If on a winter's night a basketball game
Basketball Diaries: When hoop dreams become men’s league nightmares…
An ice storm comes
This MLK Day Weekend left Portland as a DIY skating rink, cars left abandoned after sliding to the side of the road, and over 150k people without power for days.1 Basically every non-essential service was closed Saturday-Friday. Restaurants, bars, even schools. That is except for the adult recreational basketball leagues, who pounced on the chance of disaster capitalism dollars.2 My team, Rim Riot, weren’t sure we would be able to field a full five. Two of our guys lost power and/or were sick, and typically our star player cannot make early tip offs during youth basketball season due to coaching a local high school freshman team. However, the league commish assured us “the schools shouldn’t be a problem.” And he was right. Beaverton School District took care of that front by canceling practices, though eager to make the games happen the commish let us know he could “find us a guy.”3 Nobody wanted to be there.
My drive over was rerouted twice because of downed trees and power lines in the street. The parking lot was coated in a couple inches of ice. It was around 25 degrees out and the gym wasn’t better, the floor slick with cold dust. Players on the other team wore hoodies and beanies under their jerseys. The ref wore ski overalls and a thermal over his usual zebra striped shirt. When Connor made the first shot of the game he was falling backwards like there was a banana peel on the floor. Usually we have two refs on the floor, but one just sat on the sidelines waiting for the next game. I guess he wasn’t set to clock till the second game.
I’ll call this ref Allen. He doesn’t need to be put on public blast, but truthfully he is one of the essential characters for amateur men’s basketball in Portland. Everyone from the league will immediately know the guy when I bring him up and have a very strong opinion one way or the other:
“He has no consistency.”
“He calls it fair both ways and just doesn’t take people acting like assholes.”
“He’s high on a truly tiny dose of power.”
“He’s a jackass”
“I don’t know, I think he likes us. After we lost a close one he said ‘those guys are really tough but you keep getting better every time I see you all play. You’ll beat them soon.’”
“He once told me ‘I see myself in you’ after I argued a call with him, I hate that, don’t tell me that.” (choice anonymous quotes)
One game his little mop top five year old kid came running onto the court to give him a hug. Allen immediately sprung into action. In one graceful motion he shepherded the kid off the court, avoiding getting trampled on a stampeding fast break. The ref didn’t yell—just gave him back his little iPad.
Monday nights are business for the ref. In rec league basketball a player is not just paying for the gym time but also for a game with officiating. The players are customers first and foremost. And any grievances against the referee can take on the air of entitlement of a 1-star Yelp review about a server who didn’t fill refills fast enough. Allen takes pride in his craft. When an 18 year old White kid that just graduated from Lincoln High School is mouthing off and arguing with every call and needs to be told, you’re not that dude, sit down, Allen is there to say it. One second it might look like he isn’t watching the game, then the next he’s blowing the whistle and punching the air to call an and-one. This is a ref who for better or for worse inserts himself in the game, not just through a whistle and a foul call. This is a man who sees himself in others. Some might call this projection, but if I’m want to be charitable, I see a man who sees a future in basketball he can continue being a part of.
I’ve only seen Allen outside the context of basketball once. He was chasing his kid down an alley next to my apartment. I texted the Group Chat immediately. It was only a quick glance from behind. He has a classic Homer Simpson style male pattern baldness that could be anybody’s, but his gait is instantly recognizable. It’s not quite a limp; rather he swings his stiffened right leg as if part of his knee was reconstructed metal from surgery. It’s a movement that has a certain weird swagger to it. Like each step he takes is approaching the batter’s box and he’s about to put out a cigar and toss aside three bat’s he was taking warm up swings with. His kid might pretend he’s being chased by the Big Bad Wolf, but you could see the tenderness of a man only acting like a monster.
