as an expression: I made it a point to read every single printed word in a sort of obsessive quest for completion. My bedroom walls were covered in the “Slamadamonth” posters that each issue contained. Basketball was the first sport I fell in love with, but until a few months ago, I hadn’t played in almost 10 years.
I don’t wish to craft a narrative about why this is. There is no linear explanation of why I stopped playing basketball, except for the truest one: life happened. I would like to mention a few events, however, that may be important. In 7th grade, in my first game on the school basketball team, I scored the most points I would ever score in a competitive game. Yes, I remember this, 17 years later. This is just the way it is, and if you don’t get it, I don’t know what to tell you. After this game, I played well for the rest of the season, but never achieved what I did that first game. Why? Because at that point I was still playing pickup basketball; in later games, I was playing organized basketball, trying to follow the coach’s instructions and questioning my own instincts.
In 8th grade, I had a former Marine as a coach. He was a middle-aged man who screamed at us until he became red in the face, humiliated us in front of our peers, made us cry, and did not feel remorse for his actions but was proud of them; he thought this was how you turn a boy into a man. I remember him berating a teammate for dribbling behind his back in a game, and that same teammate struggling to keep his composure lest he break down in front of us, his teammates. I remember him screaming at me for not making the correct move on defense, when, in fact, it was his son at the top of a 2-3 zone who was supposed to jump out on the opposing shooter. I remember arriving late to practice with three other players through no fault of our own. One player’s mother, who was driving the carpool, had gotten lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood. In the car, we were nervous. The mother tried to reassure us; just tell coach it’s my fault you were late, she said. Yes, I thought, try to use reason and logic with this tyrant. Try to explain that 14-year-old kids do not decide whether they are on time or not, because they do not drive and are at the mercy of adults and the adult world. Coach made us run suicides while the rest of the team watched. Baseline to free throw line, baseline to half court, baseline to far free throw line, baseline to baseline and back. And again. And again.
I suppose I could be more empathetic with our coach. As I’ve said, he was in the Marines, and he may have faced war. He was going through a divorce. He lived alone in a small, rundown house near the school. I imagine he wanted to maintain a relationship with his son by coaching the team. He probably could not have acted any other way. Perhaps he’s a broken man, or perhaps he’s found peace. I forgive him, if there’s anything to forgive him for. Any of us could become that man; most of us, if we have any self-awareness, know that man lies dormant somewhere within us, and we must be careful not to nourish him with hate and resentment, or we may become the thing that we fear.
So I’ve started playing basketball again. I play two times a week at the university gym where I work. I’m usually the oldest person there and the only non-student, but the other players don’t know this. I still look like I’m 20. At the supermarket across the street, the cashiers always ask for my student card on Tuesdays for the 10% discount, and if I give them my employee card, they scan it without a second glance. If it’s not Tuesday, they ask for ID when I buy a six pack. This position of being both part of the group and not, both inside and out, gives me a unique perspective on the drama and battles that play out on the court.
This is what happens when you play pickup basketball. You show up to the court alone. Some guys are playing a half-court game, 4 on 4. The game is to 11, scoring is by 1’s and 2’s, win by 2, call your own fouls. Winner stays. Some other guys are scattered around the edge of the court, not necessarily watching the game but all aware of how close it is to finishing. If you “have next” and you don’t get on the court right away, another team might jump in front of you, and who knows what could happen then. But you’ve arrived alone, which puts you in a dangerous position. If you don’t form a team or attach yourself to a group of two or three, you run the risk of being left on the sidelines and of never getting into a game. This is a pitiable position to be in, but ultimately one for which you only have yourself to blame. You cannot, under any circumstances, let this happen.
You decide to approach someone to ask if he has a team. It turns out that he does not. Does he want to play? He does, so why doesn’t he have a team? Because he, like you, arrived alone, and he doesn’t want to risk rejection by attempting to form a team. He does not know this is why he is acting as he is, but one day he may learn. You find two more guys, you call next, you play. Everyone enjoys themselves. You are strangers, and it would be a stretch to say that you have become friends; you may not even know each other’s names. But a strange intimacy has created itself. Outside the lines of the court, you cannot bang into other strangers, or give them a high five, or shake their hand. But inside the lines, you can, and you should.
