Street basketball

Author: Ma Mo Shang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: Hip-hop culture's top cool news, the first full panorama of the player map. A person, born in the 1970s, 1980s, or even 1990s in China, not Uganda, in the years after weaning, his acute experience of hunger lasts only 3 minutes or 3 days, not 30 years or 80 years. The moment he enters school, he learns A, B, C, or "The wind blows, the weather warms, seeds sprout, apricot trees bloom," not "I'm a little bird, wanting to fly but can't." In the years that follow, the heroes who accompany him on his journey are Lei Feng, not Qin Hui; Einstein, not Mussolini; Luo Shengjiao, who saves people by breaking ice, not Chiang Kai-shek, who floods the Garden Mouth; Lai Ning, who lives forever in flames, not Lu Xun, the arsonist; the literary giant Tolstoy, not the literary rogue Zhai Jin; a little musician, not a thief; love, not sighs. Then, we say he is happy—he graduates happily accompanied by the heroes in his textbooks. What awaits him next is playing the guitar, not spinning cotton; a cool room, not catching a cold; recognition, not "Sir, give me a copper coin," family, not a courtroom; promotion, not ascension. Then, we say he is successful—he has long absorbed the nutrients of success from his moral education: be a good person, do good deeds. He wakes up at 8 a.m., brushes his teeth with Colgate, polishes his shoes with a ragged sock, eats soy milk and youtiao or a hamburger, takes Bus No. 1—preferring a window seat, where he can gaze at the sky or nod off, watch the flow of people and cars blankly, or quickly wipe away the tears from his corners of the eyes at dim moments, or force himself not to pass gas loudly. Last night, he clearly didn’t sleep well. His boss’s expression made him ponder, his colleagues’ cold glares struck his somewhat fragile heart like hail—like a baseball suddenly thrown into the field, he clearly wasn’t ready to take a hit. He yearns deeply for his childhood happiness or the ignorant years before his birth. He is incredibly frustrated but cannot shout loudly—note, this is a workplace, no yelling. Although he is no different from any idle person, he is clearly tightly bound by the illusion of being busy—a illusion stemming from a humble purpose and calculation: a house around the Fourth Ring costs 5,000 yuan per square meter. If he doesn’t eat or drink, it would take about half a year to buy a toilet, and clearly, purchasing the space outside the toilet would require 20 years of tightfisted living. This fills him with panic, and panic makes him constantly reflect: Am I incapable? Was I born at the wrong time? Am I still a human being? If this kind of hard labor-like life, which can be anticipated, cannot break his will and make him instinctively smile at his boss or superior, he may gradually sink or become a frustrated youth. Our era needs props everywhere, though it may appear outwardly abundant, with mountains of goods piling up. The props for sinking are alcohol, while the props for being a frustrated youth are clearly a place where one shouts loudly—all of which require money. Without money, even the thought of suicide wouldn’t cross your mind. You’re not afraid to die; you’re simply not in control of yourself. You’re a father, and your children won’t let you die. You’re a husband, and your wife won’t let you die—how many such identities do you play? You’re a son, a chairman, a life insurance salesman, a plumber, a freshman in college, a girlfriend, a resident in the fifth room on the right floor above, a matchmaking lady, a programmer, a taxi driver, the guy who delivers letters to the second floor, a regular at a tea garden, a potential subscriber to the magazine "Zhiyin," a person from Fuzhou or Xiamen, from Jinma and Bichijie Square or Riverside Avenue, a voter, a family planning target, a dog food supplier, a body scrubber—you’re never yourself. You can be crazy about gain and loss, but you can’t lose your shadow in the sunlight: Who are you? While being seized by sociology, we are defeated by industrial and commercial logic—we even if you have a father who can cleverly escape inheritance tax, even if you are given all the wealth on Earth, even if you are given all the beautiful women on Earth, even if you rule like an emperor, you are inevitably trapped by this logic. Because your instinct tells you: the Chinese yuan is for spending, not for heating. Although you spend lavishly, you still can’t defecate in a public bath; although you command attention, you still can’t answer why you eat and excrete; although you are incredibly smart, you still don’t know which coin to drop into the prize pool to make 5 million yuan fall out.
Finally, we must turn our attention to our own bodies, though it is as perishable as thoughts, trends, spirits, souls, education, status, identity, reputation, and other unreliable terms, it is at least familiar and tangible: when you please it, bubbles of happiness will rise on its surface. Sometimes it may be no different from a wooden bucket holding excrement, often deceived or even exploited, but undoubtedly, it often represents the "I—not-I" self, because such a belief has long been instilled in your heart: thoughts are others’, only the body is yours. OK, when you firmly believe in your body, start to dominate it—it is your only property. Whether life lies in movement or stillness is unimportant. While consuming a large amount of oxygen can activate free radicals in mitochondria, the instant intoxication and forgetfulness caused by sweating can make you indulge in it, enjoying it without end—so, exercise. The gym is not open outside the system, and the living room is full of glassware. Don’t let these inconveniences your enthusiasm—go to the street! Don’t forget to bring your ball. If anything is wrong, just say it directly. Don’t stay in the corner if you’re unhappy—argue it out. What do you know about basketball? Don’t just walk away. Three-on-three, bullfighting, three-pointers—its trajectory hangs in the air, everyone watches as it arcs into the basket. Single-hand dribble, layup, brilliant pass at the basket—cool moves, stunning me. I guard you all, roam the lane, fast break, grab the rebound—all scored by me. You have the ball but won’t shoot, won’t cover—what kind of teammate are you? You’re blind! RAP says, "You say the score, it keeps lingering, why does it keep lingering? Who made it linger? Why?" My girlfriend cheers from the sidelines, yet you make me look foolish. Tell me, how did you steal my ball? Tell me, how did you hit my hand? Is it because you don’t want to live? Tell me how to face me. I throw the ball, my anger burns—I’ve wanted to beat you for a long time. Don’t think you can leave. Look at me, don’t tremble. Lift your head. Take it to the first aid kit. Don’t blame me.