Mt. Morris Park halfcourt run on 8/08/08.

One of the profound books I read as a youth was Jim Carroll’s Basketball Diaries. Unfortunately, it was made into a very forgettable movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio who is a phenomenal actor but can’t poise himself as a believable ballplayer to save his socks. In any event, I love the idea of chronicling daily pick-up activity. We always hear about this playground legend and that out of control tournament game, but what about the everyday player searching for a run like you and me?

Friday, August 8, 2008

Tonight was supposed to be the kick-off to the Olympics. Even if Puerto Rico was beating our colonizers again by 20, I’d trade playing ball before watching on a couch any day. I rolled up to Col. Young (145th St. and Lenox) to show support for the Tri-State All-Star Game, but the park was empty except for some teens playing a sloppy 21. I bounced downtown to Mt. Morris (120th St. and Madison) and saw decent comp. I had on fresh out the box Air Max ‘90 McFlys though, and although they’re mad comf, they have negative lateral. So i raced back to the crib, donned my new Goat Tournament shorts, and hoped that there’d still be people out.

This was the type of night that James Naismith probably had when he invented the sport in 1892. 72 degrees, cool breeze, just perfectly designed for summerball. Word. When I arrived, the 21 had transformed into a 4-on-4. The signature Uptown steez is to the baja, but I was impressed with the long range a couple of the young kids were demo-ing. They blew out their opponents, and I got picked up for next . . .

One of my new teammates said, “I’m 36, and I’m not trying to get blown out again like that by these young boys.” The teenagers ran with that and started taunting us with, “We gonna bust these old dudes’ ___.” I really wish homeboy on my squad kept his word, cuz he and his man played zero D. You heard me? Zero. Bong. Bong. Another bong. I picked up the best player on the other team, but he barely needed to score. Bong. Bong. Bong. These kids were pulling from behind the three paint like it was a free throw. Bong. Again. My word, we lost 25 . . . to 4. I’m not one to scream on people, not even when I coached high school or college, but this was a little ridiculous. “Have you no pride?” I said in a calm tone. I barely broke a sweat cuz we barely had possesion and my man was content to watch and inbound.

Dusk turned to night, and although everyone scattered home, I felt like I needed to prove I could at least play. I asked, “Anyone up for 1-on-1?” One kid obliged thankfully. He wasn’t the same dude I was guarding, but he was ah-ight so at least I could work a sweat. Bong. Bong. Bong. 3-zip. Bong. Bong. Hong, bong. Then, he finally scored on me. Okay. Got the ball back, then bong. Hong, hong, bong. Again. Boom. Game. 11-1. He told his man (who was named Rob) that was nice, “Yo, did you see his footwork?” Not bad for an old man, huh young one?!!! I felt a little redeemed, or at least like I saved face. Rob told me to come back out tomorrow so we could face-off, too. Cool. Then my opponent asked for a rematch. We played two more, and I finished 3-0. He said, “How do you shoot in the dark?” and I thought about Joe Hammond who groomed his range on this very same hallowed ground back in the ’60s. His coach “One-Eyed” Sam would have him practice at night all the time so that rim could look wide during the day. It worked. Hammond wound up being the greatest shooter the playground has ever seen. That’s right. Ever. His single game record of 70+ (I don’t know the exact number) still stands at Rucker Park after 30 years.

A little more history: the EBC Tournament started in ‘82 at Mt. Morris (they moved to Rucker Park a couple of years later). Mt. Morris was also a site for the Holcombe Rucker Memorial Youth League in the ’70s and ’80s. Cats have been running fulls here since the ’30s. It is as Harlem as you can get.

A park regular is known other than Skip a.k.a. Crossing Guard, perennial Kingdome All-Star and former AND 1 opposing team member. He saw us playing 1-on-1, and jokingly screamed out, “Y’all need some new moves, man!” He then offered that he’d be there tomorrow morning at 5am. “There’s nobody asking, ‘Can I get a shot?’ at that time; you can have the court all to yourself.” The spirit of Joe Hammond lives on . . .

Before I left the court, the kid asked me, “Yo, Bobbito, can I have your ball?” I didn’t even know he knew who I was. “No doubt, b. Here . . .” Whatever value my used AND 1 ball had left was no match to the experience this shorty allowed me to have playing ball at night. Had he left after the 4-on-4, I would’ve just been real, real grumpy with an L. Instead, I left elated and feeling like a ballplayer.

I love Harlem basketball. Wouldn’t trade it for any other place in the world.

Peep my other Harlem Basketball Diaries entries:

Goat Park

Jefferson Projects

Foster Projects