The Art of Pick-up Basketball

Post-"Cage", pissed off, exhausted, my brother broken-rightwristed (on the left), with our Fuck T-Shirts. An epic photo. We ran the court. In NYC, there is no "And One." You call foul and that's it, no basket, even if you make it. Check up top. As you see in the pitch below, that leads to barrages of elblows.

Out of frustration with doing some recent articles that are no fun to write, like Smart Meter privacy concerns and green technology on contaminated lands, I've spur-of-the-moment pitched the voluminous, logorrheic Bill Simmons' website Grantland. The Art of Pick-up Basketball.

Here's the pitch:

I've been a baller for 20 years (I'm 33), played Div II ball at a small university in Austin, Texas. Grew up in Austin, too. My life has spanned the indoor, outdoor, YMCA aspects of pick-up hooping. I have stories and photos of playing at NY's West Fourth court, "The Cage," with my brother. In NY, if you call a foul, as we found out, the shot doesn't count no matter what - there's no "And One"! Encourages bloodshed, brutality, because there's no disincentive to foul as hard or as often as you want. Guys were basically throwing short-arm punches and swinging elblows when you drove to the basket, especially because we were white-boy outsiders. We ran the court, regardless, but my brother broke his wrist early in the process - played through it.

The article would chronicle the culture and the nuances of my pick-up ball life (which I assume mirrors many others') that vary location by location and time by time. Like 10 a.m. on Saturday mornings at the University of Texas Rec Center, when you'd find solid, older-guy games and some UT Basketball veterans and serious-minded contemporaries; like 5 p.m. weekdays at UT's Gregory Gym when the gymrat, preeners, hooplah-ers, come out, along with, in the off-season, the UT Men's and Women's players; like the solid, older-guy 6 a.m.!!! games at the University of Missouri Rec Center (I went there for journalism school; woke up early one Tuesday morning soon after I arrived to shoot some hoops alone, and found out there were Tuesday/Thursday consistent games ?!?!?! – only in the Midwest, I think); playing at my elementary school outdoor court as a 13-year-old against the paint-spackled and drunk, and getting drunker, regulars.

The story would cover, also, the generalities of pick-up: how to pick a good team; the etiquette of pick-up - is it your court?, holding a spot, determining the rules (points, straight-up or by two, fouls); how the magic rhythm of the game only rarely unfolds in a pickup situation; how unspoken understandings appear for people on the team: the rebounder, the hustler, the picker, the shooter, the ball-handler, and, also, the ball-hogger, the black hole, the pretty boy, and the guy that should not be allowed within 50 feet of any basketball court.

Now I'm in Oakland, which has a surprisingly weak outdoor pick-up scene. There are some good-condition outdoor courts, though. I've yet to play in a tough, good game, even at Mosswood Park, famed playground of Gary Payton. Now, I'm in the YMCA years, which is close to the best, consistent pick-up I've experienced. Tues/Thurs at 5 p.m. the same guy, Coach Ray, runs a clock and monitors the score, ensuring quick games and very little B.S.

Come on Bill, et al pick it up.


I finished Freedom yesterday. Devastating, nihilistic-ish, lived-happily-ever-after surprising (kind of) finish. Franzen created a psychologically-consistent story. Impressive. I cared about Patty from the beginning and was hooked. But, like Atlas Shrugged, surprisingly, there was some tiresome sermonizing on the compelling idea of our modern-life freedom from Joey, Patty's, the protagonist, son. But over all, it captured the rabbit hole impossibility of freedom as an idea for fulfillment. Explored the soul-crushing and emotionally-empty ramifications of that search, and exposed them to their neurotic, self-loathing, wine-drinking conclusions. The book could have trimmed fat, about 30 percent, and it would have been significantly better. But, overall, a decent read, but not anything to enhance your literary brain. Very prosaic prose.