Woke up excited: the players will be back today! I can’t wait! Stop it! You’re not supposed to be a fan. You’re the professor. Plus, you know better than to glorify college athletes. You’ve read the headlines, you’ve read the exposés: these guys have probably been tracked since they were 12, spoiled, pampered, egocentric beyond the usual adolescent norm, entitled. They’re probably jerks. Who cares if they’re back? It was better when they weren’t there and we had space to spread out and the room wasn’t so hot. I wonder if they’ve read my blog. I wonder if they’ve talked about me. Besides, those exposés are usually written by moralizing old white guys, huffing indignantly about the state of the game, hiding behind a pious claim to really care about the kids, while secretly hating them for their talent. But I really do care about the kids. They fill me with tenderness. Will the beaten up old red and black Clash hoodie I’m planning to wear seem cool to them. Idiots won’t even know the Clash. Faker: you didn’t even know about the Clash when they were playing. Does it go with my Nike sweats? The red on the hoodie is faded and doesn’t really match the red of my red and black 25th anniversary Air Jordan Alpha 1’s. Oh, and thank you for the zit on my forehead — what am I, 13? It’s shining like a beacon in the dim basement light bulb that is the sun in Ann Arbor in midwinter. Now I’ll have to wear my hat for sure, even if it’s too hot. Crap. I’ve only been up for thirty seconds. I thought I had this shit under control. It’s a good thing I have therapy this morning.
You don’t care about my therapy. If I really take the foot off the brake the whole post could veer drastically over the edge of the cliff, tumble, crash, explode and burn, and then explode once more. So I’ll try to keep it tight. I really, really like my therapist. And I’m pretty sure he really, really likes me. In fact, he once told me (cause I asked) that he thought we could be friends if he wasn’t my therapist and I wasn’t his patient. And that admission probably tells you about as much about my therapy (and my problems) as you need or want to know. Suffice it to say it’s where I go to enjoy the spectacular parade of disgusting and pathetic poses and pratfalls my mind continually trots out behind the scenes; or while I’m on the bench, sitting next to Scottie and Dennis, just before the house lights darken, the spots start to swirl madly, and the Alan Parsons Project’s “Sirius” kicks in.
So after getting my due props from the doc for following my bliss with the course and the blog we put on the hipboots and waders and went fishing in the chattering stream of fantasies, fears, and self-judgment that flows pretty much constantly through the mind of a resurgent insecure adolescent wanna-be baller who is posing as a university professor. That always helps clear the air. I’m settled and relaxed again, perspective restored, reassured that my issues aren’t deep in this case, that I’m not crazy, that it’s probably pretty normal and that I’m probably doing the best I can to manage them by just naming them and being aware of them. It’s like the scene in Maus where Artie, who has already published the first volume to acclaim and fame goes to see his therapist cause he feels guilty and awful and he draws himself child size sitting on the chair in session. But after he talks through it and gets some perspective, he is restored to his adult self.
Chuckling compassionately at my adolescent self, patting him on the shoulder with a hint of condescension, I well-nigh bound out of there, and go to teach my first class. (Great students, by the way, we’re reading dizzying Jorge Luis Borges short stories — for example, this one — and they are rocking it in our discussions: too bad they’re not college athletes or I’d write about them too. I suck.) I put on the headphones and turn on the iPod and head over to hoops class. I don’t like how fast I have to walk to get there in time. It leaves me feeling rushed, sweaty, breathless and unathletic by the time I enter the classroom. I wonder if my music is cool. Claire made me a hip hop mix a few months ago. The her cousin, Li’l Gherkin, made us a couple of different mixes. Then I made one combining the things I liked most from those two. I’m happy and buoyant listening to it; except when I’m stabbed by the certainty that as much as I like it, it must not be the really cool stuff or I wouldn’t even know about it. I pause as I enter the building to switch the song to something that I think they will think is cool if they happen to ask me what I am listening to.
Nobody asks me what I am listening to. They look bemused, as always. Everyone’s there, which is good, but they’re sitting in different places, which is both good (the players are a little more evenly distributed) and bad (early in the semester I remember names best by where people sit, until I begin to associate them with the way they think and speak). Lots to do today: we are scheduled to talk about “Only the Ball was Orange,” the section of FreeDarko’s history in which, in a series of cartoons and short descriptions, Jacob Weinstein introduces some of the best known of the many barnstorming squads that crisscrossed the country from the late teens through the 1940s. But I also have to take care of some logistical matters, like making sure everyone has chosen their elective assignments for Unit 1. And I have to attend to the helpful AV tech who is bringing me the adaptor cable so that I can project youtube clips from my laptop to the large pull down screen. I’m glad we have a lot to do. I’m businesslike and important. But it also makes me sweat more and feel disorganized because papers are all over the place, including the notes where I wrote down what we have to get done.
