Tommy Jaye, or T.J., as he was known to his basketball buddies, drove
steadily south on the county highway to Patch Reef Park, hoping the courts
were dry. It would be a hot, steamy day, which is why the players—especially
the ones over thirty-five—preferred to start early. The first half-court
game in the summer often began at half past seven. T.J. wanted to play long
and hard today, despite the discomfort in his shoulder. He had surgery
scheduled for next week, and the outcome as to whether he’d play again or
not was much in doubt. At least according to the orthopedist.
Perhaps the time had come to hang up the sneakers; after all, T.J. would
turn forty-six in a few months. Never very skilled, T.J. persisted for
three decades across hundreds of playgrounds and gyms, simply, he believed,
for the love of the game. T.J. was a lousy jumper and often joked, “Hey, man, I may be six feet but play like I’m 5'8."” Slow as a teenager, he now moved glacially on offense. He was essentially a perimeter player, who’d never learned inside moves or how to go to his left. Still, he possessed a streaky one-handed outside shot, displayed an occasional brilliant pass, and compensated for lack of physical skill by playing tenacious defense. Today could be his farewell game, his swan song. Often challenged by friends,
family, and various acquaintances as to why he persisted, he’d respond by
saying, “I can’t imagine not playing.” No matter how poorly he dribbled or how many shots he missed, there was always a chance to make that next basket, the goal and net poised to receive his offering. Just like his careers and relationships, he reflected. Some attempts swished right through; others clanged lamely off the back iron.
Now, he had to imagine not playing. He had to confront a reality as hard as
the asphalt surface on which he played.
It was a bit misty as he turned into the park, the sun not yet having
burned off the fog. It had been barely light when he’d left his house. The parking lot was empty. He had never been the first to arrive before. T.J.’s sense of closure weighed more heavily upon him as he retrieved his Spalding from the trunk. He turned it over in his fingers, feeling the worn rubber, soiled and smooth. It was time to buy a new ball, but at this point, it made more sense to wait. T.J. admired the wide channel bands and thought how that always made for a better grip when passing or shooting.
As was his ritual, he strode slowly to the court and looked for the basket
with the best or newest net. He knelt down, adjusted his socks, and double-tied his Nikes. T.J. wasn’t into expensive basketball shoes because of player endorsements or flashy advertisements. He needed quality shoes because, in addition to his other physical shortcomings, he had bad feet.
He stayed down on one knee, cradling the ball under one arm, and looked
across the three full courts and beyond to the jogging paths and picnic
benches and lush, dripping foliage. His mind began to drift, back across the
towns in which he had grown up, gone away to school in, or moved to for new
opportunities.
He recalled the playgrounds, school gymnasiums, YMCA’s and church basements,
the intramural leagues in high school and college, the church league where
he scored his career “high” of 10 points in an organized game . . . the
first pro game he saw with his Dad in ’68 at the old Madison Square Garden,
where the 76ers beat the Knicks.
When T.J. became interested in the sport, he had been a chubby adolescent,
just starting to lose weight. He’d been living up north and, as winter approached, asked his Dad for a basketball, which he got for Christmas. He was so anxious to use it, he’d coerced a visiting cousin into walking three miles to the park, where a court of coarse asphalt stood next to a Police Athletic League Club. It was windy; the temperature in the 20s, and the court was spotted with patches of ice. T.J.’s cousin reluctantly agreed to a one-on-one contest. The bitter cold made it a short game and T.J. claimed he won 2-0, when, with numb fingers, he shot a lay-up. His cousin contended that he had already quit and walked off the court before the shot.
Gradually, T.J. acquired rudimentary skills, practicing in spring and
summer, learning the basics. It would be years before he mastered dribbling while not looking at the ball. When weather permitted, he would play every
night at the P.A.L. court. Looking back, that court represented the first
step, not just in the development of skills for a game, but in a way to meet and embrace challenges and opportunities, to compete, to face obstacles with determination, to excel in effort, if not in ability.