A clash of short kings
A few Mondays prior we were in a middle school gymnasium in rainy Vancouver, WA at 10pm. Winter is the thick of youth basketball season, which means for the rest of the amateur sporting world4 is left feeding on the scraps. There aren’t many people in the stands to watch these games, nor should there be. It’s something you have fun with, something to look forward to after starting the work week—nothing to take too seriously, until you do.
For the few that do, watching Rec League Sports must contain an unconventional beauty. Something akin to a quirky “ugly-cute” pet or a video of a hydraulic press destroying a beloved household item. The Rec League Sports Fan5 is not seeking perfection on the court, yet in its own way perfection inevitably can be found in its opposite. Mini snapshots of humanity in conflict. Masculinity eating itself like a bad snake tattoo. The washed up adult reliving the glory days of competition, but telling ourselves it's for the love of the game. It’s sweaty, it’s desperate, it’s embarrassing, and it’s still fun.
One such Monday in December we played this team of Russian guys for the seventh time. They are typically very tough when they have all their big men, who play physical and rebound better than any team in the league, and almost unbeatable when they add one of the best pure shooters on the outside. We’d beat them before, but never when they had all their guys. Yet despite them at full strength, on this rainy evening everything clicked for us. We were able to lock in defensively and string together enough good shots and transition buckets to beat them handedly.6
Their point guard is a strong blonde short king. He can’t really shoot at all but has a knack for using his body to draw fouls, and can jump out of the gym.7 He shot a ton of free throws in the game that brought his team back within striking distance late. So I was a little confused that he was getting increasingly upset with Allen the entire second half of the game who was giving him the calls.
It always starts with a guy muttering under his breath.
After the game the blonde player sat down next to Corbin A. Smith8 at the top of the short row of bleachers on the sidelines by the scores table. Red numbers on the scoreboard still showed an 84-79 loss for his team. Our friend Corbin was reading the new translation of The Iliad9 all game only half watching with his headphones in. But now he looked up as it approached our time for the routine post game pizza and drink at Tip Top Too.10 The blonde point guard was not shirtless beside him, jersey haphazardly thrown in his bag.
“It’s clown shit,” the blondie said, seemingly to nobody and anyone who would listen. “This guy’s the worst ref in the league.”
“Say it with your chest buddy,” the ref put his pencil down, finished writing his score sheet. “What have you got to say?”
“It’s just silly bro,” the blondie finished unlacing his basketball shoes and put on his slides. “You think you’re shit.”
“I could have called an offensive foul on you every time bro, everytime,” the ref said. “You dip your shoulder. Every. Single. Time, little man.”
The other referee stood with our team at a distance, his hoodie already zipped up hiding the referee uniform. The veins in Allen’s forearms looked ready to pierce through his skin at any second. His tattoos were the outline of the states of Texas and Indiana with the Houston Texans, University of Texas, and Indianapolis Colts logos. It was only slightly obscured by his arm hair which showed that he too was blonde once.
“Little man?” the blonde guy let out a short angry laugh. “You’re tiny bro.”
“You want to talk to me like that? You’re not even good. And you want to get suspended for nothing huh?”
“You’re comedy bro.”
“You’re not even good,” the ref was seeing red, nobody in the gym moved to step in. “You’re strong, but you’re not even good to be talking like this little guy.”
“How are you gonna say this when you’re small, my guy.”
“Do you even know who you’re talking to? I would whoop your ass when I was 40. Ask anybody. I was 5’8, 220, and cut. How big are you 5’10 215?”
“225!”
“It don’t matter, I’d whoop your ass when I was 40,” the ref let out his own laugh, seemingly more as a chance to breathe than to express anything. “It’s weight that matters, not height.”
I looked Allen up and down again. He had his slightly awkward gait. His face was tight, no wrinkles, or any signs that he smoked. Monday nights his kid typically wasn’t there, past his bedtime. I thought there was no way this guy was in his 40s.
“When you were 40 bro?” the blondie looked to his team for allies. Even though they had three guys easily over 6’5 and a 6’6 center with a long beard most would assume an enforcer, none came to blondie’s side. Instead they all chose to watch this overtime from the sidelines.
