Between two and four times a week, I come home from whatever it is I was doing before, I change into gym-appropriate clothes, I stuff a four-year-old Gap Kids baby bag repurposed as a gym bag with a pair of Kyrie 5s, a knee brace, extra socks, and a T-shirt, and I make the drive to one of the places I hoop. Some days itβs the LA Fitness in Bakery Square, the tiny sweatbox with no baselines or sidelines, just a wall behind each hoop where each sideline should be. Other days itβs one of the invite-only open gyms I frequent. And sometimes, when I donβt have much time, I just go down the street to the Y and shoot.
My game has changed as my body and age have; slight adjustments to allow me to still be productive when playing against people sometimes literally half my age. Iβve altered my shooting form in a way that extends the range on my jump shot. Which means I have to be guarded out to 30 feet now, leaving me more space and opportunity to guile and muscle my way past people since blow-bys just donβt happen anymore. Also, since I donβt have the staminaβor willβ to move much off the ball, I position myself 30-plus feet from the hoop when I donβt have it, which takes the man guarding me completely out the play since they donβt want to help off me. I use screens more, I very rarely shoot jump shots unless theyβre threes, and Iβm pretty much ambidextrous inside of 5 feetβa skill that helps me find angles on the backboard since I canβt/wonβt/donβt jump over and/or through people anymore.
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Between my beard, my game, and my usual on-court demeanorβwhich Iβd describe as performative bemusementβpeople have asked if Iβve modeled my game after James Harden when the truth is that James Harden has modeled his game after a 40-year-old at the Y. He is a loathsome genius, after all.
Still, despite knowing that certain feats are behind me, sometimes I still feel 21 when out there. And sometimes when that happensβwhen my legs are fresh and my joints are looseβIβll think that maybe I can still dunk a basketball. Like last night, when I was feeling warm and bouncy between games, and I tried. And I missed.
To just say βI missedβ is a misnomer, since that implies that maybe I back rimmed it or had it go halfway down and back out. Nah, bruh. Itβs a struggle to just grab the rim. So getting high enough to fail impressively ainβt even happening anymore. Now I just wish I would have known that my last dunk would be my last dunk. I would have invited family and friends and several nemeses and at least one ex to witness it. I wouldβve put it on YouTube, and a still from it would be my profile pic on each social media platform. But no one tells you when youβre on the other side of the hill. Even if you mostly look and feel the same as you did 10 years ago. You just wake up one day and feel the sun hitting you in a different place.
After playing last night, I came home and watched the last 40 minutes of the Democratic debate. The people on stage said and did the things they usually say and do. Bernie Sanders was frazzled and passionate. Elizabeth Warren was sincere and preternaturally likable. Kamala Harris was Peak AKA. Cory Booker told a funny. The other people also did the things they do, but I just donβt feel like typing their names out. I donβt have time.
My focus, however, was on Joe Biden. And how, of the candidates on stage last night, he looks most like an American president. He looks like the people on our money and our textbooks; the (white) men with libraries and schools and streets named after them. He looks so much like them that when a different type of person is cast as the president in a show or movie about politics, it sometimes feels like the casting director is being conspicuouslyβand performativelyβtransgressive. (βOh, Lucy Liu is president? Thatβs cool!β)
This aesthetic dynamic is Bidenβs biggest advantage over the rest of the field. Despite our better judgment, white men of a certain age and look are assumed to be hyper-competent. Maybe you wonβt like how he does the job, but he gets the job done. His entire schtick is that heβs the CEO-looking man in a Jos. A. Bank ad. The one in the smart navy suit and starched white shirt who grins and nods his head approvingly when his tactfully attired assistant hands him a manila folder. Or a coffee. Or a baby. Heβs a man you envision doing man things. Shaking hands, eating burgers, mowing lawns, ordering drinks, sleeping with secretaries, revising portfolios, running for presidentβshit like that.
Unfortunately, for him, he has not yet realized that his last dunk already happened. If he is the nominee, he will not beat Donald Trump. He has too much baggage, commits too many gaffes, and inspires too little excitement. As terrible as Trump is at being a person, heβs great at being a bully. And a bullyβs best attribute is the ability to pinpoint weaknesses and blind spots. Biden has so many of both that his only effective counter would be to physically threaten himβwhich he has already done.
And itβs not that the other serious contenders (Warren and Sanders) are baggage-less. Theyβre just better. Tighter. Hungrier. More competent than the man whose value is based on the representation of it. Just because heβd look good on a quarter doesnβt mean we need to place him on one.
Perhaps he realizes this, which would echo some of the suspicions of him. That his heart isnβt completely in it but heβs only running because he believes heβs the only one who can beat Trump. If thatβs his true intentβand Iβm not convinced it is, but Iβll play alongβhe should do what me and the other 40-year-old ballplayers still trying to keep up with 22-year-olds do after playing a few pick-up games. Sit down and let someone fresher take his place.
Straight From
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