I've been thinking about the 'basketball gods' lately. Even though I know that the phrase "basketball gods" is no more than a symbolic way of talking about the role of inspiration in basketball, I've been thinking that they sure do feel real sometimes. 'Basketball gods', to me, are a lot like the 'muses' that so famously inspire artists; everyone knows that the idea of there being 'muses' for artists is just a symbolic way of speaking about inspiration. There are no actual "muses", hovering out there in the aether, floating languidly in long, gauzy robes, waiting for artists to call out for inspiration. But you know, it really does FEEL that way sometimes, when you are doing art - like the muses are out there, coming down to you, gauzy robes and all, and helping you, but only if you are dedicated enough.
I learned to play basketball on a postage-stamp driveway court created by my Dad. I was a short, thin, clutzy kid, but day after day I would play one-on-one against my older brother. He had six inches on me and perhaps 50 pounds, and he was skilled and athletic, and he showed me no mercy, beating the crap out of me on a daily basis. But for some reason, I refused to give up, and more remarkably, my brother didn't give up on me either. He critiqued my game constantly, and he didn't stop playing me, even as I got better and better, even when I became good enough to beat him on a regular basis. He only stopped when I became unbeatable for him, when he turned into Kent Benson to my Kevin Mchale.
I think he wanted to teach me a life lesson, that no odds are insurmountable when you are determined. He did too. I never forgot how far I came for no other reason than not giving up.
Our little driveway court was so small that the only way to play was to develop a post game. I modeled my approach on my hero, Dave Cowens. I developed a hook shot, like Cowens, that was good from either side, with either hand, whether turning out towards the baseline or in towards the lane. That gave me quite a bit of versatility, and I added to this a pretty reliable scoop shot, which, in turn, gave me endless combo moves. I'd fake hook right, and if he bit, I'd hook left. Or I'd fake hook left, and if he bit, duck in for a scoop shot. Or I'd fake a scoop shot, and if he bit, I'd pull back out for a hook. To keep bro honest, I'd nail a simple j in his face once in a while. He could out jump me with ease, but after a series of fakes, I'd usually have him so off balance that I could get a shot off flatfooted if I wanted to.
But, even though I had developed a ridiculous range of moves, what seemed more important was that I could FEEL a kind of energy fill me when I played my brother, an energy that seemed to give me wings, that filled my head with endless ideas about what to do, and that made me feel like I could see what was going to happen before it happened. I knew I could beat my brother because, even though he was probably still better than me, I loved the game more than he did. I wouldn't have used the phrase then, but I could feel the 'basketball gods' on my side.
I began to play regularly at local public courts, and I was still pretty much unbeatable in one-on-one matches, but serious players only played full court five-on-five. That was clearly the next step for me, but it felt like being thrown into a pool with no idea how to swim. Invariably, I was the shortest and slowest player on the court, and I still couldn't jump over a pencil. All of my multi-fake based lateral postup moves were now totally useless, and because I'd learned to play on a tiny court, I couldn't dribble well or shoot well in what seemed to me to be the vast open spaces outside the paint, where I now mostly had to play. And this time, there was no kindly older brother around to teach me as he beat me.
Years of misery went by, and I learned to hate pickup basketball. But I didn't quit, and I got to be pretty good at halfcourt 3-on-3 ball, because I didn't feel quite so lost there, and because I was working constantly on improving my dribbling and my outside shooting. Still, I remained hopelessly lost in fullcourt 5-on-5. Of course, part of it was the way pickup games are played. Even though it's ostensibly team ball, no one plays that way. It's more like 1-on-9 every time down court. But as happened in my games with my brother, I slowly learned to maximize what I could do. I boxed out well. I worked on using my lateral movement, and, mostly, sheer willpower to make up for my lack of speed and quickness on defense. I dove for steals on a regular basis, something no one else EVER did on blacktop!! I did it because I had to if I wanted to have any chance at all to try to play, learn, and get better. I still sucked, but little by little, I learned a lot about what I couldn't do, and a few things about what I could do.
