[This blog post is meant to be read publicly, with other voices chiming in in the bold parts for emphasis].
Here’s joy: getting off work and driving though the Central New York winter up Interstate 81, past the Preble rest area, past Tully, past LaFayette, past Nedrow, and taking exit 17 into the south side of Syracuse like I have done literally countless times before, waiting at the long stoplight under the overpass, listening to cowpunk blues or podcasts or silence, and angling then along snowy streets in the general direction of the school, watching the mid-winter evening stoplights brighten up and throw pinkish-grey blotches on the snow as I worm my way deeper into the town, and finally arriving at the parking lot, dark now and full of cars, mostly parents’ cars: minivans, SUVs, no trucks, no sports cars, and walk through the metal detectors
(empty your pockets completely, sir),
get wanded just for fun and security, pay my two bucks, and listen.
Here’s joy: getting off work and driving though the Central New York winter up Interstate 81, past the Preble rest area, past Tully, past LaFayette, past Nedrow, and taking exit 17 into the south side of Syracuse like I have done literally countless times before, waiting at the long stoplight under the overpass, listening to cowpunk blues or podcasts or silence, and angling then along snowy streets in the general direction of the school, watching the mid-winter evening stoplights brighten up and throw pinkish-grey blotches on the snow as I worm my way deeper into the town, and finally arriving at the parking lot, dark now and full of cars, mostly parents’ cars: minivans, SUVs, no trucks, no sports cars, and walk through the metal detectors
(empty your pockets completely, sir),
get wanded just for fun and security, pay my two bucks, and listen.
[You’re late]
I’m always late. They have almost always already begun. I can hear their shoes squeaking against the floor and the echo-y reverb all the way down here, near the entrance, and the place smells like a school, not like paste and dust
[that’s elementary school]
or anxiety and chalk
[that’s middle school],
but like sweat and concrete and damp bathroom
s. I’m in a
[high school]
and my son Eli is playing on the Junior Varsity basketball team this year. He and his friend Ben are the only white kids on the team, which doesn’t automatically mean they are outclassed, but they might be. And I’m proud of him: he worked hard to get on the team, never once missed a practice, practiced all year and played for hours with his brother or by himself if need be into the half-dark light and playing on asphalt, cracked and sloping, with a shitty cheap basket that falls over if you knock it, practicing until he can hit it most all the time, he’s a real good shooter, making hard shots and running drills and keeping score against himself and psyching himself into the game, cursing the imaginary opponents and talking trash to them until their confidence wavers and he grabs the ball from their imaginary hands and, orbiting like Rodney Jones, stuffs it down the throat of the hoop in front of the stadium full of fans and haters alike who stand at the goal and roar.
I’m always late. They have almost always already begun. I can hear their shoes squeaking against the floor and the echo-y reverb all the way down here, near the entrance, and the place smells like a school, not like paste and dust
[that’s elementary school]
or anxiety and chalk
[that’s middle school],
but like sweat and concrete and damp bathroom
s. I’m in a
[high school]
and my son Eli is playing on the Junior Varsity basketball team this year. He and his friend Ben are the only white kids on the team, which doesn’t automatically mean they are outclassed, but they might be. And I’m proud of him: he worked hard to get on the team, never once missed a practice, practiced all year and played for hours with his brother or by himself if need be into the half-dark light and playing on asphalt, cracked and sloping, with a shitty cheap basket that falls over if you knock it, practicing until he can hit it most all the time, he’s a real good shooter, making hard shots and running drills and keeping score against himself and psyching himself into the game, cursing the imaginary opponents and talking trash to them until their confidence wavers and he grabs the ball from their imaginary hands and, orbiting like Rodney Jones, stuffs it down the throat of the hoop in front of the stadium full of fans and haters alike who stand at the goal and roar.
Except, of course, there usually is no crowd. Just the empty sound of a basketball against the asphalt echoing off the garage door. The shudder of the hoop when it’s sprung. The sound of the ball crashing lightly against the fence.
In the gym, tonight, it’s a cacophony.
The buzzer is always, in every gym I’ve been in, airplane-loud, national
disaster tornado-warning loud.
The people in the crowd are almost all yelling to be heard
and at the game, and the coaches bellow out code words like
“2-4”
and
“5-1,”
indicating some sort of defense strategy. I slip in and nobody notices me leap up the bleachers to the middle top where I can see out. I have a hotdog and some tortilla chips in my hands I bought on my way in, and I’m scanning out to see if Eli’s on the court, but usually he’s waiting and watching. He watches everything, and it makes me feel as if I understand the game just to follow his gaze as he scans the game, even though I know it doesn’t really help. There is a thing called “travelling” which is a penalty like “offsides” in football, and in both you have to stop the game. Fouls in basketball make the ref explain himself to the scorekeeper, and he indicates the errant player’s jersey number (star-hand + fist means 5-0 or fifty). There are several types. You can grab somebody (indicated by putting your hands on your hips in a pouty sort of way) or make the fist sign, which means that you grabbed their wrist, which is illegal. I have never yet seen a single foul take place, as they must be hidden by the smash-up of bodies under the hoop, and many parents on our team are very dubious about the calls. There is general disbelief, outrage, and even wounded cries of protest:
“Yo, ref, are you kiddin’ me? O, My GOD!”
