Basketball Jones

The NBA playoffs are in full swing. I understand the Cavs swept whoever they were playing in the 1st round. Back in the day I would have known who the Cavs played in the first round. I would have had the whole season and post season schedules memorized. I haven't been motivated to watch a basketball game in years. Those of you who've known me for a while know that I had a major basektball jones. You also know who I commonly refered to as my "babies' daddy". Yeah, Mr. Anfernee "Penny" Hardaway. Well, I walked into him (literally) here in Miami when he did his little 8 game run with the Heat. Seeing him reminded me of my jones, and inspired this. Enjoy.

Basketball Jones

I know you can remember that first time. That first time when the hair at the back of your neck stood up and your heart skipped a beat. Then another beat and your breath caught in your throat. You knew, you knew this had to be love.


I remember. I remember the first time I laid eyes on him. I was like eight years old. He was rocking that classic gold and purple. He was like mad tall with Hershey, caramel, porcelain shaded skin.


In the beginning I didn’t understand him well. There was a lot to learn about him because he could be complicated, yet it was the simple things about him that attracted me to him. There was a childlike quality to him. Something innocent and pure. Very pure and honest. Honest and free.

I think maybe that is what I liked about him the most. That he was born into a world with dishonesty, prejudice, racism and hate, but even though he lived amidst it he was able to free himself of those constraints. With him there were no color barriers, no social barriers, no gender barriers. With him everyone had equal right to the freedom he offered.

Through the years I kept my eyes on him and what had started off as puppy love grew up. I remember his rhythm. He was strong and agile, yet graceful, even beautiful in the way that he moved. The way that he carried himself. The way that he took possession of the space that he was in. He owned it. Electrified it. Brought it to life. And when he moved everyone moved right with him. Jumped with him. Soared with him. Flew with him.


He was exciting. His passion is what generated this excitement that emanated from him, and infected everyone that came into his immediate presence. He made my heart beat faster and set butterflies dancing in my stomach. He caused smiles to cross my face.

I remember holding him in my hands. Cradling him. Creating our own rhythm. When I was with him it was like I could do anything. I could be anyone. I could go anywhere. When I was with him I felt confident. I felt invincible. I felt powerful beyond measure. I felt beautiful.

I remember I used to have this fear of being ushered out of the back ground and into the fore ground. He never had any problem being in the foreground, and he pushed me out of my shell. He held my hand and let me have some of his shine. And I basked in it. I reveled in it. I loved it and I loved him.

He challenged me to break out of the stereotypes. Step outside of the confining box that society had sentenced me to. He taught me to never give up. Even when it seemed like the clock had stopped and time had run out he never gave up. He would always pull some trick out of his hat that really made me believe that he was super human. He taught me that anything that I wanted I was gonna have to fight, and if I made up my mind to fight I better bring it cuz he always brought it.

He was all I thought about. All I talked about. All I dreamed about. He consumed me. Burned in me. I watched him and I became captivated by him. When he moved, he spoke and when he spoke he spoke volumes. Loud. His voice shook me. Encouraged me. Scolded me. Complimented me. Loved me unconditionally faults and all.

Then I grew up. He grew up. We grew up. His shorts got longer and his kicks got flyer. He shaved off his Afro, and sported the bald look. His favorite number switched form 32 to 23. He didn’t sport that classic purple and gold any more. Instead he wore that red and white. He moved from La La land to Chi-town. And I fell even more in love with him.

Then I don’t know what happened. Things just started to change. He started to change. I started to change. We started to change. There wasn’t no more sitting in front TV for hours on end. No more weekends, weekdays, weeknights spent together.

I was angry at him at first for changing. I felt like he had sold out. He sold out so more people would stand his corner and hoop and holla. He forgot about those days we spent on the hot asphalt when the folks around him were there because they loved him, and didn’t give a damn about how much money he could make them. After the anger subsided I knew that things between us would never and probably could never be the same.

Then you know what happened. The other day I literally ran into him. My eyes traveled up his six foot seven inch frame and I remembered. I remembered when I was fifteen years old I used to watch him push that rock and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I wondered if he could still make me fly. If he could still inspire the best in me.

Even, though, we went our separate ways, I now realize that he was still a part of me because the lessons he taught me transcended our estrangement. It transcended the years because love transcends everything.

I remember the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds we spent together. I remember his rhythm. I remember the smell of his sweat, the feel of him, how his muscles flexed. I remember when I fell in love with basketball.