Then one day, when I was in college, I began to have spells where I'd stop thinking about what I was doing, and surprisingly good things would happen. A guy challenged my shakey ball control at half court - which usually flummoxed me - and next thing I knew I was hitting a baseline jumper at the other end. I found myself running offensive patterns that I couldn't possibly have learned anywhere, and then a pass would come from nowhere and then the ball would settle sweetly into the twine; at times it was almost like someone else was playing in my body. The basketball gods were back. It seemed like they'd seen my hardwork, they'd seen me not give up, and they appreciated it.
A while later, after those years of awful pickup basketball, I finally played my first organized basketball. It only lasted a year, and it was for possibly the worst team in college basketball, the Art School Easelmen. We were so bad that we lost by 40 points every night, to teams like the College of Pharmacy. We were so bad that someone always had to bring along a friend of a friend for us to have enough guys to play. We were so bad that opposing coaches would scream at their teams of we ever managed to score, but opposing fans would give us nicknames and cheer for us. We truly were the Worst Team Ever!
But it was a great experience nonetheless. My team mates could see that I was developing a touch from downtown, so they began to encourage me. They also began to teach me what a point guard is supposed to do. I LOVED the drills we used to run, whenever we had enough guys to practice. I could see how running drills changed your way of thinking, and expanded your awareness. I began to understand how a player could learn to feel where his team mates were without even looking. I began to see that when you throw a pass to a team mate, you are also sending them a burst of energy. And sometimes, even as bad as we were, we'd get into a groove and even the Worst Team Ever would go on a run! I could see that, no matter how bad you were, if you loved the game, and tried your best, sometimes the basketball gods would be there for you too.
Finally our team broke up because no one was coming to practices. I didn't mind losing by 40 points, but losing that way when folks wouldn't even show up for practices? That was too much. Still, there was a weekly pickup tournament at the same gym where our team played, and I began to attend regularly with one of my former team mates. We'd always play on the same five-man team, and we'd always lose, because we were still terrible, but we'd always try hard, and in between losses, he and I would talk about the inside-outside game (he was a 'big', by our standards), and he continued to teach me about the point guard's role
Eventually, I decided to move away for grad school. It was actually a hard decision, though I knew it was the right one for me, partly because I was a homebody, but in no small part because I had come to love our weekly pickup basketball tournament so darn much. I wanted to keep playing, and I knew it wouldn't be the same elsewhere. My last night was a special one. Only my friend knew it was my last night, but the basketball gods knew, it seemed. Suddenly, somehow, I FINALLY just knew what it was to be a point guard. When we got a rebound or inbound, I called for the ball with authority. I brought the ball up with confidence, feeling the tempo of the players around me as I went, and knew when to go faster, when to go slower. I could feel the open man before I saw him, and half the time I'd drop a pass in without even looking. We won every game that night, and it felt like flying. Exactly like flying.
Yes, I know that the 'basketball gods' are just a fiction, a symbolic way of talking about what it is like play basketball when you are really feeling it. But I believe in them. I love the way they reward effort and dedication, no matter who you are, no matter how good or bad you are, no matter how humble your circumstances. I think all life is like that. When you give your best, and you love what you do, and you refuse to give up ... amazing things can happen, even in the most humble circumstances.
And I love the Celtics because I see them as the pro team that has been most consistently faithful to the Basketball Gods. I think the time has come for Danny Ainge to commit the future of the Celtics to Rajon Rondo. When the Big Three came together, and played together with unequaled unselfishness and dedication, it pleased the Basketball Gods, and they gave us Rajon Rondo. To me, Rondo is the epitome of Celtics Basketball. He needs to be more consistent, yes, and we'd like to see him shooting better, but he is the ultimate team player; he plays with tremendous intelligence AND toughness; he is imaginative and always seems to be playing chess when everyone else is playing checkers; he is dedicated and constantly trying to improve himself. I'm too busy to play much basketball anymore, but I still love the game, and Rondo, more than anyone else, reminds me why I love the game.
Danny, take Rondo off the trading block. Let the Basketball Gods be served...
Topic: The Basketball Gods and The Hopeless Loser (Read 5477 times)