From Crying on the Bench to Crying About Clippers Games: A Brief-ish History of My Basketball Life
I grew up in an exceptionally athletic family. My dad was a hometown hero—a kid who threw no-hitters and was destined for the big leagues before Vietnam started drafting for different uniforms. Nearly every one of my dozen cousins was built to dominate some sport, if not every sport. Except me.
Not for a lack of effort.
I threw myself into softball, determined to prove my worth despite my lanky limbs only managing a tragic sidearm from second base and a brief, ill-fated stint as a barely-second-string pitcher who almost always cried on the mound—resulting in many, many “There’s no crying in ba—softball!” talks (none of which featured Tom Hanks).
Then came the Red Hill Country Club Swim Team, along with all my cousins, in matching swimsuits. My goggles would fill with tears as I flailed through the final half-laps, watching everyone else celebrate with their (my) families at the wall. My proudest athletic achievement? Placing 12th in Butterfly. Out of 12. A solid two minutes behind the rest of the competition at the semi-whatever-tournament no one should have signed me up for.
By eighth grade, I was exhausted from pretending I could keep up with my cousins, all of whom seemed to make varsity everything before they hit puberty. Still, the pressure was relentless—especially because I had two cousins who were also girls, who were my exact same age, and who could sprint, spike, or score at anything. Meanwhile, I was taking magic classes at the YMCA, begging to audition for plays and getting in trouble for secretly auditioning for and making honor choir.
There was only one recourse to
prove to my family that I was not athletic:
To try out for a sport
I was certain— and would make certain—
I would not make.
Basketball.
When I tell y’all I did not do shit at tryouts, I really did not do shit. While everyone ran laps around the court to warmup, I walked. When the coach told me to aim at the square to shoot, I shot for everything above, below and beside the white backboard. During drills, I stood directly below the hoop to get hit in the head with the ball rather than grabbing it and passing it back out. After routines were over, I remember laughing to myself all the way to the locker room, planning the monologue for my parents about how hard I’d tried and how sad I was that I was simply more cut-out for the upcoming local production of Peter Pan.
The bulletin board outside the gym was swarming with girls, girls that actually tried when they tried out, to see the final roster of who made the Pioneer 8th Grade Girls Basketball team. I did not have a cigarette in hand, although I should have, the way I smugly strolled up to act surprised not to see my name.
But there it was.
I made the fucking basketball team.
I ran to my mom’s car and immediately went full sport mode (me crying about sports). I spilled my whole diabolical plan to fail at basketball so everyone in the family would stop hassling me to be athletic when I wasn’t, and to stop comparing me to my talented cousins— who very obviously made the team, and were the only reason I did too. “They just didn’t want to cut the retarded cousin!” I wailed. “I can’t play! I don’t want to play!”
I ended up “playing” the whole season
because my mother said it was a
”lesson in commitment.”
So I sat the bench, game in and game out, with half my family in the stands cheering my cousins on—ultimately proving my point that I was not athletic
Except for one short quarter.
The coach put me in for a minute.
And I shot the only shot I ever shot.
It was a 3.
AND I MADE IT.
I was immediately taken out of the game, and I was very upset about it. I think I would have remembered if I had cried, but given my history, we can assume I probably cried (at least privately).
And that was the end of my basketball career.
As a writer and comedian, I have a rolodex of emotional memories: the good, the bad, the petty as fuck (and ugly if I have to) memories. My recall is often jarring to people and weirds them out, like I’m just carrying around all this good, bad, Kylo-Ren-Destroying-Motherboards-Brattiness, and ugly shit on the daily when the truth is, I can flip my fingers to whatever index card I need to pull up to tell a story.
And for a long time,
this index card basically said:
“FUCK THOSE COACHES!”
They were holding me back! Holding back my hot hand! Disregarding the incredible skills I never learned or practiced but somehow had unlocked! As if I was meant to be a 5’4” Jordan, Shaq, Rodman or Kobe! (Those were the only players I’d heard of.)
But recently I had a realization that maybe— just maybe— those coaches weren’t trying to crush my spirit. That even though many of the adults in my life diminished, denied or simply ignored my talents, that maybe they were trying to do right by me. That just maybe they wanted to preserve my moment of greatness, like, “You know who needs a flawless 3 point record in their life? The retarded cousin.”
