Basket Making

If pressed, I'll say “basketball is my sport.” This gives me some street cred, and assures my listeners that I actually HAVE a sport, thus allowing me to identify as American. Because we all have at least one sport, no? The need for fandom is inherent in our USA genes. I recall reading about the colonial passion for baste-the-bear and stilt walking, and can just picture George W. (the original one) tossing his powdered wig in the air during a swell bandy ball match. 

Here's what I like about basketball: even I can follow it. It moves quickly, but the players are very tall, and the court is finite. There are only a couple of things you can do to score, and only a couple of points awarded for those things. As my favorite comedian Gary Gulman muses, it’s also the only sport where, if a player so much as touches another player, the game stops instantly, and the offended one gets several unimpeded shots before two silent teams. “Think about what you did!” is the implied scolding. 

Whereas football is—fuggedaboudit. Wildly overhyped, horribly violent, I can't keep track of where the darned ball is. And the rules? Downs, field goals, various yard lines! And with all the stops and starts it takes HOURS. I remember watching Patrick, our only homegrown high school footballer, and slowly perishing from boredom between plays. There was one super obnoxious parent in the stands with us, who kept up an incessant, shouted commentary--with a cowbell!!—and I was so miserable that I welcomed the diversion!!

Baseball is something I really feel I should like better than I do, given my pedigree. My Grandpa Berrigan played minor league ball for the Bronx Giants, and my memories of him in his latter years largely revolve around his rabid enthusiasm for televised playoff games on his black-and-white set. Heck, Sheridan was even a star pitcher! (Sher wasn’t major league, nor minor league—he was middle school league, but still…) To me the game’s pace is glacial; even with the much vaunted speed-up innovations, it’s about as thrilling as watching paint dry. 

Aiden and Peter love to shoot hoops up at the neighborhood court, and their style of play is perfect for me. “Great shot, honey!” is always appropriate to shout, whether they make it or not. And if things get a bit dull, there’s the inevitable ball that escapes the playground and rolls downhill towards the street. Luckily, traffic is usually light and drivers are cautious, but there’s still that pulse-quickening moment as Mr. Basketball bounces onto the road. Bonus: after the daring rescue, I feel totally justified in saying, “OK, guys, time to go home!” 

Several years ago, I had the rare, delightful experience of making a few baskets myself. Sometimes I think of trying again, but why ruin a perfect memory? I’d rather cheer for LeBron and Steph occasionally, qualifying me to assert that, if I need one, basketball is, indeed, my sport.