Swish!
It was the telltale sign of a good shot in basketball. The audible marker of an orange ball grazing the nylon strings of a net.
Growing up, I’d watch a fair number of basketball games on television with my friends. Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant would launch that orange ball into the stratosphere. And as gravity brought it closer to the basket, I would wait for that sound.
Swish meant success. And success is what kept me watching.
My friends would often focus on other aspects of the game – the crossover dribbles, the thunderous slam dunks, the gaggle of celebrities sitting courtside. But I was fixated on that swish.
It sounded cathartic. It provided more context than the often-blurred TV picture could.
And it was something of a novelty.
You see, I didn’t just watch basketball with my friends. I sometimes played it them as well.
These informal games or shootarounds often took place on outdoor courts in local parks. We brought the ball. The park had the rest.
Well, some of the rest.
You see, the park courts wouldn’t be confused for the glamorous ones Jordan and Bryant dominated on television. Instead of hardwood, there was blacktop. And instead of nets, there was…nothing.
There’d be no swish sound to indicate a made basket. There might be the clank of the rim or the thud of the backboard if a ball didn’t make its way through the hoop cleanly. But on the purest of shots, you’d hear nary a thing.
This bothered me. So, one day, I asked my father why the nets were missing.
I think those hoops used to have them, he replied. But then someone stole them. And that will keep happening if the city put new ones up. So, they’re leaving them be.
I was floored.
I’d never considered that public basketball courts could be anything but a net benefit. I’d never contemplated how others could use that public access for bad intent.
But now the blindfold was off. And there was no going back.
Several years ago, Malcolm Gladwell took aim at country clubs.
The acclaimed author and podcast host had traveled to Los Angeles for business. But when he ventured out for a morning run, he found himself relegated to a narrow dirt path wedged between a busy boulevard and the high fences of a golf club.
Those fences infuriated Gladwell. So, he made a podcast episode about them, and lambasted what they represented.
In the episode, Gladwell questioned why a group of golfers got exclusive access to the outdoors in a car-dominant city. He pointed out that in Canada and Scotland, golf course grounds were open to the public on certain days, or in certain parts of the year.
Surely, America could follow this pattern too, Gladwell argued.
This reasoning appealed to me. For I’ve long detested country club culture.
The exclusivity. The snobby attitudes. The idea of paying dues to get outdoor access.
None of it jibed with my own experience.
When I was growing up, I swam in the ocean at public beaches. I hiked through public nature preserves. And I played those aforementioned basketball games in the park with my friends. All without paying a dime.
These adventures were formative in my life. And I felt others deserved similar opportunities.
But I realize now that things were never quite so simple.
I might have moseyed about in my youth, enjoying myself for free. But there were others who looked after the spaces I frequented. A full roster of folks who kept those locales tidy and kept me safe.
There were workers at the park who mowed the grass and cleared the trash. There were lifeguards at the beach who saved swimmers from drowning. There were forest rangers who ensured the trails at the nature preserve were safe for hiking.
These officials took their jobs seriously, and they acquitted themselves well. But one must wonder if they felt as if they were rolling a boulder up a hill.
You see, the open nature of these parks, preserves, and beaches made their work obsolete quickly. Even after their garden was tended, a new crowd would converge on the space to lay waste to it once again.
It was as if they were fastening a fresh basketball net to the rim each day, with full knowledge that it would be gone by evening. No amount of salary or plaudits makes this work rewarding. And in a vacuum, the arrangement itself hardly seems to make much sense.
So, no, the answer to the country club problem isn’t as simple as Gladwell made it. But a better solution is out there.
We just need to shift our perspective to find it.
A few years ago, I captained a neighborhood kickball team.
The team didn’t play all that well. But where we played was anything but.
All the games in our league took place at a nearby sports complex. The fields were well-designed and meticulously maintained. They were far better than some of the fields I played high school baseball on.
And the scene outside the lines was no less impressive. Knowledgeable referees oversaw the kickball contests. And representatives from the recreation department kept an eye on the proceedings, resolving any situations that might arise.
This all floored me at first.
For we were technically playing ball in a city park. A public space, open to all.
And yet, none of the associated chaos had found its way here. It was all so…organized.
Perhaps this had something to do with where we were. Namely, a small suburb outside of Dallas. There was plenty of space to be found all over town, and thus little impetus to run this complex into ruin.
But I think the orderliness could also be attributed to the fine print of the kickball league. All teams had to pay a fee to register. (The community manager for the neighborhood I live in covered those costs for our squad.)
On top of that, all property owners in this suburb paid taxes and fees – with that money supporting both the recreation department and the sports complex.
These costs, while not exorbitant, sent a powerful message.
Yes, you can play ball here. No tall fences will keep you out. But if you think you can desecrate these fields on our dime, you’ve got another thing coming.
This suburb was not letting anyone shield their eyes from those who tend the garden. That process was instead shared, allowing order to rise from chaos.
Perhaps this is the model Malcolm Gladwell is looking for. Perhaps this is the scenario my younger self would have thrived in.
There’s only one way to know for sure.
So, let’s stop treating public spaces like entitlements. And let’s start treating them as gardens to tend instead. Let’s mind the space as if it were our own. And let’s respect those tasked with maintaining it.
A little shift can go a long way. Let’s forge that path.