During these challenging times in our divided country, pickup basketball serves as a source of optimism.

Amidst the strife in the nation, pickup basketball offers a glimmer of hope.

In my short period of living in Jacksonville, Florida, I drove along the picturesque waterways, past the magnificent trees covered in moss, searching for a game of spontaneous basketball like being reunited with an old friend.

The familiar aspects would provide comfort. The faint sound of the ball hitting the concrete, the slapping sound of the backboard and the snappy feeling of the net. I’ve relocated a few times in the past, and each time I’ve discovered the same thing in my new place. Regardless of where you are in America, you’ll discover a gym or an outdoor court nearby and usually, individuals who wish to play.

Near a bend in the St. Johns River, I found a gym with several busy courts and an engaging pickup game. I took a few warm-up shots and readied myself for entry.

There’s an interesting occurrence in your very first game of basketball in a new setting. Call it an expedited learning process. You begin to run with nine complete strangers and get to know them right away. Humans reveal themselves through their actions. There’s an element of selfishness (when someone takes too many shots), laziness (when someone refuses to return to defense), and sometimes deception (when someone consistently calls the incorrect score in favor of their own team).

In rare instances, abrasiveness even shows. I once had a man punch me behind the ear after I disrespected his friend, and the game proceeded with me lying dazed on the floor near the foul line.

However, when it’s fantastic, and it frequently is, there is something pleasing and irreplaceable about playing pick-up basketball. Maybe you get beat by an opponent’s crossover and your teammate saves you by blocking the layup. Maybe you set up a screen for him and then roll to the basket, and he delivers a floating pass over the defender into your outstretched arms. Maybe you seize a rebound and spot your teammate charging down the court, and you pass swiftly for the winning basket.

There’s poetry and rhythm in this sport, and on occasion, you feel a distinctive kind of love. This is not always an indication of a lifelong friendship; rather, it’s a fleeting emotion that can occur with someone you’ve just shared an excellent play with.

There’s no discrimination on the court regarding race or class or age.

I continued frequenting that gym near the riverbend. Sometimes I was the only white person present. Despite this, it didn’t bother me. If someone decided to label me “Ginobili” – a reckless left-handed shooting guard who coincidentally was white – I embraced the title, especially given my previous inability to make two different college teams.

Racial dynamics can be intricate, yet in pick-up basketball, they can also be straightforward. If you knock down an open shot, you’ll most likely receive the ball again. If you miss it, you’d better crash the boards and earn some trust. The majority of the time, pickup basketball is a meritocracy.

A regular presence at the gym was a young woman known as Ruthie. She possessed a slick crossover and a neat step-back. Ruthie liked playing against the guys; she enjoyed embarrassing them. “You’re rubbish,” she would chant at her victims. I soon learned that joining forces with Ruthie led to better outcomes than competing against her.

A routine developed: I would finish work and cross the river to the gym to play for a couple of hours, then return home hungry enough to consume a hefty amount of pasta and a jar of marinara sauce, accompanied by a sleeve of Jimmy Dean Italian sausage. I would sometimes casually participate in four or five games each week.

Soon, I invited some of my coworkers from the newspaper to join me. We joined a rec league. I designed our shirts. In homage to a famous song by Jacksonville’s most well-known rock group, we went with “Freebirds.” I’m unsure whether we won any games, but we did suffer a particularly one-sided loss with a score of 98 to 25.

One evening, while playing at that gym, I met someone referred to as Corey From Up North With The Fouls.

Corey was not a fan of this moniker. I’m not even certain he knew it existed; I only heard it from a friend who worked at the front desk and utilized it when Corey wasn’t around. However, in my experience, it was an accurate description. Corey did severely foul, frequently and deliberately, and he mistreated me during that one game, causing me to become irritated. My rage was growing. The game was starting to feel like it could take a nasty turn.

Among the hundreds or thousands of pick-up games I’ve played over the past thirty years, my encounter with Corey stands out in my memory. Allow me to share the outcome shortly. Currently, I’m 43 years old, married to a lady with impressive post-moves who once assisted me in defeating several teams in a 3-on-3 competition. We have four children. My back injury often keeps me sidelined, but I still play pick-up basketball whenever possible. Recently, I’ve been pondering the implications for America in 2024.

At a time when many people are becoming more isolated, pick-up basketball brings you out of your home and rewards you for interacting with strangers.

In a world where people crave companionship, pickup basketball brings you face-to-face connection. The point guard recognizes your impending backdoor cut when you make eye contact.

In a time when everything becomes excessively priced, a friendly game at the neighborhood park is gratis. All you need is a good pair of footwear. Contrary to common belief, the big tall fellow who participated in our game that day managed to avoid hurting his ankles, even though he was wearing Crocs.

In a time when racial, class, and age divides us, pickup basketball transcends these divides. You may share the court with a 50-year-old college professor, a 30-year-old air conditioning repairman, or an 19-year-old high-school dropout. Last year, I played against an elderly man with grey hair who hit a game-winner for the opponent team. I questioned his age, and he admitted that he was 74.

In a world where facts are contested, and people seem to inhabit contrasting universes, pickup basketball compels us into a shared reality. A basket earns you one point. Outside the arc, it garners you two. Call your own fouls and respect those called by others. Victors remain, whereas defeated parties call for the next game or shoot for it. The same criteria apply to everyone.

Possibly, if our country functioned more like a pickup basketball game, it would be a more harmonious society.

I’ve evolved both in character and as a basketball player

Back in the day, I was an irate young man on the basketball court. I wanted to prove the older kids wrong for dismissing me when I was just a small 14-year-old lad. I also wanted to disprove the college coaches’ assumptions. I was similar to Ruthie in that regard, and the cause for numerous individuals attempting to physically strike me during games was due to my desire to disgrace people who underestimated me.

I temporarily abandoned the game when my children were born, but later resumed playing. I had become a more mature and mellow individual. Although I still gave my all, I was content with being on the court. I would inform my opponent at the start of games, “Go easy on me,” which often resulted in a smile. This approach relieved the tension. Afterward, I would sometimes compliment the guys from the other team on their performances. They were frequently astonished and disarmed.

Ultimately, I’m not upset with Corey From Up North Who Fouls. If there was something in my vibe that provoked him, he wouldn’t be the first who reacted in such a manner. Most of us have lashed out on the court and regretted our actions. When I reflected on the night at the gym on the riverbank in Jacksonville, I felt thankful for Corey’s involvement.

I came to a realization that evening. Over the last few months, I had been playing there a few days per week, and my former teammates had returned. We had set screens for each other, located each other in the corner, and executed the 2-on-1 fast break. As Corey forcefully challenged me on the court, I could sense that opinion was not on his side. The packed gym had witnessed our game. I was getting flustered and wasn’t performing well. However, near the end, I made a three-point shot over Corey’s outstretched fingers. When the ball went through the net, the crowd erupted in applause. And the overwhelming loneliness no longer felt like a massive burden.

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