And they were right.
Because although I actively refused to participate in fast breaks, didn’t pay attention to lessons on pick & rolls, and couldn’t box out a bitch with my scrawny ass if I tried; and despite feeling like a fucking loser most of my childhood, now when I pull up that index card, it says: “I’ve never missed a three.”
Which has come in handier than I ever imagined,
considering I never imagined myself ever
becoming an obsessive basketball fan.
But I also never imagined being quarantined for a year and divorcing my partner of over a decade, neither I would have gotten through as well as I did if it wasn’t for basketball.
The first professional basketball game
I ever attended was in 2013.
The Clippers. LOB CITY.
🎵 LOB LOB CITY BIIIIITCH.🎵
It wasn’t intentional. My boyfriend’s company had a suite at Staples (IT WILL ALWAYS BE STAPLES CENTER, I DON’T CARE) but it was only ever available for Clippers games. Growing up in a baseball household, I’d never experienced anything like it, and immediately fell in love with the pace and chess-like athleticism required of the game (and Blake Griffin with the dunks).
I only became obsessive about it in 2020. I was desperately trying to save my marriage, and basketball was something we both loved, and we both loved the Clippers. The Bubble became my life. It was the only way I felt I was still bonding with the man I married— the same man that took me to my first Clippers game— while also giving me extra therapy sessions, just yelling at the television instead of yelling at my husband.
But it was more for me than anything. The Clippers embodied me. The maligned team constantly compared to the Lakers. A chip on their shoulder the size of a crater. The underdog everyone underestimated, that is undermined by the systems they are forced to operate with (the media, the refs, and the overall conspiracy to keep the Clippers down at all costs but I digress). That wasn’t only how I felt as a kid in my family, but it was also how I felt in my career as the wine editor of Bon Appétit.
While it is ridiculous to compare myself to literal NBA superstars, I couldn’t help but see myself in the Clippers over the last few years.
Kawhi being labeled the poster boy of load management and rallying so hard against it (to his own detriment) didn’t feel too far from the frustration I had being labeled an “influencer.” Norman Powell being ignored two years in a row for the All Star 3 point contest and for 6th Man of the Year despite putting up better numbers and showing more skill than other candidates brings back memories of James Beard Foundation nominees. Westbrook’s unwavering determination to run into a crowd of defenders in the paint only to undermine his own talent. Same with Harden’s confidence. And PG, who ultimately led the way for the team for most of the 213 era, being blamed to hell and back for any misstep while the successes went without any equally loud recognition.
These aren’t issues exclusive to the Clippers or to me. They’re universal themes everyone experiences in their lives— being doubted, unrecognized, straight up pushed aside, shit talked, etc. Everyone has felt those things. And while I can’t say that’s why people are Clippers fans, I also would never believe that isn’t part of it. Because basketball, in many ways, is no different than great art.
You can love a team or a player just because you fucking love them, and you can see yourself within them, even if no one else sees the same thing— just like standing in front of a canvas at a museum. You could be like, “Bro, THAT’S ME!” and your random date could be like, “What the fuck are you talking about, those are just some dumb-ass shapes.”
But at the end of the day,
art is subjective.
Basketball is not.
Teams objectively lose; no matter how skillful the game play was, no matter how much you enjoyed it. Kawhi can stoically own the paint. PG can go on a run raining 3 pointers. Harden can single-handedly slow the shot clock with his handles. Russ can make layups that are mathematically impossible. It can be the most beautiful basketball game you’ve ever fucking seen, and you’re still a fucking loser at the end of the night.
But that doesn’t mean you’ll be a loser forever.
Or so I have to believe.
Which is why I am so addicted
to the Clippers.
Even though their loss against the Nuggets after we traded Reggie Jackson and his first game back that motherfucker put 40 god damn points on our heads and I cried over a plate of deviled eggs.
I also cried that same season when we won our first playoff game of 2023 against the Suns and both Kawhi and PG were injured.
I feel I have lost the plot in this,
but so it goes at 3:09AM.
But basketball has given me
something to believe in,
including myself.
Even if it is just because I was brave enough
one time, to shoot a shot.
Speaking of shooting a shot…
I’ve started a separate Substack for my basketball writing because I’m not sure how many basketball fans want to also read about my emotional journey of learning how to fry eggs or some shit.
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