I find this delightful. We do not protest fouls against the other team, however, and find them instead one more sign of a just and orderly universe.
The people in the crowd are almost all yelling to be heard
and at the game, and the coaches bellow out code words like
“2-4”
and
“5-1,”
indicating some sort of defense strategy. I slip in and nobody notices me leap up the bleachers to the middle top where I can see out. I have a hotdog and some tortilla chips in my hands I bought on my way in, and I’m scanning out to see if Eli’s on the court, but usually he’s waiting and watching. He watches everything, and it makes me feel as if I understand the game just to follow his gaze as he scans the game, even though I know it doesn’t really help. There is a thing called “travelling” which is a penalty like “offsides” in football, and in both you have to stop the game. Fouls in basketball make the ref explain himself to the scorekeeper, and he indicates the errant player’s jersey number (star-hand + fist means 5-0 or fifty). There are several types. You can grab somebody (indicated by putting your hands on your hips in a pouty sort of way) or make the fist sign, which means that you grabbed their wrist, which is illegal. I have never yet seen a single foul take place, as they must be hidden by the smash-up of bodies under the hoop, and many parents on our team are very dubious about the calls. There is general disbelief, outrage, and even wounded cries of protest:
“Yo, ref, are you kiddin’ me? O, My GOD!”
I find this delightful. We do not protest fouls against the other team, however, and find them instead one more sign of a just and orderly universe.
Keep
in mind that these are kids, sixteen and seventeen years old, none of whom were
this tall and strong last year, and who have played together for three months.
Only five key players are allowed on the court at a time, and they have
worked out a surprisingly sophisticated system for keeping the ball circling in
on the basket, trying to pass it among themselves as they tighten the noose,
coordinated and wolf-like, closer and closer until someone, by dint of his wit,
strength and speed can find a hole in the defense interference and burst up
with the ball, rising above the greedy hands of his opponents, and, at the apex
of his leap toss the ball in an graceful arc that will take it into the throat
of the basket and down.
YESSS!
YESSS!
Imagine
running in front of a train, pausing on the tracks long enough to thread a
needle, and then jumping off in time. Could you do it? Obviously in
basketball there is no sudden death move as in front of a train, but there’s
risk. Public embarrassment is a little death and a horrible thing.
Keeping a game face, not revealing in your expression the
confidence-crushing fact that you just got confused in front of you
parents, friends, and teachers and enthusiastically passed the ball the point
guard on the other team — well, it’s hard. Especially if there is
a lot at stake.
The
game is only half the reason people go. The tortilla chips and hotdogs
(each only two dollars) are another good reason. But the main attraction
for the audience is probably the
audience.
Over the percussive redounding is an underthrum of social politics. I watched with wonder once as a young girl and her friend wound their way through the guys sitting in the stands, literally brushing against many of the young men there who steadfastly ignored them (game face again), and then the two split up. One of the girls sat next to one guy. He was impassive, staring out at the game. She sidled in quite close to him and just sat there, waiting. Her friend walked at the bottom of the bleachers in a slinky way, carefully avoiding making eye-contact with her partner. I’m not sure what going on, but abruptly, as if called off by the coach, the two girls exited the stadium giving off the vibe that something had been resolved. I looked to the refs for explanation of what happened with the girls. Was there a foul? Grabbing? Hand Holding? He did not explain.
audience.
Over the percussive redounding is an underthrum of social politics. I watched with wonder once as a young girl and her friend wound their way through the guys sitting in the stands, literally brushing against many of the young men there who steadfastly ignored them (game face again), and then the two split up. One of the girls sat next to one guy. He was impassive, staring out at the game. She sidled in quite close to him and just sat there, waiting. Her friend walked at the bottom of the bleachers in a slinky way, carefully avoiding making eye-contact with her partner. I’m not sure what going on, but abruptly, as if called off by the coach, the two girls exited the stadium giving off the vibe that something had been resolved. I looked to the refs for explanation of what happened with the girls. Was there a foul? Grabbing? Hand Holding? He did not explain.
I
bring a book sometimes but never read it. I usually find joy in just
being there. It’s my chapel, as Pico Iyer put it in an article we read.
Where he notices “the worn stones, the little crosses,” I have come to
notice the loud black girls, the girlfriends (?!) sitting on the sidelines with
the team, the hulking drake Muscovy parents, giant men in leather jackets that
spell out in sequins on the back “MGM BOXING ” and “THE STRIP.” The
smell of popcorn, and the parents yelling out “Tyquan,
Tyquan” as he makes another two points look easy, or watching Eli get the ball and drive
through the throng to the three point-line where he stops and pauses --
the train thundering down upon him
-- and leaps up to make a high arc with the basketball that falls, most of the time falls, straight in and through the basket without even ruffling the skirts of the net.
That’s joy.
That's joy.
the train thundering down upon him
-- and leaps up to make a high arc with the basketball that falls, most of the time falls, straight in and through the basket without even ruffling the skirts of the net.
That’s joy.
That's joy.
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