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Is British basketball slowly retreating, and will it ever have its time as an adequately funded sport?
You pass the threshold into a large, echoey chamber. Four brick walls, sealing the aromas of effort, climb high into a ceiling of imperceptible detail. The hardwood courts lay steady under your foot. The nets, stripped of motion, rest soundly in the air.
You fasten your trainers and grapple with your socks before testing the friction of the court. It’ll do. Your hand finds the ball’s leather, caressing its surface, finding a common ground. A hard bounce, followed by a series of smaller, punchier dribbles. You’ve found familiarity now.
Your feet find themselves in front of the hoop; its backdrop is a large fibreglass frame. You assess its composition, finding the sweet spots with the ball’s rotation. It’s just and only you. You’re disconnected from the outside world. An anguished hush morphs into a joyous silence.
The ball is now an extension of your hand; the hoop feels larger than it appears to be. You know this court; you know this sequence. You’ve found solace in something you always knew was there but had yet to register its importance.
I can’t recall the exact moment I fell in love with basketball.
It might have been when I first watched Space Jam, or when we first played it in school, or perhaps when I learnt that my godmother’s son was an unassuming prodigy in the making. I can’t tell you when it happened. I can only tell you that, without a doubt, it happened.
My growth spurt was late; when classmates adopted Adam’s apples and pubescent whiskers, I was still singing soprano in the family’s rendition of Bill Wither’s Lovely Day. I was leaving school when it eventually arrived.
My school friends and I parted way around spring 2011, only to reassemble mid-summer to find I had ascended a generous six inches into the air. I was able to ignite my latent love for basketball beyond the theory. My jump in height allowed me access to the sport. A reality that, until that point, had only been dreamt of.
I played every day, tirelessly. I drilled the fundamentals until they became smooth and instinctual.
I was fortunate enough to join an academy funded by the Leicester Riders. I would be on a team of prodigy players. The best teenage hoopers in the country, all in one house. Until now, I had only known the eight and a half feet nets that resided in the next village.
I was now a part of something bigger and more professional; until I wasn’t.
