Editor’s Note: The following is a column submitted by an avid participator in pick- up basketball at USM, and would like it not go go forgotten in the wake of NCAA championships and NBA playoffs.
In the spotlight is organized basketball: flashy uniforms, stands full of screaming fans, colorful announcers, coaches pacing the sidelines, little boys mopping the parquet during time-outs. In front of a crowd, the players are on stage. They are young, lithe, muscular athletes. Cheerleaders flip and dance at halftime. Tipsy fans high up in the rafters, beneath the championship banners, can see every foul down on the court; they holler at the referees and hurl curses at the opposing team. Cameras flash while the players make acrobatic drives to the basket.
Organized basketball is America’s primary winter entertainment: cheering for the home team, pushing towards the playoffs. At high schools around the country, parents and classmates pack into steamy gym bleachers on chilly evenings. Rowdy college fans succumb to March Madness and camp out overnight for tournament tickets. NBA players have slam-dunk contests on national television.
The teams have practiced together for months; teammates wear matching shirts and know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. The offense runs plays, moving in poetic synchronicity, passing the ball smoothly around the court. The crowd holds its breath for a moment as a player launches a three-pointer, then explodes into raucous applause when the ball swishes through the net. It is a glorious game.
In the flickering light is pickup basketball: mismatched sneakers, empty stands, sweaty torsos, dirty rubber floors, the echo of a bouncing ball. There is nothing prestigious about it. Pickup ball is gritty and rough; not all the fouls get called; the scoreboard remains unplugged. The players trash-talk and agitate each other. There are no trophies at the end of a season, no accolades other than high-fives after a good play.
Pickup games draw an eclectic bunch of players. Middle-aged men with beer bellies guard scruffy young men in ratty tee-shirts. There are guys who used to play in college and guys who have only played in street leagues. Players who were big stars, back in the day, move to the sound of applause that has long since faded. Players who have always toiled in obscurity hustle and shoot like each point is for a championship. There are old friends and newcomers, regular devotees and visitors.
At the USM Sullivan Gym in Portland, there are pickup games nearly every day, all year; morning, afternoon, evening games; each with its own flavor and cast of characters. The ball drums out a staccato rhythm. There is no instant chemistry, because teams are always fluctuating. The team that wins can stay on the court; the losers must sit out, waiting their turn to challenge the winners again. Energy is high. Players run and play tough defense and pound their sneakers on the dull floor, enduring the inevitable bruises, just because they love the game, the raw purity of it, even without the glory attached.
Then, in a glimmer, it is the same sport after all: a fake to the left, a quick dribble, a flash of legs on the way to the basket. A player takes a shot, sends a prayer in the form of that familiar orange ball up to the metal rim, and, just for a moment, the gym holds its breath.
Robin O’Sullivan is a graduate student in American & New England Studies at USM and a frequent participant in Sullivan Gym pickup games.