“There are really only two plays: Romeo and Juliet, and put the darn ball in the basket.”
– Abe Lemmons
At the end of his life, the great French painter Henri Matisse took to making paper cutouts due to health problems that left him bedridden and unable to paint.
Although a simplistic art form usually favored by children, in Matisse’s masterful grasp, scissors, paste, and paper made for some of the most wondrous works of the 20th century. In fact, many leading art historians consider Matisse’s cutouts, including his famous creation “The Snail,” to be his very best – the lines pure, the colors vibrant, the composition inspired.
It was as if Matisse used his physical limitations to focus his immense imagination, much like a poet might use a restricting form such as Haiku as a means to carefully choose the most powerful, meaningful, impassioned words.
So what do Matisse and his cutouts have to do with basketball and my aging body?
Let’s start with the upcoming NBA draft and the certain prospect that for the umpteenth year in a row since I graduated college, I will be completely ignored in the selection process. Keep in mind I never actually was good enough to play for my university, relegated instead to intramural league mediocrity and the occasional nerf “tips” game triumph. And in the ensuing years, I toiled in deserved obscurity on a variety of hardscrabble indoor and outdoor courts. Yet, illogically, I still dare to dream of hearing my name called out by the NBA Commissioner on draft day: “John McCaffrey, combo (meal) guard, taken in the first round by….”
I can see myself using the guard rail to hoist myself up to the stage, shaking hands with the commissioner while my middle-aged peers whoop it up in the audience, or at least clap a few times before sitting back down on an orthopedic cushion. I see myself at the podium, squaring the hat of my new employing franchise atop my head, twisting the bill so it covers my receding hairline at a rakish angle. And when I’m asked to say a few words about what I will bring to the table for fans next year, I smile with humility and say, “hustle and heating pads.”
But, of course, there’s reality: hamstrings as tight as piano wires; knee joints that crack and pop like machine gun fire; ankles so weak they’d roll over in a stiff breeze; an arthritic left hip and a rusty gate for a lower back. In sum: I’m falling apart – not yet bedridden and unable to dribble, but certainly a good candidate to take up a less demanding sport like, say, foosball.
But I don’t want to quit just yet. I can’t imagine not playing basketball ever again, not lacing up sneakers and calling out “winners,” striding onto the court filled with anticipatory energy. Leaving with the delicious adrenaline rush of competition.
Which is where Matisse and his cutouts relate: I’m hoping that like the great master, I can also discover, albeit on the court, longevity within the confines of my diminished bodily capacities. Perhaps I can circumvent the fact I can’t jump over a nickel by improving my “elbow to the defender’s throat, lean back and shoot” move. Or stop baseline penetration not with quick footwork but with well-timed flops, pretending to be run into and scooting backward across the floor with a wild grunt and the words “offensive foul” flinging from my lips.
The whole idea of revamping my basketball game this way, tailoring it to fit my incapacitated self, fills me with renewed hope – even excitement. I’d like to believe that Matisse felt a similar thrill at the end of his life with scissors in hand, slapping a little glue while he worked.
No matter what, it’s good to have hope, and even better to dream.
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