For years, my childhood bedroom doubled as a nerf basketball court. At about 150 square feet, with a bed, night stand, dresser, desk and stereo, there was just enough room for ten players, a referee and an announcer. All played by me.
With the orange sponge ball in hand, I’d drive towards the plastic hoop that was suction cupped to the back of my door. I’d do hesitation jumpers, hook shots, lay ups and, in the most crucial moments, slam dunks.
The games were always All-Star match-ups. On one side, my least favorite NBA players, like John Havlicek and Rick Barry. On the other, my favorites, such as Walt Frazier, Connie Hawkins and Julius Erving. The criteria for my favorites went beyond their stardom and prowess on the court. I liked players who were flashy. Players who did tricks with the ball. Players with afros and cool sideburns.
And the player I loved above everyone was Earl “The Pearl” Monroe.
I once read that when Earl was a kid, playing basketball on the playgrounds in Philadelphia, he got the nickname of “Thomas Edison.” This was because he was always inventing new moves. When he was drafted into the pros, they called him “Black Jesus” – because of the miracles he performed with the ball. Later they called him “The Pearl.”
Like his namesake jewel, Monroe was graceful and elegant. He would fake out defenders by adopting this kind of non-chalant, almost indecisive manner. When they’d lunge for the ball, Monroe would spring into motion. Spinning, slipping, darting, dribbling behind his back, shooting, swishing. And picking up a foul in the process. Monroe’s marches toward the net were zig-zag ballets, full of unlikely counter-intuitive motions. His mind seemed to be three steps – and dribbles – ahead of everyone else on the court.
He once told an interviewer, “The thing is, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the ball, and if I don’t know, I’m quite sure the guy guarding me doesn’t know either.”
When Monroe got traded to my favorite team, the Knicks, he was in the September of his career. Prone to knee injuries, he was constantly in and out of the line-up. But the frailty and the intermittent appearances made me root for him even more. He always brought an extra helping of excitement to the game. Even if the Knicks lost, you knew there’d be at least one or two Monroe magic moments.
Meanwhile, back in my bedroom, the Pearl was unstoppable. My announcer could never find enough adjectives and exclamation points for him. “He shoots! He scores!! What an AMAZING shot! Monroe weaves himself like thread through the defense and sews up another two points!”
I’d keep score on a spiral notepad, and at the end of the games, Monroe would always have forty-plus points to everyone else’s ten or twenty.
Outside of my room, I was never good enough – or tall enough – to play basketball on the school teams. In seventh grade, I tried out and got cut in the second round of callbacks.
I was crushed.
But I remember watching a Knicks game on TV that night. Monroe was in rare form. Pretty soon I was smiling, picking up some new moves for my next nerf game.
Even if I couldn’t play on the school team, I was the Pearl in my bedroom.
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