An Unfulfilled Vocation

Changing from a basketball-generic name like HardcourtHoops.com to AYoungSabonis.com isn’t something upstart websites usually do. Rather, in heading towards the boundary between obscurity and prevalence, the leap between the riverstones of kitch and sensibility is more upstream than down. I’d like to tell you that I’ve renamed this website for some macabre, ironic yet saccharine sweet reason. That in going from a generic, widely recognizable branding effort to one that is obscure enough to turn away even more-than-casual readers at first glance of the domain, I’ve somehow sold up instead of selling out. Admittedly, I cannot.

As a sports writer, the pending urge to scream at the television in drunken stupor becomes dampened as any semblance of career advancement, notability or concord with the journalism community creates slivers of opportunity. From within the bowels of major metropolitan newsrooms echo the tic-tac typing of young beat reporters on laptops reaching for recognition, excellence and enough time time on the clock to appease the rage of his editor. Students of journalism become the mechanism of journalistic integrity and tradition.

I can’t say that I’m among those who have destined themselves to be part of such a culture. The patience to listen to the faculty of the journalism department during my time at univeristy escaped me entirely. Friends entered and exited the program in the most dichotomous way with internships, writing samples and managerial titles to their name but with hardly a sniff of employment to tide their growling bellies. The ones who have been fortunate to realize their pursuit are most assuredly following the starving-writer stereotypes even they themselves could not craft more perfectly.  On a personal basis, I follow several individuals whose writing I respect greatly and have haphazardly mimicked their cadence, structure and approach in my work the way only an untrained amateur can — by sight and guesswork.

Despite my lack of formal education, I’ve managed to pen my way into serendipity. In addition to being the sole proprietor of this website, I’ve contributed to TheHoopDoctors.com as well as upcoming work for Dime and Bleacher Report. Each avenue allows me different harmonies of the same tone, my voice ringing passionate and explanatory on one platform, measured and succinct on another. The need to use a single soapbox in all of the sports world’s squares has since faded, the mobility of the situation taking precedence while blurring the true vision for my own, self-edited forum. One-by-one, as opportunities arose I began to ask myself, “What should be the focus of Hardcourt Hoops?”

When I was a youth, my schoolmates and I would spend countless orange, sunkissed evenings on the rounded asphalt of our suburban Oregon streets. The urge to envision ourselves as our NBA heroes vanquishing their respective foes took over our attachment with reality and the likes of Michael Jordan, John Stockton, Gary Payton and Rasheed Wallace all made appearances within the chalk lines. Yet unequivocally, the most entertaining and fought over subject was the rights to the persona of Arvydas Sabonis. The assumption of his character in our narrative was unquestioned, no matter the circumstance. A player made a few sweeping pass fakes on the low block. Sabonis. If you stepped out from 3-pt range to drain a bucket. Sabonis. Made hook shot from anywhere on the court. Sabonis. Came up with a fierce block in the post. Sabonis.

The great thing about our game was that the archetype of Sabonis was a patchwork of imagery we’d compiled and projected onto the Lithanian giant that was, mostly, unlike his authentic self. Arvydas Sabonis, to our young minds, was the man who showed a finesse touch while battling his weight, injury, age and the demons of younger, athletic players who seemed to dominate him on a nightly basis. While our imitations rang true to Sabas’ game when completing a flashy pass or hitting a spot-up 3-pointer, we found no end to the hilarity of excess displayed when taking flamboyant charge or dominating on the defensive low block. It wasn’t the greatness of Sabonis’ game that we enjoyed, it was the irony of his weaknesses.

After being drafted by the Blazers in 1986, Sabonis didn’t find his way to the NBA until 1995 due to myriad political issues. By the time he arrived, Sabonis was a shell of his former athletic, explosive player seen in the 1988 Summer Olympics. Even still, Blazer fans, especially those deeply involved around the turn of the century, proved to be an especially faithful, optimistic and loving group in supporting the Lithuanian center. Of all the players that filtered through the second era of Trail Blazer prominence and disappointment (’99-’03) there’s not one of them that was loved more than Arvydas Sabonis.

He epitomized the struggle of the small-market team looking to triumph over old-world basketball royalty and taste ultimate victory. Sabonis never had the skill set during his American tour to help the Blazers win a championship, but we cheered for him anyway. We convinced ourselves that he would succeed because of the sheer power, the communal exercise of will generated by the noise in the stands.  When we cheered for the Blazers, we weren’t just cheering for them against the Lakers or the Spurs; against Kobe or Sean Elliot. We were cheering for Sabonis to overcome all the obstacles that stood in his way and become Sabonis.

In journalism, limitations for an author usually arise because of a few important factors — talent, experience and bias to be exact. To report a story, despite our best efforts, inherently requires that a writer become part of the history of that event. That they are there to interact with players, speak with fans or view the game in-person or from afar colors any story with these three factors. In choosing a direction for a personal NBA website, I’ve looked at my current options and decided this: There is a place for all kinds of writing in the world of sports, and from within a sports writer. Facts, dates, names and numbers make up the basis of journalistic standard, but on a baser level sports journalists are sports fans. So too can there be a place for silliness, for bias and colored writing that may not stand the test of time, standards or even reason.

Like our love for Arvydas Sabonis, writing as a fan of the game doesn’t always follow logic. Instead, it often stays the path of passion; of pride and inconsistency. Fandom can be a frustrating, confusing and elating occupancy. Like Sabonis’ career, the life of a fan often has both definite and unfulfilling answers. As Sabonis stepped onto the court in 2001 with his slicked-back hair, expanded gut and old-school wristbands, we were reminded of what the young, 1986  Sabonis could have been. We saw that, in different circumstances, we could have seen the Sabonis we all wanted him to be. For better or for worse, we never saw that Sabonis. And that’s okay, because we loved him anyway.