Minority For a Day?
I walk into the basketball gym. The first game is already in progress, so after I tie my shoes I just wait and watch.
I see that of the ten playing, eight are black and two – one on each team – are white. After observing a few possessions, I casually note the obvious being reconfirmed: basketball is a black man’s game. Speed, lateral quickness, vertical jumping ability – the eight black players easily rank first through eighth in each of these categories. Neither of the two white guys are even close.
But I’ve understood this for quite some time. That’s why I’m feeling good about the next game. When you’re a white person in a room full of black guys, you know you’re stepping up a level. The game is quicker. The opportunity to impress is greater – no one really expects you to compete.
I watch the two white players, see how they perform. One is clearly overmatched. He grabs a rebound, begins to dribble up the court, and promptly loses the ball as a much quicker defender strips it from behind. Another time, he has a wide open shot but rushes and throws up an air ball. Typical, I think. This is the norm, the white player that gives the able among us a bad rap – he’s especially slow and timid and simply much, much less able to handle himself than his equally experienced black counterparts.
The other guy’s alright. I mean, he’s not THAT good, but he makes a few open shots, a few solid passes. Basic decently competent white man style. That’s a stereotype, sure, but what can you do? It’s usually quite true: white players simply have to be better at skills like shooting and passing to compete. I watch shot after shot clang off the rim during the course of the game, but he makes two out of three. His teammates pass him the ball without hesitating, too, which is nice to see – they respect his ability, treat him like he belongs. When he makes a third shot, the game-winner, I have to smile – score one for the white guy! Without really acknowledging it, I feel a sort of reflexive pride in our ability to rise above limitations, to succeed using our own unique methods.
I’m still the only one waiting, so I join the losing team in place of white guy number one (the less able). I don’t know how that decision is made, but I don’t worry about it. I’m just happy to be getting in the next game. Before it starts, the five of us stand around and shoot a few baskets. The four black guys chat with each other in their loose, loud, slang-filled casual style. I hear something about an NBA game played last night, and try to chime in. My comment feels stiff, out of place. One of the guys says “Oh yeah, yeah, right?” in a deliberate attempt to acknowledge me. But the conversation’s moved on anyway.
I don’t say anything else. Instead, I jog to the center of the court and stretch a little bit, watching the other team. I observe the other white guy interacting with his black teammates. He’s speaking in their style, using their inflections and slang. I suddenly feel involuntarily contemptuous. This guy’s a poser, trying to act like one of THEM (though he sure doesn’t play like it). Now I know why he was given so many opportunities to score in the last game, now I know why he was being treated as one of their own. He’s ingrained himself into the fabric of the majority by inhabiting the milieu of their mannerisms. This guy doesn’t represent me, doesn’t represent the marginalized underdog.
I feel better about being unwilling – unable - to communicate with my own teammates on their terms, in their language. I’m the true representative “white guy” here.
The game finally starts. No more talking, just basketball. During the first three offensive possessions, I set two screens that help teammates score and get one rebound that I pass out to an open man for a three. On defense, my man doesn’t score.
On the fourth defensive possession, I get a rebound. Now, I’m a pretty good player and this is the first time I’ve touched the ball with a chance to really do something with it. I dribble down the court, ignoring two teammates who call for passes, clearly mistrusting my ability to handle the ball. I make a nice crossover move at about midcourt, and arrive at the three-point line. My defender hangs back to protect the basket, so I shoot. Looks good, but hits the back of the rim. I think I here someone say “Come on, man!” but I ignore it.
Now I’m on defense. My opponent has the ball; he tries to spin toward the baseline but I cut him off. He fakes a shot, I leave my feet, and he twists around me to put in a very tough layup.
“Wanna switch?” says a teammate (who just happens to be guarding the white guy on the opposing team).
Seriously? I had him covered - just made a mistake, and he usually wouldn’t be able to pull that shot off anyway. It happens. “Nah, I got this,” I say, trying to be loose.
“Sure?”
I just run down the court.
A few plays later I grab another defensive rebound. I start dribbling toward the other basket, and again a teammate calls for the ball. That’s a little insulting. I’ve already shown that I’m able to dribble up the court, I’ve made nothing but positive offensive plays, save for very minor offense of one missed shot...but on the other hand, I definitely don’t want to fall out of favor with the other players on my team, regardless of fairness. After all, I AM the only white guy, and...
I hesitate and someone runs up behind me and steals the ball. My teammates are not happy.
“Come on man, give it up!”
I say something like “My bad, didn’t hear him...” and move on.
The rest of the game I play conservatively. I let the others handle the ball. I set some more screens. I don’t let my man score another point on defense. I witness a lot of errors. I don’t make any. One of my teammates has the ball stolen from him in much the same way as I had it stolen before. There doesn’t seem to be any reaction. I’m a little perturbed, but what can I say?
We’ve got game point, and a teammate passes to me. My heart rate jumps, as I feel the potential of the moment, the ability to end the game, be congratulated, feel justified, improve my standing in the eyes of the other players...I shoot, but I’m too tense. It hits the front of the rim, bouncing to a defender.
We end up losing. More people have arrived for the next game, so I’m off the court. This has not been satisfying. But I don’t really feel up for another game, at least not like the one I’ve just played, so I leave.
Next time I’ll do better, I think. Next time I’ll be more confident. I don’t really get it. I’m generally quite secure in my abilities. I’ve played organized basketball, and played it well. Matched skill for skill, I was almost certainly one of the best players in the gym today. But there are no coaches governing this game, deciding where and how players will be used. It’s natural selection, and I am not in the ruling class – I am a minority. I’ve got to do doubly well - I’ve got to prove myself more often with fewer opportunities to receive any respect.
And I didn’t, not today. Maybe I’ll come back this time next week and try again. Maybe not. Maybe I’m just not cut out to compete in the black-dominated world of basketball.