Despite being only moderately athletic in shape, T.J. never got seriously
hurt—just the requisite finger and ankle sprains, less of those as he got
older, as he learned to be conservative in taking chances. The faces of those with whom he had played came back to him now: a few close friends, and others—those who remained nameless—associated with only a single court during a fleeting period in his life. And then he moved on.
T.J. could still run full court, but he admitted that was pretty much an
exercise in wind sprints because it took so much out of him that he had
little left to contribute to scoring and defense. So, he preferred the half-court contest. Three-on-three or four-on-four, the latter the game of choice at Patch Reef. Games to 11 by one point. The team that makes a basket gets the ball back; change of possession only on a missed shot. He recalled with satisfaction that he had made the winning basket on a number of occasions, many times playing poorly throughout the game. A vindication of sorts.
The game at times was a ritual, a reenactment, a microcosm of the struggles
in the larger world. Striving for accomplishment, recognition, filled with
wins and losses, of nailing the “J,” and making a turnover. Encouragement:“Shoot the 'J,' T.J!” “Great D!” (for defense); or, criticism: “Gotta box
out. Call the pick, nobody’s under.” It was analogous to the ebb and flow encountered on life’s journey, coming back to him as a stream of distant echoes marching through time.
T.J. walked to the far end of the court, testing the dampness and occasional
puddle with his foot, deciding that the hot summer sun would burn the moisture off in
no time. He began to warm up at the foul line, missing his first two shots,
making eight, then missing three more. The secret was inner rhythm
translated into consistency. He heard a car door slam, and when he turned in
the direction of the parking lot, still laden with early morning mist, he
saw players emerging, appearing for a moment like ghostly figures. They
strode up with their own balls as everyone nodded good morning nonchalantly
and immediately began taking warm-up shots. Soon, two more, and within ten
minutes a full complement of eight. Teams were determined by the first four
able to make a foul shot. T.J. made the fourth on the first team on his
second attempt.
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He quickly scouted the opposition, which featured two
players older than him. However, one was more skilled and he hoped he wouldn't have to cover him. His gaze fixed on the youngest, a player he’d seen occasionally—early twenties, average skill, but young enough to be T.J.’s son.
“I'll take him,” said T.J., pointing. He had mentioned his upcoming shoulder
surgery to some of the players over the past few weeks, but none of those
were present. Someone shot a ball off the front of the rim, which came off
hard and as T.J. reached with two hands for it, a small pain knifed through his right shoulder. He winced.
“Hey, T, somethin’ hurtin’?”
“Just a little early morning stiffness is all.”
“Old fogeyitis,” joked another.
“Yeah, that’s it,” said T.J., unoffended.
“Don’t be giving the seniors any crap,” said Haney. “You’ll be one someday.”
“Yeah,” piped up Derek, “if he makes it that far.” He chuckled as he swished
a twenty-footer as his last warm-up.
Standard banter, good-natured. But the contest had not yet begun. Heated
disagreements would arise as the game proceeded.
“Hey, T.J., shoot for out.” Which T.J. promptly did but missed. No big
deal, although naturally he would have liked the ball first.
“Win by two?” asked Jackie.
“No,” said someone, “straight up to eleven.”
Good, thought T.J., too hot for overtime. He positioned himself to the side of the youngster, cagily awaiting the pass-in. Surprisingly, it came to his opponent, who spun around for a quick lay-up. T.J.’s arm shot out. If he couldn’t block the shot, he’d try to alter it. The attempt failed but caused a sharp twinge to the ailing shoulder.
On the second play, the ball came to his man again, who faked inside but dribbled out to the top of the key. One of T.J.’s teammates promptly stole the ball off the dribble. T.J. ranged outside and set a pick, freeing a man for an open jump shot, tying the score at one apiece. On the next play, T.J. shot the ball from the baseline and missed. The next series of plays resulted in four consecutive baskets by the opposition, two by T.J.’s man, quickly putting his team down 5-1. The youngster, now identified as “Rope,” had become more involved in the game than T. J. would have expected. Odd nickname, he thought. Did it have something to do with swishing his shots neatly through the net? Perhaps the flatness in the arc of his shot. Hopefully not “clotheslining” the opposition with arms extended.
