The Best American Sports Writing 2014(5)

TJ got off the D train two hours early and sat down in the adjacent playground, and waited. There was no selection process or online registration for the open run; if you wanted to play, you just walked onto the court at 3:00 P.M. with a pair of sneakers.

A few minutes before his game was due to start, TJ’s airtight ego was deflating. “I hope it works out,” he said meekly. I peered inside the gate as a few players began warming up. I’d imagined a collection of ripped six-eight high jumpers and burly New York City point guards with lightning-quick handles. Instead, many of the players trying out struggled with basic dribbling skills, or would jump to dunk but fall short and tap the glass backboard furiously with their palm. Few, if any, looked as if they had ever played college ball. TJ saw what I saw and his eyes lit up, the hopefulness returned.

But as soon as he corralled the opening tip, the nerves began to show. He started to press. He’d pick up his dribble after only a few bounces, or guard too tightly on defense.

The third or fourth time down the floor, he got the ball at the top of the key. Before making a move, before even thinking about a move, he rose up and launched it at the hoop, missing everything. The ball bounced up and over the small fence into the empty steel bleachers behind the basket. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, then jogged back on defense.

TJ had, over the years, made a shield for himself. Carefully constructed out of every hope or fantasy he’d ever had of being a basketball star, it helped him endure and survive DPH and everything else. As long as he never really tried to play at Rucker and see whether he was good enough to share a court with Kevin Durant, or “A Butta” and “The Bone Collector,” the shield protected him.

But as he looked up at the scoreboard, maybe he was beginning to realize that once the fantasy starts to unravel, it can never come back. He missed another shot badly, and audible groans came from the stands.

As the minutes continued to pass and the players sprinted up and down the court, a set of clouds rolled by overhead, blanketing the sun. That seemingly innocent shift, however, changed TJ. As if the natural spotlight shining down on him had been turned off.

TJ still had a few skills he could showcase. He stole the ball near half-court and sped the other way, he stutter-stepped and readied himself for a dunk—his moment. Then, at the last second, he backed down and simply laid it in. Still, it was a start. It wasn’t a dunk, but he had scored at Rucker Park.

On the next offensive possession, his confidence was soaring. He called for the ball. The small crowd seemed to sense something was about to happen and fell nearly silent in anticipation. TJ made a quick move right to left, skipped past his defender, then turned to make a no-look bounce pass through the key in between three defenders—the kind of out-of-nowhere, once-in-a-lifetime pass Rondo would have been proud of. The kind of pass that would earn you, by word of mouth, recognition in the streets, or, even better, a nickname.

In New York street basketball, your nickname is your identity. Once you’re granted a nickname (and you can never give yourself one), it sticks with you for life. It’s a sign you belong on the court. The nickname often comes from one of the announcers and it can be descriptive of your physical appearance (“Cabbie,” “Eddie Kane,” “Bodega”), your style of play (“Helicopter,” “Dribbling Machine,” “Cookie Monster”), something comical (“Clumsy Janitor”—“He does nothing but drop buckets!”), or simply your initials. But a streetball player hasn’t arrived until he has a nickname.

TJ’s pass didn’t go as planned. Perhaps nothing ever does. It was half a second too late, knocked down inside the key, batted around, then picked up by the other team and tossed ahead for an easy layup.

Duke Tango, a childish grin on his face, squeezed his microphone tight. “That man’s name isn’t ‘Uptown Finest.’ His name from now on is ‘Plastic Cup.’ Because he can’t hold nothing. That’s ‘Plastic Cup’ right there,” he said pointing at TJ. The entire crowd chuckled.

Every time TJ touched the ball, a chorus of “Plastic Cup” echoed from the bleachers to the project buildings across the street.

TJ heard the snickers and seemed to shrink, his shoulders hung low and his frail body slumped downward.

The shield that had protected him for so long was gone, disintegrated in his hand. He was completely naked, staring at the Minotaur, his deepest fears, flush in the eyes.

If I was his coach, I would have subbed him right there, spared him the humiliation, let him watch from the bench and just soak up the same Uptown air the legends once experienced.