Desi Manifesto Blog: The Forum for South Asian American Men

[Blogger: S.I.] Despite the traveling, heated arguments, twisted ankles, disputed calls, and guys who can’t make layups instead choosing to jack up contested three pointers, I somehow tend to enjoy pickup basketball.

In sociological terms, it’s one of the few places where you can get a wide mix of ethnicities, ages, and incomes working together for a common goal. Guys who would normally be scared of each other (and probably still are) play on the same squad and bond through winning.

Consistently, however, South Asians are the underrepresented ethnicity on the local courts. We can ruminate on the reasons, but per my experience, we’re rarely there. So when I see another mud person, I have a mixed reaction. 1) “Good, another darkie. Maybe he has game, we can be on the same squad and play without too much prejudice.” Then, immediately, 2) “Wait, he’s a darkie. This could be the first time he’s stepped on a court. Oh, he missed a layup. While practicing. It’s over. And he’ll want to be on my team just because we’re both brown.”

You’re probably wondering if I’m one of the low-to-no skill players who I’m mentioning. Well, my father has commented with faux-disgust (I think it was faux, anyway) that I may have some black genes in me, if that racial tidbit clears things up.

On a recent Sunday, it was with this mix of curiosity, goodwill, and trepidation that I observed a random Indo baller I saw. The checklist was as such:
*Height: 6’2’’ or taller, so that’s not bad.
*Size: He’s pretty jacked up. Maybe he has some black genes in him, too.
*Practice routine: Ugly. Can’t shoot very well, but likes to do so anyway. Seems afflicted with “Pickup Game” Syndrome.

As he continued to build a new Taj Mahal, brick-by-brick, I determined that, despite his lack of a shooting touch, his height and bulk would come in handy, and it would actually be good to be on the same team. This is not a sentiment I have often, usually trying to focus on basketball and not my shared ethnicity with a South Asian who stinks up the court. But for once, I was open-minded. I was welcoming. And I was on the other team, going against him.

I’ve noticed that, on the few occasions I play against another South Asian, it’s hard for me to go shut-down on defense. I want him to be able to score, because every time he scores, it speaks well of our people. Too much analysis? Perhaps. Not enough analysis, because letting him score speaks poorly of our people’s D? Perhaps. Though I think getting invaded a couple of times also speaks poorly of our D.

So, I let him take his shots while giving him very little body. Basically, defending like my hometown Wizards, bless their hearts. He made a couple. Great, I thought. We look good. And I was making mine. So all was well in equilibrium.

Until, on another equally harmless defensive effort, he missed.

“Foul!”

Mystified, I gave him the ball back. Perhaps there was more contact than I had imagined. I mean, even priests make more physical contact than they intend to, so I let it go. Next play:

“I got it man!”

The villagers were getting restless. My idyllic worldview of a united minority was being torn asunder by a player who, while generous with the elbows and shoulders on offense, appeared very much like a chota bitch on defense. I decided I could spare him one more—

“Y’all are just hacking me!”

Like Krishna in the story of Shishupala (read your Amar Chitra Katha, kids), I could no longer cut him any slack. I proceeded to go after him on D, ensuring that any future fouls would be earned. And on O, I drained multiple jumpers in his face.

“Hmm. Good shooting man.”

(sense of modesty) “Yeah. Having a good day.”

“I know. You missed like 30 of them practicing.”

Wow, was he a Naxalite? This guy could start a separatist movement with his lack of unity. From that point on, he wasn’t just Indian. He was a bitch who made us look bad. And, after a tight and hard-fought game, my team prevailed, with me scoring the winning bucket on my hater.

After the game ended, he shot around as I was still practicing. In between bricks, he looked over at me:

“So, what’s your ethnicity?”

“I’m Indian.”

“What part are you from?”

“My family’s from Bangalore.”

“Yeah, Bangalore, I know that place. I’m Goan.”

Perhaps it was a little too late for that. At that moment, who he was, at least on the court, was more important to me than his skin color.