It came from Sears.
A standard basketball hoop, anchored by a large plastic base.
My father assembled the rim, backboard, and metal support. Then he filled the cavity of the base with water from a garden hose. He screwed the cap atop the base shut and turned to my sister and me.
Alright kids. Have at it.
We took turns dribbling a basketball on the back patio. Then we took aim at the hoop.
This pattern repeated itself for years. My sister and I would head outside to battle it out, one on one, on the patio.
But this activity wasn’t relegated to our suburban home.
In nearby New York City, there were millions of basketball hoops. They could be found in parks, in courtyards and on rooftop terraces.
Most city dwellers didn’t have a backyard, like we did. They couldn’t long toss a baseball at home or hone their golf swing.
But they could hoop right in their neighborhood. And sometimes, when I was in the big city, I’d join them.
Basketball was a New York thing. The city claimed the sport as its own, and I saw no reason to dispute those claims.
But then a funny thing happened.
I was watching the NCAA men’s basketball tournament one year, and the University of Connecticut’s squad made the championship game.
As Connecticut closed in on a national title, pundits exclaimed how unusual this all was. Where was Kentucky, or Kansas, or North Carolina?
I was confused.
Basketball was a city game. It was New York City’s game. Why would some country folk in Kansas or Kentucky or North Carolina lay claim to it?
Heck, even Connecticut wasn’t exactly the big city. But it was a close enough drive away.
What was going on?
I had much to learn.
Some time later, I took out a book from the school library about Dr. James Naismith.
Naismith, I learned, was a Canada native who made his way to the United States in the late 19th century. While working at the YMCA in Springfield, Massachusetts, Naismith invented a game for the patrons there.
Naismith mounted a wooden peach basket to the end wall of the gym. Then, he had the patrons toss a soccer ball into the elevated basket.
A competition soon followed, governed by 13 specific rules Naismith authored. Basketball was born.
I was stunned. Everything I thought I knew about the sport was wrong.
Basketball hadn’t come from New York City. It had been imported from New England – its pretentious neighbor to the northeast.
If anything, the University of Connecticut had a better claim to hoops hegemony than New York did. Naismith invented the game a mere 30 miles from the university’s campus.
But there were more shoes to drop.
Naismith, as it turns out, didn’t stay in Massachusetts all that long after inventing basketball. By the turn of the century, he’d headed west to Lawrence, Kansas.
Naismith joined the faculty at the University of Kansas, and he organized a basketball team there. The sport was still new, spreading across the country through the YMCA network. So, the early Kansas teams mostly took on squads from nearby YMCAs. After 9 years of this, Naismith stepped away to take on other duties at the school.
One of the players on those Kansas teams – Phog Allen – would return coach the squad several years later, leading it to decades of success. Two of Allen’s players – Adolph Rupp and Dean Smith – would go on to coach the University of Kentucky and the University of North Carolina, respectively. Their guidance helped put those programs on the map, solidifying them among the sport’s “Blue Bloods.”
Those pundits’ mentions of Kansas, Kentucky, and North Carolina after Connecticut reached the promised land? They were no accident, no coincidence.
Yes, basketball’s roots are planted in the fields of rural America, rather than the blacktop of the big city.
And it all had to do with the particulars of a Canadian’s resume.
I might have grown up playing basketball in the suburbs of New York City. But I didn’t plant my roots there.
I ultimately moved to Texas. And I’ve spent my entire adult life under Lone Star skies.
Many in my orbit struggled to come to terms with this at first. Sure, I’d moved for a job. But it wasn’t one in the oil industry, on a cattle ranch, or at NASA. There were plenty of other places I could have gone for the exact same vocation.
I understood this apprehension. After all, I once considered Kansas a basketball afterthought. But I refused to acquiesce to it.
Gradually, the apoplectic comments dwindled. Or maybe I stopped paying attention to them.
Then, the COVID pandemic hit. And the conversation changed.
Now, my perspective didn’t shift during this time. I didn’t leave Texas at all for 17 months during the international health crisis. And I didn’t even entertain the thought of living anywhere else.
But the story was far different for others all over the country. Plenty of people saw the pandemic disruption as an opportunity to relocate. And relocate they did.
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this development. Sure, it was great to see millions planting new roots without facing a deluge of apprehension. But just how deeply were they planting those roots?
You see, over the years, I’ve come to appreciate what Dr. James Naismith did. By having a transient career, he not only spawned the game of basketball, but he helped grow it in multiple locales.
This was no small feat. There was no technology to spread news across the nation in a flash back then. And tradition ruled the roost.
Naismith had to evangelize the game in the communities where he was stationed. He had to use the scattershot geography of his resume to build grassroots connections.
He had to leave the shadow of legacy on the places he called home.
This is why basketball’s hall of fame in Springfield and Kansas’ home court in Lawrence carry Naismith’s name. It’s why Kansas’ arena is named for his contemporary – Phog Allen. It’s why Kentucky and North Carolina’s arenas sport the names of Allen’s contemporaries – Rupp and Smith.
The shadow of legacy brings gravitas to geography. Even if such geography is bestowed that legacy by happenstance.
But when a software developer writes code in Boise and uploads it to their employer’s servers in Silicon Valley, does that golden rule still apply?
I doubt it. And I mourn for our collective loss.
When I first moved to Texas, my resume matched my home address.
I was producing evening newscasts for a massive swath of West Texas, covering the daily events of Oil Country. On Friday nights, I was calling small town Dairy Queens to see if the employees knew the score of the local high school football game. I’d then report those scores on the air.
It really didn’t get more Texas than that.
Over the years, this professional connection to my state has dimmed. As a marketer in the technology space, I’ve long worked to reach national – even international – audiences. And my employer was acquired by a company based roughly a thousand miles from Texas some years ago.
Still, I take the shadow of legacy seriously.
I’ve joined groups in my city many of my personal and professional hobbies. I’ve seized many opportunities to volunteer in the area. I’ve supported across the State of Texas – in good times and bad. And I’ve supported both local sports teams and entertainers with steadfast vigor.
I might not end up as a household name in Texas, with buildings carrying my moniker. But this place is more than a line on my resume. It’s a part of me.
Texas is my home. And I want to give as much to it as it has to me.
It’s my sincere hope that those who’ve relocated in recent years consider a similar approach.
Yes, it’s easier than ever to swap out home addresses without facing a crucible. But if we cede the chance to build connection, we miss a giant opportunity.
So, let’s rebuild that connection. Let’s rediscover the shadow of legacy. Let’s nurture it and allow it to take root.
We’ll all be better for it.