So I am shuffling paper, glazed and talking, and some students are straggling in so that I have to start over, and then the AV guy comes in and a player realizes that I’m gonna want to show video and he is sitting directly under the screen so he gets up to move, saying “Oh, are you gonna show video, then I’m gonna move” and I stupidly respond “Oh, uh, yeah, but you don’t hafta move.” And then, realizing my stupidity, I apologize, “Oh sorry, that was stupid I guess you do hafta move if you want to see the video and not get hit on the head by the screen.” Why do I talk so much, why do my sentences always have to go on and on and on? Why do I always have to say everything?
Logistics covered, questions answered – well and with a sprinkle of successful humor, I might add – my self-satisfaction is on the rise. Then it skyrockets! We’ve had a fun little exchange about the class and the blog and how famous writers on the internet are following our syllabus. My one student that I’ve had before says, “Yago, you blowin’ up.” And I laugh, tilt my head back and stretch my arms out to the side in my best we are all witnesses pose [LINK}. And then – here is my moment of triumph – I say, “You can’t check me.” Cash. Count it. Game. I win. Go home.
Today I have divided my notebook page into two columns. Left hand side: things I want to say about the barnstorming teams, with a few talking points and some arrows; right hand side: blank with the heading “things they say.” I tell them I have some ideas of what I want them to notice about the reading but I’m gonna keep them on the back-burner (that suddenly seems like a terribly unfashionable expression; I wish I could download urban dictionary directly into my brain like in the Matrix). I want to know what struck them as they read?
I’m impressed by the fact they’ve actually read the assignment (which I should not be since today’s reading – no disrespect to Jacob Weinstein who I think actually did a brilliant job of condensing and making interesting complex and repetitive raw material — was pretty much like reading the comics section of the paper, in terms of length and intellectual complexity). But I’m also impressed by their instincts for what is interesting.
Someone points out the humor in Weinstein’s description, giving the example of the entry on the “Hong Wah Kues,” a Chinese American team from San Francisco who barnstormed for one season in 1939. Weinstein wryly observes that one of their games was publicized with “flyers announcing ‘WAR! Grangeville to be attacked.” It’s funny. Even funnier to me, is his introduction to the Buffalo Germans, an early barnstorming team that mercilessly pounded lesser opponents: “Shrouded in mystery, this team of creepy teenagers from Upstate New York was forced into barnstorming by geographic isolation.” We laugh. I make fun of one of the players who I know is from somewhere in Upstate New York. We all pretend he looks just like the creepy teenagers in Weinstein’s cartoon: goth without realizing it.
I ought to have slowed down here. In fact, my main teaching point from today’s class is that I ought to slow down in general in class. Breathe more. Listen better to what they say. Slow down in my response. Usually I’m good at abiding silence in class. I haven’t been so good here. Then, I would be better able to push them more deeply into the presuppositions, implications, and associations of what they say. Because in this case, the humor of the section – while in some ways an incidental stylistic feature – can also be an avenue into what is most substantively relevant about the barnstormers.
Some of what now is funny – like the Hong Wah Kues poster, or the quotation from Paul Gallico’s 1920’s New York Daily News column that noted, of the SPHAS, Jewish barnstormers from Philadephia: “The reason that basketball appeals to the Hebrew is that the game places a premium on an alert, scheming mind, flashy trickiness, artful dodging and general smart aleckness” – wouldn’t have been funny then and is only funny because of the ironic distance, which is to say because we would never hold such attitudes today. Except that, maybe just a teensy weensy bit, we do. Weinstein says in the next line: “Though Jews soon faded from the courts as players, these traits continued to serve them well as they moved into coaching and managerial positions in later years.”
Good time to tell my students about irony. Not just as a trope or an attitude, but as a way of knowing in which we can simultaneously (1) know things and (2) understand (2a) how we have known them, (2b) that our knowledge is partial, and (2c) that things could actually be different than what we feel we know them to be. Irony can be a valuable component of the stories we tell. In this case, the deadpan paraphrasing or direct quoting of racist statements, framed by the comic genre, sheds a critical spotlight on that kind of statement, but without defensively over-distancing itself from the attitudes, so that we know the author doesn’t think he’s absolutely purified all such offensive discourse. What this does is let us safely acknowledge our own participation in racism, which is of course indispensable to beginning to transform it. The brilliant caricatures, some based on real photos, help – again ironically – to stress what the section’s introductory text has already told us: as funny as these teams will be, they were struggling against real issues, real issues that still exist today.