“Ask anybody,” the ref continued. “Text Julio right now? I balled when I was 40. I would have kicked your ass, because you’re not even good. Text Julio, I balled.”
“Who the fuck is Julio?”
“The owner of the league? He knows I was a hooper, and you’re not even good to talk like that”
“Whatever man.”
“Yea, that’s right whatever.”
The definitive whatever echoed through as Corbin took his earbuds out and turned to me whispering, “You don’t often get to witness a perfect moment.”
I’m not sure if either left feeling they won. The gym lights would go off as we walked up to the parking lot and into the winter cold, outside a gym kept warm by the sweat and heat of men’s bodies running past each other, sometimes colliding. It’s only after the adrenaline of the game dies down that the cold sets in. But I couldn’t tell if they too shared in my second hand embarrassment. I thought about how I can feel a closeness with someone after playing sports for hours together. Some of these guys I’ve spent much more time with than my closest friends and yet I don’t know anything about their lives. It’s still unclear to me if that closeness is artificial.
“Who the fuck even is Julio bro?” the blondie was behind us in the parking lot now clearly seeking us out. “Why did he keep mentioning Julio?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him play,” I said, the sweat could really freeze quickly underneath my thin pullover. “Good game though.”
“Yea good game man,” he said before getting in his truck.
Since that night we lost four in a row. A painful yet familiar feeling for the Rim Riot. During that same time our star player Kyler had been coaching the freshmen team of a suburban high school. They turned around an 0-4 and were up to 5-6 entering their league play. Kyler was proud to have implemented a press after other teams had run them into the ground with one the first couple weeks. We were all excited for them, and at least someone has turned things around.11
Since we took a break around the Christmas and New Years holidays the next time I saw Allen was that terrible snowy night on MLK Day. He jogged by us as we were getting ready to leave the gym. This time we were the ones feeling deflated—by the weather, gym conditions, and that we had just lost by 20.
“You should have never switched your jerseys,” he chuckled, he wore sweatpants but no undershirt beneath the ref uniform. “You haven’t won a game since you switched.”
Just behind him was the blonde point guard, running in late from the icy evening to take solace in a barely warmer cavernous gym. He was the only one sleeveless on either team. The game had started without them. I wondered if either felt they had something to prove to the other.
Fuck PGE.
At the very least he’s recouping some gym time losses by not having to schedule doubleheaders that would cost extra gym time and playing these game times with less labor costs as each game only had one ref.
He offered to help “find us a guy,” though he told us we might not be excited about the guy he finds us.
Adults playing organized hoops.
Mostly girlfriends, boyfriends, and/or Corbin, Ben, and Sam looking to get pizza after the game.
This win meant the Rim Riot made it to the Adult Rec League Playoffs for the first time. A significant feat as only the top four of 30+ teams ever make it. We played a familiar foe, mostly former Grant High School friends that we’ve traded wins and losses with. Despite going down by 20 early, our secret weapon Kyler came in late at half time still dressed in his coaching clothes coming from the high school freshman team practice he was leading. He took off his sweats, flipped his jersey inside out to match the correct color, and proceeded to lead a valiant comeback in the second half. We ended up losing a close one in the semi-finals, but it felt good finally getting over that hump and achieving the goal of making it.
I’m sure he can dunk, but really shouldn’t because everytime he tries he throws the ball off the back rim and it ends up a rebound at half court.
“Rolling Stone, Deadspin, Daily Beast, Portland Mercury, do I need to continue? Oh yea Caterpillar Steps, etc.” His podcasts, The Pacific Northwest Insurance Corporation Moviefilm Podcast and Turtle Pond Hangout. His photos are on instagram @corbina.smith
Emily Wilson’s 2023 translation that Corbin bought the week prior when he came into Portland to write.
The only good bar in Vancouver, Wa.
It's now the next generations’ turn to take things way too seriously.