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When I was in sixth grade, I had a hoop in my yard and a life-sized Michael Jordan cardboard cut-out standing in the corner of my bedroom. This was an exciting year in my life because I could finally play AAU basketball. This meant team vans, hotel rooms, and new cities, all of which seemed larger than life and in many ways, still do. It was through AAU that I met one of the best friend I’ve even known. His name was also Steve, but Steve and I could not have been more different on the surface. I lived in a two-story house in a safe, middle-class Connecticut town with both parents and a sister. Steve lived in a high-crime area of Bridgeport with his Mother, often looking over his shoulder on his walk to school. Steve had corn rows and experience with girls. I had a bowl cut with a Nike swoosh shaved into the back of my head, and had just learned how to watch the Spice channel through the static of the TV.
On weekends, Steve and I would room together at basketball tournaments. During the summer, he would come stay with me and my family for long periods of time. We’d play one-on-one in the yard and talk for hours on end. On that court is where I learned what the KKK was, about hip hop and how to fight, about the privilege I was too young to have known I had otherwise.
One day, the little boy who lived next door was screaming at his Father because his Super Soaker was broken and he wanted a new one. Dad was on his daily walk, swinging his arms faster than his legs could move, and wasn’t too happy about the disturbance. The boy’s Father took the broken water gun from his son’s hand and slammed it on the pavement. The boy’s Mother came outside and the three of them had a very public fight that cut deeper than a shattered toy. Steve watched on, with only one comment: “You live in a weird neighborhood.”
The neighborhood did prove to be “weird.” A couple weeks later, we were riding bikes and a woman in a red car pulled up beside us, rolled down her window, and took time out of her busy day to shout the following at two 11 year old boys: “What are you doing here, (racist word)?” I was in complete shock. Steve, not so much. We went back home and told my Dad what had happened, and what my Dad did that day will stay with me forever. He loaded us in the car and we drove around the suburbs for an hour looking for that red car, with the intention of confronting the woman. We didn’t find the car, but my Father’s actions in this moment will forever be one of my proudest as a son. I think of that day often.
I spent time with Steve in his neighborhood, too. We’d sit in his room and listen to Life After Death on his CD player. His Mom worked three jobs and usually wasn’t home. I thought it was cool that we were allowed to hang out without a parent in the house. Steve was passionate about Notorious BIG. He’d break down the lyrics and rewind the song so that I could listen again, proving his point about what Biggy meant was he rapped that one line.
When my family moved from Connecticut to South Carolina a year later, the hardest phone call I had to make was to Steve. He came to my going away party, which was after a middle school basketball game of mine. As we left the gym, parents whispered about who that boy was with the DiUbaldo’s. A 5 year-old little brother of my teammate chimed in and said, “That’s Steve’s cousin.” This garnered laughs from the curious adults, but looking back, he wasn’t that far off. In reality, Steve was my brother.
Thank you, basketball, for teaching me about brotherhood.
In my high school years in South Carolina, I became serious about playing D-1 college basketball. The town I lived in wasn’t known for its hoops, and I’m not sure anyone from there had ever gone on to play Division-1. It would have been a lonely goal if it wasn’t for my friend Bridget, the star of the girl’s team who I spent countless evenings with honing our games. We had a shared mentor named Eddie, and Eddie had the key to a local gym. We’d go there after practice and run drills together well past 11PM.
Bridget was one of the most dominant high school basketball players I’ve ever seen. She played pick-up with the boys, and was always one of the top picks when making teams. We pushed each other to be better. We did photo shoots together for the newspapers as the stars of our respective teams. One of the proudest days of my young life was when she accepted an offer to play college basketball at Presbyterian College.
Thank you, basketball, for teaching me that sisters are just as strong as brothers.
When I got to college, I found out that my roommate would be one of my teammates named Jason. Jason was 6’10 and hailed from Limerick, Ireland. I learned from Jason how to drink and tell a good story. One summer, I went to stay with Jason in Limerick, a place nicknamed “Stab City” by the Irish. I was the only American in sight and it was one of the best times in my life. One night we went to his Mom’s friend’s 40th birthday party. Karaoke was in full swing. I was called to the mic by the boyfriend of the birthday girl. “Yankee Doodle! Yankee Doodle to sing a song!” I turned bright red and sang “Ladies Night” in front of a group of 40 year old women.
Thank you, basketball, for showing me parts of the world I never would have known.
Basketball had a way of framing my future in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. One of my other college teammates was named Torrell. We had played AAU together in high school and Torrell was the person who vouched for me with the coaching staff to help me land a spot on a D-1 roster. During high school, my Mom would often drive Torrell to AAU practice. I’d usually fall asleep during that hour commute, leaving Torrell and my Mom to talk. They shared a gift of gab and to this day, when I talk to Torrell, he always asks me to thank my Mom for him. That he’ll never forget their conversations and how she helped him on his journey.
Torrell was the star of my college program and majored in theater. As one of our assistant coaches put together our schedule, he placed me and several of my teammates in an acting class. I think it was for the “easy A.” The teacher of the class persuaded me to audition for a play she was directing in the Fall. Anna Deavere Smith’s “Twilight: Los Angeles,” about the Rodney King riots. Never in a million years would I have thought to audition for a play, but Torrell was doing it and he nudged me into giving it a shot. More than a decade later, Torrell is in the school Hall of Fame and playing professionally in Europe. And I’m a playwright in New York City.
Thank you, basketball, for teaching me the power of art.
The AAU years in high school provided me with a mentor who remains a part of my life. Marvin was my coach, and he worked tirelessly to help me in my dream to play basketball in college. Marvin could be found eating McDonald’s in his army fatigues around gyms in Columbia, South Carolina. Marvin sent me to his alma-mater, Keenan High, to practice with their renowned coaching staff. After school, I’d drive from my little white southern town to all-black Keenan High, walk across campus as confused students and faculty looked at me, and make my way to the gym, where I was always accepted. I am one of many kids Marvin has helped through the years. His only stipulation is that you love the game and work hard.
Thank you, basketball, for showing me the importance of love, commitment, and hard work. Thank you for the people.
Today, I coach in New York. I coach girls and boys, young and old, immigrants, rich and poor, white and black, hispanic and asian. I write about basketball in my plays and screenplays. At the heart of everything I do is the coming together of human beings who wouldn’t have the chance to know each other if it wasn’t for their shared love. I will always see basketball as a facilitator for unity. If only everyone could hoop.
Thank you, basketball, for everything.