To become a successful pickup basketball player, by which I mean the type of player that other players respect and want to play with, you will need to remember a few rules. If you have an open shot, you must shoot the ball. Your level of skill is unimportant. Even if you know you will miss, you still shoot the damn ball. If you don’t shoot, you may begin to attract a reputation to yourself, a certain stink that will be difficult to shake off. You will begin to be known as someone who doesn’t shoot; in other words, a person who lacks confidence. If you become this person, there will only be one way to remove this reputation, which is by starting to shoot the ball. Inside the lines, there is no escape. The only way out is in.
You must also call a foul when someone fouls you, but you shouldn’t call too many fouls. The balance has to be correct. Sometimes people don’t call fouls because they want to seem tough, and they think calling a foul may be a sign of weakness. I admit to having done this. The problem here is that everyone knows you’ve been fouled, but the other team now has the ball. Justice has not been served. This risks destabilizing the game and leading to uncertain consequences. On the other hand, if you call a foul when you haven’t really been fouled—for example, you miss an embarrassing shot and call a foul to save face—then you have committed a crime for which there is no remedy. The other team can’t challenge your call because that may lead to violence. No one wants a fight, but no one wants to appear weak by backing down either. Most male interactions can be understood through this lens. So the other team doesn’t question your judgement, but everyone knows what’s happened, and animosity will simmer below the surface of the remainder of the game. Learning when to call fouls and not call fouls is essential to the smooth functioning of a pickup game.
A few weeks ago, I showed up to the gym and found the court packed with players. On one side, two teams were playing and many others were waiting. On the other side, some guys were shooting around, but they hadn’t formed a game yet. How does a game amongst a group of strangers form? I don’t know. How does a school of fish form? How does a herd of elephants form? I went to the far end of the court as I figured my chances of playing there were better. I joined the shootaround and waited. 5 minutes passed. 10 minutes passed. Not one word was spoken. In recounting this event, I’m reminded of a recent SNL skit in which Pete Davidson’s girlfriend brings him to a “Man Park,” which is “like a dog park, but for guys.” It’s funny because it’s true—men really could use a Man Park. I realized it would fall to me to get the game started; clearly, everyone wanted to play a game. No one goes to open gym just to shoot around, and I sure wasn’t going to waste my time doing that. I came to play hoops. I don’t mean to be hard on the other players; they were all students and all the same age. To be the person who organizes the game is risky; if it doesn’t work, you might end up looking like a loser, or whatever term 20-year-old kids use. Luckily, when you’re old, like I was in this situation, you don’t care about any of that stuff. Remember, I’m not really part of this group of basketball players. I’m not concerned with earning the respect of my peers because I have no peers, and I’m not worried about making a fool of myself, either. I already am a fool.
I started going around to guys: You wanna play? And you, you wanna play? How about you? Over there, you playing? Wouldn’t you know it, everyone said yes; everyone at the basketball court wanted to play basketball. We played for two hours, which is another benefit of playing with people younger than you: they never get tired.
Another time my team had won its game and we were waiting for the next opponent. I stood at the top of the key with the ball and two teams came out to play us. This usually doesn’t happen. They both claimed that they had “next.” “Oh we’re next, we called it,” one guy said. “No, we’ve been waiting” another guy said. “You left, you guys weren’t even here,” the first guy responded. This went on for a while, neither side willing to give in. Meanwhile, everyone else milled around and averted their eyes. If one team had surrendered early, everything would have been alright, but that stage had passed. At this point, the battlelines were drawn; neither team could back down without feeling slighted, especially the two generals. Pride and shame had entered the picture. 5 minutes passed like this, and once again, I realized it would be up to me, a disinterested third party, to settle things. I cut in with a solution: “Look, we’ll just play to 9, the game will go quick, and then you guys jump on.” I had chosen the team that would stay on the court and dismissed the other team. As soon as I said this, the relegated team dispersed like a rain drop hitting pavement. The tension simply evaporated, as if it had never been there in the first place. No one wanted to fight, and since I, an outsider, had meted out justice, no one’s ego had been hurt.
A bunch of strangers trying to put a ball in a hole, also known as pickup basketball. It’s a stupid, beautiful thing. Because I was born in the United States near the end of the 20th century, I have been fated, in a certain sense, to play this sport. If I was from another country, or another time, I might be playing another game, but it’s highly likely that the sport would involve putting a ball in some sort of hole or container. And even though it’s meaningless, or maybe, because it’s meaningless, I’ll play this game until I can’t play anymore.