I certainly didn’t say any of this though maybe over the course of the day I described it or evoked it without actually calling it irony. And someone, it might have been me, did build off the observation about the humor in this section to notice that just about every team was distinguished either by race, ethnicity, or gender. Weinstein puts it quite succinctly when he notes that, while for some teams barnstorming was the best financial option among several, “for other teams, generally those made up of minorities, nomadism was the only option available. Like much of America’s society in the early twentieth century, these teams fell along ethnic and religious fault lines.” So, it seems, the barnstormers, in many cases, are the marginalized flip side of the early pro leagues that we had discussed on Day 3.
But as it turns out the early pro leagues were themselves the marginalized flip side of early 20th century American capital (just then flexing its post-pubescent muscle and beginning to go global) under the auspices of the WASPish ethos that held, among other things, that the “gentleman sportsman” wouldn’t deign to sully vigorous physical activity and healthy competition with an exchange of cash (see Robert Peterson’s Cages to Jump Shots for some good passages on this). That is to say that even the pros who were not minorities were often in the game in order to supplement arduous, underpaid working class jobs or to escape dead-end lives in some ethnic ghetto.
That’s why, to answer the question begged by a student observation, they’d put themselves through what might seem to us like the terrible physical and emotional punishment of traveling around the country’s nascent road network, packed into uncomfortable cars, in order to play a couple of hundred games a year. Beckley Mason, who has been a great friend to the course and to this blog, had an excellent post on John Wall maybe hitting a wall here at mid-season. Mason compassionately observed that it’s a big adjustment to play as much as the pros play, and to travel, and to be at least a little hurt all the time, and to still have to play. And that is true, but at least Wall has a crack medical staff to look after him and try to mitigate some of that. Who looked after the Rens, or even the Original Celtics when they sprained an ankle?
Someone in class says that they’re impressed that the Globetrotters beat the Minneapolis Lakers in 1948 and 1949. This is perfect for me because I wanted to show them a clip of the Globetrotters. I emphasize that the Globetrotters weren’t always primarily entertainers and they didn’t always play fixed competition. I try to get across that, in fact, up until right around the formation of the NBA (notice, I say, hierarchy, centralization) they played pretty much straight basketball. It was only after the NBA was formed and began to grow in popularity that they became what we think of them as today.
I go to set up my AV cable and the projector and to pull up the clip on my computer. Disaster, I have the wrong cable. Hold up, I tell them, just sit tight for a couple of minutes. I run down to the main office to explain. The secretary makes a call. Hopefully the tech dude will be up in a few minutes to bring me the right cable. I’m so flustered that I dash out of the office and back up to my classroom without waiting to see if she even got hold of him and if he was in fact coming. So back in the classroom I stall for time: “while we’re waiting for the right cable, let’s talk a little about the Globetrotters.”
“Globetrotters,” I say, “good or bad from the point of view of racial progress?” I think of the SNL parody of “The McLaughlin Group.” Wrong!! Sometimes I like to pose discussion points to my students in terms of either-or starkly opposed terms. My hope is that they will feel the constraint of the such binary categories; and to exercise their own powers of intellectual subtlety and nuance against those constraints and, like an angry Bill Bixby, bursting through the outworn clothes of dualistic thinking.
I’m pretty sure we didn’t really get there, exactly. Although maybe, on second thought, collectively we did. Students offered several different perspectives on the question, sometimes contradicting themselves so that I felt like they had a handle on what might be seen as problematic about the Globetrotters, but also why it might not be so simple as “the Globetrotters were and are bad for racial progress because they feed directly off tropes of black minstrelsy that in turn feed off the attitudes of slave holders.” I wished I’d been able to show them this video, which presents the Globetrotters as the precursors of contemporary cool.
I pointed out that for some who have played or written about the game, the Globetrotters are often set in opposition to the NBA. I asked them what they thought of that, or rather, I provoked them by asking “are they really so different?” Of course, they are quite different in many ways that are important. But it’s also worth noting one major similarity: in both cases primarily African-American men are employed by primarily white men to entertain by exhibiting their athletic ability to a primarily white paying public. And in both cases, each individual owner gets a bigger cut of the take than any individual players.
Just to push things a little further I brought up The Decision. I didn’t want to jump the gun too much because we’ll certainly talk about Lebron later in the semester, but the video cable wasn’t coming and we still had about twenty minutes of class left. I asked them why everyone was so mad about Lebron’s decision to leave Cleveland. Someone pointed out that it wasn’t the decision so much as The Decision. Sure, I say, so he’s a little immature, a little high on himself. So what? Does that really – I mean really – hurt the millions of people who have heaped scorn and worse on him?