A timeout was called when someone needed to tie a shoelace. T.J. bent over,
with his hands at his knees sucking in air, not exactly winded, but feeling
his muscles already tiring in the sub-tropical heat.
Rope was making the in-bounds pass, when a teammate approached and leaned
near and said, “Take it right at him,” thumbing at T.J. Not trash talk exactly, but not much respect either. T.J.’s team up to now had suffered the deficit stoically, but someone—Jackie maybe—shouted,
“Need a stop here!”
T.J. resolved he would not go quietly today and drew up close to his man,
who perhaps had become just a bit overconfident. T.J. deflected a bounce
pass with his foot, then on the second try, slapped another pass with his
arm, which propelled the ball hard, right at Rope’s nose. Jackie seized the
loose ball and fed Steve, who cut underneath. Right after, T.J. caught the in-bounds pass in the lane and turned and made a short jumper, narrowing the score to 5-3. Rope’s team grabbed a rebound on the next play and scored two baskets. T.J. was doing somewhat better guarding Rope off the ball, but then the whole side cleared out for Rope as he drove to his left. T.J. knew that with his “negative vertical leap,” he would never block the shot at the moment of its release, but would have to nail it on the way up. Rope took the ball to one hand, going up, and T.J. took aim slapping it back with an open palm and then lunged for the loose ball. With Rope nearly on top of him, he managed to punch the ball to a teammate who drove the lane and scored. 7-4.
On Rope’s team’s next possession, T.J. intercepted a pass, stepped back
behind the key and bounced a razor sharp pass to Jackie who was cutting.
Jackie missed the lay-up, but Ron tipped it in. Next, T.J. got loose, deep
in the corner, and banged in another jumper. On the next play he faked the
same move and passed to Ron who converted. Then he set a pick for Jackie for
a short jumper, tying the score at seven. Unfortunately another player
rammed into his shoulder and actually made him cry out.
Everyone stopped, respectfully waiting, not wanting anyone seriously hurt.
This sentiment contrasted, of course, with the protocol for calling fouls,
where the prevailing rule was “no blood, no foul.” T.J. shook it off, got
his second wind, and began to cover Rope like a blanket, gaining strength as the game went on. Rope’s team scored two, and then Rope made an impossible fall away shot with T.J. right in his face. 10-7.
“Point game!” said the opposition.
T.J. knew he was too tired to do much offensively, so he stepped up his
defensive effort and refused, through sheer force of will, to let Rope get open. They might lose, but his man wouldn’t score the winning bucket. A moral or selfish victory, he guessed. Jackie was tall and could leap and began snagging all the rebounds. Ron scored underneath and then fed Jackie before the defense could set itself.
Rope’s team now sagged back under on defense, hoping to clog the middle.
Alley-oop to Jackie who was double-teamed, so he kicked it back out to Ron,
who faked the shot and passed to the fourth man, Steve, heard from little up
to now. Steve went up in the air from the baseline but had nowhere to go.
T.J. cut behind him to catch and shoot. The ball seemed to creep over the
front of the rim and in. Scored tied.
“Next one is game,” said Jackie wearily, rubbing a bruise. Sudden death.
T.J. was not sure the game should end that way for him today, win or lose.
Again, Rope’s team sagged back, expecting a pass to Jackie inside. Ron took
the pass in front of him and Rope stepped over to double, forgetting about
T.J. at the top of the key. “Outside! There!” shouted Jackie. Ron saw T.J.
wide open and fed him the ball. Rope hesitated and T. J.’s teammates shouted
as one.
T.J. felt a split second calm wash over him, a certainty of purpose. The
shouts receded like muffled echoes, as though many more voices called for him. They were yelling for him to take the shot.
Without hesitating, he let go.
