This is a divided country in terrible times. Pick-up basketball offers hope.

TFD – Pickup basketball in Jacksonville offered more than just a game; it was a remedy for loneliness and a path to unexpected camaraderie. Read how the court became a sanctuary.

I was a young man in a foreign location starting a new job about 20 years ago. There were nights when I felt the oppressive weight of loneliness when I turned out the lights in my one-bedroom apartment. I repeated the words aloud several times. The crushing weight of being alone. There was nobody around to point out my strange behavior.

I drove past the moss-draped oaks and along the riverbank in Jacksonville, Florida, my temporary home, hoping to find a pickup basketball game the way one might hunt for an old acquaintance.

It would be comforting to know the details. The ball on the concrete made a faint melodic sound. The snap of the net, the thump of the backboard. After a few previous moves, I always discovered the same thing. It is irrelevant where you are in the United States. If there’s an outdoor court or gym nearby, someone generally wants to play.

I came upon a gym at a bend in the St. Johns River that had many full courts and a spirited pickup game. After a few practice shots, I made a call.

Playing basketball on a new court for the first time brings forth something interesting. We’ll refer to it as an acceleration. You rapidly come to know the nine complete strangers you start running with. Human nature comes out in deeds. There is selfishness (when a guy shoots too much), laziness (when a guy won’t get back on defense), and occasional dishonesty (when a guy repeatedly calls out the wrong score in his own team’s favor).

You even witness brutality on rare occasions. One time a guy punched me behind the ear when I disrespected his friend, and the game continued as I lay stunned on the floor near the foul line.

Yet when it works, which it usually does, pickup basketball has a special quality that makes it unique. Perhaps your friend blocks the layup to save you after you get smoked on a crossover. Perhaps you pass the ball to him after setting it up, and he floats a pass over the defender and into your arms, where you are waiting. After grabbing a rebound, you can see a teammate becoming open and shoot the game-winning basket with a fast break.

This game has music and poetry, and every now and then you get a certain kind of love. This does not imply that your friendship will last a lifetime. You can have this kind of feeling toward a teammate after a very strong play, even if you don’t know his name.

It doesn’t matter what color, class, or age you are on the court.

I would return over and over to that gym by the riverbend. Sometimes I was the only white guy in there. It didn’t really matter. If someone called me “Ginobili,” after another reckless lefty two-guard who happened to be white, I took it as a compliment — especially since I’d tried and failed to make two different college teams.

Of fact, racial dynamics in pickup might be complex, but they can also be straightforward. If you make an open jump shot, you will most likely get the ball again. If you don’t make it, you better go break some trust on the forums. A meritocracy governs pickup ball most of the time.

This one young woman was there pretty often. Ruthie was her name. She had a smooth crossover and a quality step-back. Ruthie didn’t just like playing with the guys. She liked embarrassing them. “You’re garbage,” she would tell her victims. I quickly learned it was smarter to play with Ruthie than against her.

A brand-new regimen emerged. After work, I would go across the river to the gym, where I would play for a few hours. When I got home, I was so hungry that I could finish off a box of pasta and a jar of red sauce, along with a sleeve of Italian sausage from Jimmy Dean. Sometimes I played four or five times a week.

I eventually got some of my newspaper colleagues to come play with me there. I joined a recreational league. Our T-shirts are my creation. We were the Freebirds, a reference to a popular song by the largest rock band in Jacksonville. I think we won a game or two, but one time we lost so badly that I still remember the score. The score was 25 to 98.

I met this guy named Corey From Up North Who Fouls one night in the gym.

Corey wasn’t in favor of this moniker. My friend at the front desk told me about it, although I’m not even sure if he knew about it or not. She used it when Corey wasn’t around. However, in my experience, it was rather accurate. Corey did foul, hard and frequently, and he fouled me quite a bit this particular game. I was becoming angry. It felt like the night could take a bad turn.

The game I played with Corey sticks out in my recollection out of the hundreds or thousands of pickup games I’ve played over the past thirty years. I’ll give you the conclusion in a moment. However, I want to talk about this moment first.

My first step doesn’t go as quickly as it used to, and I can’t hold on the edge as much. My wife, who is 43 years old, has amazing post moves. She once assisted my friend Eric and I in defeating several teams in a 3-on-3 competition. We are parents to four children. I am occasionally sidelined due to an old back injury. However, I continue to play pickup ball whenever I can, and lately, I’ve been considering what 2024 holds for the United States of America.

Pickup ball encourages you to talk to strangers and gets you out of the house in an era when far too many individuals live alone.

Pickup ball pushes you to look people in the eye at a time when guys could use more buddies. The point guard is aware that you are going to attempt a backdoor cut because of this.

A pickup game at the playground is free in an era when everything is too costly. A pair of sneakers is all you need. That too is negotiable. The other day at the outside court, a large, tall guy came to play. He was wearing Crocs, and somehow he didn’t break his ankles.

Pickup ball blurs the boundaries between age, class, and race in this day and age. A fifty-year-old college professor, a thirty-year-old air conditioning repairman, or a nineteen-year-old high school dropout could all be sharing the court with you. I faced a gray-haired man last year who hit the winning run for the opposing team. I enquired about his age. He gave his age as 74.

Pickup Ball forces us to live in one shared reality at a time when people seem to be living in alternative planets due to the blatant disputes over facts. One point is awarded for a basket. It’s two outside the arc. Recognize your own transgressions and honor those of others. Triumphants remain. To get back on, you call next or shoot for it. Everyone is subject to the same rules.

If this nation operated a bit more like a pickup game, perhaps things would be a little better.

Now, I’m a different person. And another basketball player

On the basketball floor, I was once a young guy filled with rage. When I was just 14 years old, the big kids used to look down on me, and I wanted to show them wrong. I also wanted to disprove those college coaches. I resembled Ruthie. I wanted to embarrass the people who underestimated me, and that’s part of the reason two guys have punched me during games and many others have likely been sorely tempted.

When my children were first born, I took a few years off from the game, and when I returned, I was a different man. A little slower, and a little wiser. Even while I still play hard, these days all I want is to be outside. “Go easy on me,” I’ll tell my opponent before the game starts, and usually he can’t help but smile. It lowers the tension. Afterwards I sometimes tell guys from the other team what I like about their game. They are often surprised, and disarmed.

All of that to say, I don’t hate the Up North Corey Who Fouls. He wouldn’t have been the first person to feel that way if there was anything about my personality that irritated him. Most of us have made regrettable comments or actions on the court, and we’re all working through something. Yes, I most definitely have. When I think back now on that night at the gym by the riverbend in Jacksonville, I’m grateful to Corey for giving me this one moment.

That evening, I came to a realization. I was no longer a stranger, having spent the last few months playing there multiple days a week. All of my former teammates were in that room. We would find each other open in the corner, set picks for one another, and execute the 2-on-1 fast break. And as Corey bullied me up and down the court, I could sense that popular opinion was not on his side.

There were lots of people in the gym. There were a lot of people watching our match. I wasn’t playing well because I was getting rattled. However, I shot a three beyond Corey’s extended fingers in the closing moments. Many of them cheered when that ball went through the net. Moreover, the loneliness didn’t feel like such a heavy burden.