Another student points out that in Cleveland people acted like they owned Lebron and that this was fucked up because it sounded like slavery. I agreed and then added that it wasn’t only in Cleveland. Enter the Q ratings discussion from a few months ago, wherein it was observed that Lebron’s negative Q ratings skyrocketed (from 24 to 44 %) among Caucasians, while basically holding steady among African-Americans. So white people hate Lebron for the decision or The Decision or both, but black people don’t. What is that about?
“This country’s racist,” a student said. I agree. And I agreed. But I also told them that the point of my raising these issues in class was not only to reach that pretty obvious conclusion. In fact, more important to me than what sort of judgment the students were to come to about the Globetrotters or the decision or The Decision or the Backlash to The Decision was the fact that we were able to take a step back – SLOW! IRONY WORKING – and to begin to make visible the invisible definitions of race, racism, and racial progress that were secretly driving our various contributions to the discussion, just as they suffuse most of the cultures of the game.
And what is true of race is also true of gender, though not only in the obvious ways such as that the women’s game doesn’t get nearly the coverage the men’s game does. It does so also in that one line of criticism of Lebron’s decision was that “he would never be The Man” in Miami. Several of my male students are practice players for the UM women’s team. We talked about that briefly. I think it’s a minor act of gender courage for a young man – who has probably grown up veering clear of the possibility of being told he plays like a girl – to assume the role of practice player for a women’s team. That is a young man who loves to play the game and who gives me hope that the next generation will have fewer hangups around gender issues than my own does.
Almost out of time, I shifted into motivational summary mode. “All our stories about basketball are informed, if only implicitly, by attitudes about race, gender, class, ethnicity, and nationality. These racialized, gendered, etc stories have been around so long, are so common, and repeated so often, that they start to seem natural to us. I want to break that, to fracture that sense of naturalness and to make those aspects of the stories seem strange. I don’t want to tell you what to think or what you can and can’t say. But I want to make you look at the way you think and talk with a critical eye so that you can make a freer decision about how you want to think and talk.”
To give an example, I told them how at the playground or gym in my neighborhood in St. Louis, where I am frequently the only Caucasian playing pickup, if I have a bad day I am ignored. But if I have a good game I will be regaled with shouts of “Steve Nash! Manu Ginobili!” or, among the older fellas, “Vinny del Negro!” or even “Ernie di Gregorio!”
“Why,” I pleaded to my students, with mock and real desperation in my voice, “Why can’t I be Chris Paul?” I mean, seriously, I don’t really play like any of those players and those players don’t really play like each other. So what’s really being noted with the names is that I’m a white player who has surprised. And that is true. But it is only part of what I am. I don’t mind it. In fact, I kinda love it when they call me Nash. But that might be because there’s not any threat to my political, economic, or civic freedom attached to the reduction of my being to race and basketball performance. But what if it was? And what if it were repeated again and again? Only not just when I’m on the court, and not to praise me, but to criticize, humiliate, and to limit me in the expression of my being; and to try to cause me to doubt the worth of my being? And not just in words, but in deeds and practices and whole legal and economic structures?
Even without all that, it bothers me a little bit, maybe almost on aesthetic grounds because it shows a lack of imagination: exactly the kind of imagination I want my students to learn to exhibit and deploy. C’mon, I sometimes want to say back, we can do better than that, we can think more creatively than that. I imagine crossing someone over and hitting a step back jumper and someone shouting out “AI!” I’d about fall down: “You are an artist!” Because why, if you’re gonna call me by the name of a player who is a million times better than me and whose signature repertoire of skills I could not possibly begin to match, why, in that case, can’t I be Chris Paul?
I wanna be Chris Paul.
Stay tuned for next week’s installment (catch Day 5’s lively and frank discussion of amateurism here) when I might actually bust out my Sheed Pistons jersey for class. In the meantime, check out these sites where Cultures of Basketball is also being followed or discussed:
Hoopspeak, where Beckley Mason has recruited some of the fine journalists and bloggers from the TrueHoop network to “take” the class, beginning with Bret Lagree on George Mikan.
Hoopism, where one of my students, Matt Gordon, will be blogging about his experiences in the course.
FreeDarko, where Bethlehem Shoals, FreeDarko.com founder and co-author of our class textbook, responds to my accounts of our class discussions on Day 2 and Days 3 and 4.
Or work your way back by looking at my lament for the leagues and possibilities devoured by the seeming inevitability of the NBA