In my youth, the Final Four tournaments signaled the thawing out from the long, deep Syracuse winter freeze. This event also marked the transition from playing basketball in the dark, confining and musty gymnasiums in favor of the bright, airy outdoor city parks. Despite the unpredictable weather and unforgiving asphalt, there was a genuine freedom playing amid the birds, grassy borders and shady trees. The cacophony of noises from the adjacent children's playground, ice cream truck jingle, and court trash talking created an orchestral sound. Complementing this din were the aromatic mingling of barbecues and wild flowers. The juxtaposition of human's creations and nature was an idyllic backdrop for America's most popular sport.
A diverse cast of characters regularly patronized these urban sanctuaries. The gainfully employed, questionably employed, unemployed, teenagers, and college students all participated in the dichotomy of this individualistic team game. Along with nicknames like "Dit Dat", "Rock" and "Red" and donning trend setting attire, street ballers performed with their own distinctive style.
Without the nuisance of referees or the regimen of organized teams, street ball's rules were established through the fluidity of precedent. Lively and animated disputes were resolved via consensus and compromise. Along with an accurate jump shot and precision passes, persuasive arguing and creative diplomacy were invaluable skills.
The legendary coach Vince Lombardi's quip "Winning isn't everything - it's the only thing" was the governing motto. This obsession often resulted in imaginative scorekeeping and the calling of phantom fouls. Nonetheless, a general understanding that the law of averages would even out these faux pas ensured a semblance of order.
The drive to prevail was more than enough incentive for players to engage in fiercely spirited contests. Since nobody wanted to wait to play and the victorious team held the court, the motivation was to field the most competitive team. In fact, it was not uncommon for sworn enemies to suspend their differences and work cooperatively for the sake of winning.
Decades of running and jumping on pavement take a toll on the body. Many of my peers with their shot knees, collapsing arches and aching backs have begrudgingly given up basketball.
In order to satisfy their competitive "high" some turn to fantasy basketball, a sophisticated pastime based on a compilation of professional players' statistics. Other "has beens" are ESPN junkies. Nestled in the comforts of their Lazy Boy chairs, these aspiring commentators overanalyze the never-ending games displayed on their plasma screen TVs.
As a gym rat purist and middle-aged curmudgeon, I'm dismayed that this pastime of artistic expression and therapeutic release no longer commands the same level of passion with the younger generations.
A recent conversation I had with a young workmate highlighted the generational divide.
"Hey Joe, I'm going home to play ball" he told me. "Really, I didn't know you had a court," I said.
"I don't," he replied.
We then stood there mirroring each others dumbfounded expression of "what are you talking about?"
While I figured these 20-somethings were actually going to play "real" hoops it never dawned on me that eight young guys sitting around a video game constituted playing basketball!
As perplexing as this was for me, I can't imagine what the sport's creator Dr. James Naismith's reaction would be to "virtual" basketball.
As March Madness bounces around again I fondly reflect on the endless hours absorbed in the veritable urban oasis of outdoor basketball. Even though the scourge of middle aged has restricted the number of hours in asphalt heaven, the overwhelming feeling of contentment emanating from this free-spirited game has not waned for me.
Now, well into the fourth quarter of my street ball life cycle, I'm left savoring the fleeting moments while lamenting the inevitable day when my hoop play will become hoop dreams.
Pass Joe Kadushin a letter through the addresses listed below.
: editor@sdistrictjournal.com or BHN&SDJ, 4000 Aurora Ave. N. Suite 100, Seattle, WA 98103.[[In-content Ad]]
