BEHIND THE MIKE: (With John Leone)
The views expressed in this blog are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of RCN or any other agency, organization, employer or company.
The old Syracuse “Parochial League” of the late ‘60s and ‘70s has long since faded into nostalgic veneration. But once upon a time, ten vibrant high schools representing neighborhood enclaves separated by various Catholic parishes and sometimes ethnicity dotted the city. These schools – too small to field football teams – spawned basketball rivalries that became year-long affairs, extending well throughout the summer on the city’s playgrounds and across the demilitarized boundaries that separated them during the school year. Personal rivalries often became friendships, the former combatants ultimately bound by the shared experience of that unique time and the emotional investment they made in such a consequential part of their youth.
With all apologies to Robert Fulghum, I think everything I ever really needed to know I learned as a teenager growing up on those summer courts. Those fortunate enough to have grown up in a similar time and place know what I mean. The summer months spent on the playground were as important as the long winter season itself. Every park had its regulars – a core group of maybe 15 guys who seemed to live there. Our parents would certainly agree, but never seemed to mind. From one night to the next, we found a way to construct teams among ourselves in a fashion that, as I recall, would make today’s professional GMs proud. “Next” needed no further clarification as the universal term for the random group of five waiting to take on the winners of the game in progress. The increasingly large group surrounding the court who watched the games also waited. There were nights when “next” went two and three games deep.
There were no coaches to choreograph plays and patterns or to distribute playing time. Being on time was mandatory if you wanted that first game, and even then it wasn’t guaranteed. The six o’clock church bells would tell you if you were late. And you were late if you weren’t there early – especially if you were unsure of your skill level. If 11 guys showed up and you were the one left off of one of the two teams “choosing up” sides, you had two choices: work on your game or work on your personality. Your peers delivered the message in a way that seemed to be perfectly natural – so matter-of-fact and without malice or judgment. And it was understood and accepted by all. Besides, as the 11th man sitting out, you’d have the pick of the best of the new arrivals to join you for “next.”
There was a beautiful balance to that basketball community. The occasional “outsiders” were tested but given their chance. And if they happened to improve the quality of play, all the better – it could only help the reputation and regard for the “home” park. “Did you hear, so-and-so was at Sunnycrest last night. Let’s go there and play.” Some rules were universal, but like different languages, there was always nuance and you adapted to the rules of the home park for good order.
But for the most part, a typical evening brought back the regulars. Team compositions would change from night to night, and one night’s fiercest competitor would be the next night’s closest teammate. Not only were sport-specific skills developed, but more importantly, athletic instincts were honed. On a successful night, a team would learn to play to its strengths and compensate for its weaknesses. On the tougher nights, a loss could mean a wasted opportunity and an early walk home. It was almost too painful to stay and watch, knowing that your night was over.
I don’t remember – ever – asking about anyone’s politics or religion at the park. If a guy could shoot it, there had to be a spot for him; if he could rebound, all the better. We came to know who was selfish, who was smart, and who was steady. Some guys made their mark as dependable role players, though we never referred to them that way. Such terms were far too sophisticated and complex. We seemed to know things instinctively, even if we couldn’t define them – at least those of us who had a sense of what we were after.
And what we were after was pretty simple at the time – a win and a chance to hold the court and play on. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve gained perspective. Perhaps what we were really after was something altogether more important, more valuable, and more substantive, though we couldn’t have known it at the time.
As I look back now, I realize what an education that park provided. Leaders emerged. Rules were developed – sometimes on the fly – to create some level of equity, not in outcome, but in opportunity. The only prize from evening to evening was the honor of being part of a team that would hold the court after a win. But eventually, you lost. And those of us lucky enough to realize it began to discover something about ourselves in the way we reacted to losing. The very first vestiges of self-awareness may well have emerged on those courts. After all, the pain and frustration of having to wait three games – or worse – a whole day for another chance had to be dealt with, and how we did so was like holding a mirror to our faces. But tomorrow, we’d be there again. And the next night, and the next. The park gave you the test first and the lesson later.
I think that by and large, the evolution and growth of competitive youth sports has been a good thing. Today, there are better facilities, better equipment, and indoor spaces. Bleachers are full of parents, families, and friends – some, albeit, with less-than-healthy rooting interests. But the structure and organization afforded to kids today comes at a price beyond just the hit to mom and dad’s pocketbook. On some level, we seemed to have stripped the game of its ability to impart lessons that are best discovered and not necessarily taught. Tell a kid something, and he or she may forget it. Show them, and they may remember it. Get them involved, and they will learn it. But have them discover it, and they will own it. The park games were organic. They had an equilibrium that could only be understood and managed by us – the players. And though we didn’t know it at the time, we were forging and shaping much more than our basketball skills.
Summer programs now are engineered to ensure structure and visibility. Referees are always present to adjudicate disputed calls, removing the need for the spontaneous and bristly negotiations we’d conduct on our own. There is no need to listen for church bells. Schedules and game clocks determine start times, and no one has to keep score; there are scoreboards to do that. Very little is missing or left to chance. Everything, that is, except for the experience of having young people create something of consequence completely on their own and outside of the constraints of teachers, parents, and coaches. On those summer courts of Syracuse, it was ours, and we owned it.
To this day, my 95-year-old mom recalls those days when I’d come home from the park. She knew immediately what kind of night it had been from my demeanor. “It’s only a game,” she would say. Now, in her later years and after all this time, we look back and laugh. And having raised three sons who attended “summer school” on those city courts, I think she’s finally coming around. Still, whenever I hear someone say “it’s only a game,” I think of those parks, those courts, and those kids who created and represented something so much more.
