The basketball court is a lonely place on Friday mornings at 11:30 – vacant and dark. At noon though, a group of ‘mature men’ cheerfully take the court with the skills of old-school ball players, style that would make Bob Cousy happy and even Red Auerbach, at that.
These men play ball on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. They are guys from the Gorham area; some are professors, some retirees. There is even one 24-year-old that just comes by to have a good time, immersed in the wisdom and experience of the older fellows. The oldest player is 77-years-old, with most of the others in their 50s and 60s.
I gained a certain feeling of appreciation for people while watching these guys play. They were sweating and jumping around, but it was not with the aggressive competitiveness of a young crowd, all conniving and greasy, striving for victory with the nastiness of beasts. These men were getting their kicks on the court.
When a man received the ball he’d stand there with it in his hands, his eyes up. There was no threat of a gravity-defying move. These men instituted the style of play that incorporates a four-pass circuit before the shot, or a good old-fashioned pick-and-roll. Men were throwing hooks like Kareem, crossing through the lane and draining shots from the top of the key once they were open, receiving a pass from an observant teammate.
After the mid-day session of ball was complete I sat down and talked to a 72-year-old ex-women’s basketball coach. He told me about the old days, in the 70s, when his women’s basketball team won four state championships at Westbrook High School.
He told me, “Boy.we had a group of 6-foot girls, and this was in 1978.”
I joked with him and asked if the girls were so tall because of the paper mill in Westbrook. He laughed and gave me a slice of orange and a package of peanut butter and crackers. He told me I should get some sneakers and play with them sometime.
When I asked him how old he was, a little embarrassed for popping such an intimate question, he told me with confidence, “I’m 72 and I feel great.”
It was excellent all around. Gorham’s town manager was there, and there was also a professor of education; they were all men just playing ball. Like we used to – my friends from around the neighborhood and myself – all day, everyday, before we joined the leagues and politics of the game.
Not that it is a bad thing to be part of a team or league, and to wear the pride of your group. But sometimes kicking back and playing just to play allows for a drastic reassessment of the game. It reminds you of why you play, of where the obsession comes from. The joy of taking the court, outside of the obvious goals and challenges, statistics and feats.
When the ex-coach got up to leave because the USM women’s basketball team was ready to take the court, he asked me if I’d be back on Monday. I told him probably not, that I live in Portland and play ball there sometimes.
He stopped and looked at me, radiating wisdom, and hesitated before saying to me, “Never stop playing.”