Lifetime Bonds on the Basketball Court — 40 Years of Pickup Heaven
Among fun, sweat, beers and tears, we became family
I retired from competitive basketball last year after a glorious 55-year career. I met some of my best friends and learned many of the most important lessons of my life on a court just a mile or so from the beach in a South Bay neighborhood of Los Angeles.
I started playing basketball at 7 years old after listening to Chick Hearn call some 1966 Los Angeles Lakers games on the radio, and watching a few on TV.
Basketball was the red-haired stepchild of sports back then. It was always on the radio, but rarely on TV. Chick’s radio “word’s eye view” of the game captivated me, and it started my lifelong love affair with the game.
Flash forward 15 years and I was a 6-foot, 22-year-old park player, always looking for a pickup game. Every game would go the same way, no matter the location.
“Foul!”
“That’s no foul!”
“Yes, it is. I’m taking the ball out.”
“Fuck you, I am!”
They’d play five minutes, argue five minutes. It got old, fast. So my solution was to find an older court rarely used and make it our own. My friends and I found a great one and started bi-weekly games that somehow lasted 40 years.
When we started, we had one hard and fast rule. No Arguing. Anyone disputing a call had to prove they were right by hitting a free throw shot — ball never lies.
We also tried to limit access to our games. We didn’t want crowds of bozos bringing arguments and fights.
This was pretty draconian, but it served to underscore the overriding ethos of our group. When we came to the park we came to play, as in have fun — like kids do. Everyone tried and wanted to win, of course. But the serious things in our lives were working and taking care of our families.
The result of this was everyone had fun, and after a while, everyone realized that together, we all had something very special, indeed.
We always had a multi-generational and diverse group at our park. While there were only a couple of women that played with us over the years, both were good and tough enough to hang with the guys.
Even though our court was in the middle of one of the whitest neighborhoods in L.A., we had quite a few African Americans and Latino dudes play with us over the years. A couple were core, Hall of Fame guys too.
It seemed there were always players from 16 to 50-plus years of age playing as well. All walks of life: lawyers, construction workers and even, for a short time, a pimp’s enforcer. We had it all.
With different ages and backgrounds getting together for the purpose of having fun a couple times a week, a mixture of different personalities, opinions, likes, dislikes and cultures came together to form a tight group.
As usual, a pecking order was formed but it had nothing to do with what you did for a living or who you thought you were off the court. In fact, it had very little to do with how well you played, either.
It was basically determined by your age and how well you talked smack.
The older dudes got the floor most often, followed by the young guys who were the funniest or displayed the most wisdom. Many a wannabe was shot down, and many a young fella elevated during those all-important smack-talk sessions after the games were over.
We even stumbled upon our own form of democracy.
We quickly learned that there were too many individual tastes in music to satisfy, so we got rid of the boombox pretty early on. Game time also vacillated according to popular sentiment. When some people wanted to play too early, and some too late, we found a balance together.
We even organically agreed on the brand of beer we’d have in the ice chest after the games. It wasn’t the brand most of the guys would drink away from the park, but somehow everyone agreed that if served cold, it fit perfectly for the occasion.
Over the years, boys became men, men became fathers, and sons grew up to play alongside their fathers and uncles. New puppies became old dogs and we all said tearful goodbyes to them when they left us.
We celebrated good times together — Lakers championships, weddings, new babies; and we grieved losses — most notably the on-court passing of one of our most beloved colleagues.
On New Year’s Day 2009 one of our co-founders collapsed and died on the court, Hank Gathers-style. He was in the best shape of everyone, and it was a life-altering shock to all of us.
But in retrospect, what a way to go. Running on the court, wind in your hair, playing a kid’s game that you love with all of your friends on a warm, bright, beautiful day.
We now consider him the luckiest one of us all.
Over 40 years, I went from hearing the old guys tell stories, to understanding that there were life’s lessons in those stories, to being one of those old guys with the stories.
We all imparted our hard earned wisdom to each other — in the way guys do. Straight advice was rarely, if ever, given from one guy to another. It almost always came in the form of a parable, street story, or a personal tale of a stupid thing done.
Over the years, a younger guy would have uncertainty about a job or fall on hard times, and an older guy would be there with a connection or a job.
Sometimes an older guy would seem down or lonely, and a younger guy would end up taking him to a concert or out with a group of friends.
We were there for each other.
We spent a lot of time together off the court, and the gang even threw a surprise 50th birthday weekend for me that has gone down in history.
We started in a limo, jumped in the mosh pit at a punk rock show at the Hollywood Palladium, then finished by renting out a local restaurant/bar for another live concert and some legendary bacchanalia.
But nothing was better than the annual tournament and party.
We’d organize a tournament, play all day, have an award ceremony and then go to my house to party and dance all night.
It was good to be young, but with this group it wasn’t so bad to be old either. There was a lot of love bouncing around amongst us.
I suffered through various illnesses and injuries over the years, including cancer and a number of knee surgeries.
I always came back.
Maybe I wasn’t the same player after the last knee surgery. However, I still loved the game and the camaraderie that I was willing to set aside my ego and be a much lesser version of myself on the court. It was worth it.
But those injuries finally caught up to me.
I played until the wheels came off. Today, my right knee is at the “end stage” and I’m no longer able to even play half court. I’ll get it replaced but, truthfully, the best result I can hope for is to be able to walk and hike again without pain.
That’s OK though because I was able to live and enjoy something that was so much more than just basketball for so many years.
A friend from England was over on business one weekend, and he stopped by the park to watch us. In between games, he said with an almost blissful look on his face:
“Do you know what you have here? My God, I wish I had something like this.”
The answer was and is, yes, and I am so very grateful to have had it.
Thanks for reading my story.
