Hip-Hop Tribe: Street Basketball

Author: Ma Mo Shang · Quan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: Hip-hop culture's top cool news, player map reveals panoramic view for the first time. A person, born in the 1970s, 1980s, or even 1990s in China, not Uganda, has a sharp memory of hunger for only 3 minutes or 3 days, not 30 years or 80 years. From the moment he enters school, he learns a, b, c, or "The wind blows, the weather warms, seeds sprout, apricot trees bloom," not "I am a little bird, wanting to fly but unable to." In the years that follow, the heroes accompanying 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 Ne; a little musician, not a thief; love, not sighs. Then we say he is happy—he graduated happily under the guidance of 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 take a nap, watch the flow of people and cars blankly, or quickly wipe away the tears from his eyes in a gloomy moment, 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 stares deeply wounded his fragile heart—like a baseball suddenly thrown into the field, he clearly wasn’t ready to take a hit. He deeply misses his childhood happiness or the ignorant years before his birth. He is extremely frustrated but cannot shout loudly—note, this is a workplace, no shouting allowed. Although he is no different from any idle person, he is clearly tightly bound by the illusion of being busy—a illusion rooted in 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 makes him panic, and panic makes him reflect on himself three times a day: Am I incapable? Was I born at the wrong time? Am I still a human being? If this kind of hard labor-like life 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 abundant on the surface, with mountains of goods piled 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 unable to control 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 university, 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 "Zhiyin" magazine, a person from Fuzhou or Xiamen, from Jinma Biji Square or Riverside Avenue, a voter, a family planning target, a dog food supplier, a foot massage worker—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 captured by sociology, we are defeated by industrial and commercial logic—regardless of whether you have a father who can cleverly escape inheritance tax, whether the wealth of the entire planet is given to you, or whether all the beautiful women on Earth are given to you, 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 toss 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 still familiar and tangible: when you please it, bubbles of happiness will rise on its surface. Sometimes, though it may be no different from a wooden bucket filled with excrement and is often deceived or used, it undoubtedly often represents the "I—not I" self, because such a belief has long been ingrained 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 endlessly—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 until the end. What’s with this basketball thing? Don’t just stand there. This is a three-on-three showdown. Three-point shot—it hangs in the air. Everyone watches me. The trajectory of the shot is perfect. Single-hand dunk. Dribbling. A brilliant pass to the basket. A cool fake move. I’m amazing. I’m guarding the whole court. Roaming the restricted area. Fast break. Grabbing the rebound. Scoring—all thanks to me. You have the ball, but you won’t shoot or cover. I picked this team, what a joke. RAP says, "You say the score stays stuck—always stuck. Why does it stay stuck? Why?" My girlfriend is cheering from the sidelines, but 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, and I’m full of anger. I’ve wanted to beat you up for a long time. Don’t think you can just leave. Tell me to look at you. Don’t tremble. Lift your head. Go talk to the first-aid kit. Don’t blame me.