Black & White
The Blazers had 3 Shots on goal in the last 20 seconds of the 4th quarter, we were down by 3 and all 3 bricked.
It was heart breaking.
Orlando Magic seemed like they were a better team for the first half. But then we had a good few streaks. We, as if I and the Blazers make up parts of a whole. It did feel that way though. The crowd cheering and booing and drinks and food all together, mixed into a cocktail, shaken, not stirred. The workers keeping us in our places. Secure.
I thought about happiness in my work and how little smiles I saw from the players.
Not that happiness is evident when you're doing work that is fulfilling. I love woodworking, but I'm not laughing the whole time. I enjoy making Excel spreadsheets (I know, I'm sick in the head but they don't make medication for it yet).
I'm not usually smiling when I'm working on them. I get excited to solve a problem. These are some of the most elite athletes in the world. Genuinely.
All of these men followed their dreams, they followed Steve Jobs advice better than he did. This was an incredible gamble. My guess is that they enjoy basketball in a way that I cannot, when the mechanics are so rote that they are thinking a level above what is possible for me.
Instead of thinking about the story, they are instead thinking about the shape of it. Instead of just hearing the song, they see it's influences and how it was formed and informed by all that came before. They are five moves ahead and I can't even see the queen.
This is their job. They were focused on their work. Damian Lillard wasn't happy about the half dozen dunks he made or shot from half court, he was focused on those he missed. He came to work, hard. Same as the person wiping the floor to keep it clean between plays. Same as the security guards who kept rich folks from walking on the court after the game. Same as the vendors who were huddled up laughing as I walked to my car.
All the workers in concert together.
A colosseum without the blood. All the energy of a riot, all the anger of a scorned lover, and all the joy of hoping against hope and your hope being rewarded.
I was close enough to the game that I recognized players by their faces, not their numbers, one of them was in my seat when I arrived and I had to kick him out (ask him very nicely, “Would you please move?”).
It's amazing how giant the players are first, and second, all but a few were black, and all but a few were white in the seats that cost $50,000 for the season. I want to be clear, I did not belong in these seats.
When someone from my party reached out to high five someone from the team as they left, he stepped aside. The look said, “You don't own me.”
Which made me think, did the guy think he had a right to touch one of the players because of the seat he sat in?
I have to wonder about the players experiences. About how, at least in America, they see the difference between those that can afford the tickets to see them closely, and those that look like them, are further back. It's stark.
It's black and white.
A kid went up to Gary Patton II and Gary got down on his knee to get down on his level, “You are valuable”. It might have been the coolest part of the night. That kid will remember it forever.