Street basketball

Author: Ma Mo Shang · Quan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: A person born in the 1970s, 1980s, or even 1990s in China, not Uganda, has a sharp experience of hunger for only 3 minutes or 3 days during his early years of weaning, not 30 years or 80 years. From the moment he enters school, he learns the alphabet (a, b, c) or "The wind blows, the weather warms, seeds sprout, apricot trees bloom," rather than "I am a little bird, wanting to fly but unable to." In the years that follow, the companions who guide him forward are Lei Feng, not Qin Hui; Einstein, not Mussolini; Luo Shengjiao, who saves people by breaking ice, not Jiang Jieshi, who burns gardens; Lai Ning, who lives forever in flames, not Lu Xun, the arsonist; Tolstoy, the literary giant, not the literary rogue; a young musician, not a thief; and love, not sighs. So, we say he is happy—his graduation is marked by the heroes in his textbooks.
Afterward, what awaits him 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—his moral education has long provided him with the nutrients for success: to be a good person and do good deeds.
He wakes up at 8 a.m., brushes his teeth with Colgate, polishes his shoes with an old sock, eats soy milk and youtiao or a hamburger, and takes bus No. 1—preferring a window seat where he can gaze at the sky or daydream, watch the flow of people and cars with a vacant stare, or quickly wipe away tears from the corners of his eyes at dim moments, or suppress himself from passing gas.
Last night, he clearly didn’t sleep well. His boss’s expression made him ponder, and his colleagues’ cold glares struck his fragile heart like hail—like a baseball suddenly thrown into the field, he was clearly unprepared for the blow. He deeply misses his childhood happiness or the ignorant years before birth. He is extremely frustrated but cannot shout loudly—here, it is forbidden to make noise. Although he is no different from any idle person, he is tightly bound by the illusion of being busy, 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, he could barely afford a toilet in about half a year, and buying the space outside the toilet would clearly require 20 years of tightfisted living. This fills him with panic, and panic makes him constantly question himself: Am I incapable? Was I born at the wrong time? Am I still a human being?
If this kind of hard labor—such an expected life—cannot break his will and force him to instinctively smile at his boss or superior, he may gradually sink into despair or become a. Our era is full of props, though it appears outwardly abundant, with mountains of goods piling up. The props for sinking are alcohol, while the props for being a are obviously a place where one can shout—both require money. Without money, even the thought of suicide wouldn’t cross your mind. You’re not afraid to die; you simply can’t 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 college, a girlfriend, a resident in the fifth room on the right upstairs, a matchmaking lady, a programmer, a taxi driver, a guy who delivers letters to the second floor, a regular at a tea garden, a potential subscriber to the Zhī Yīn magazine, a person from Fuzhou or Xiamen, from Jinma Biji Square or Riverside Avenue, a voter, a family planning target, a provider of dog food, a shower attendant—you are never yourself. You can be obsessed with 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—even if you have a father who cleverly avoids inheritance tax, even if you are given all the wealth on Earth, even if you are given all the 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. Though you spend lavishly, you still can’t defecate in a public bath; though you command attention, you still can’t answer why you eat and excrete; though 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, tiny bubbles of happiness will appear on its surface. Sometimes it may be no different from a bucket of poop, often deceived or used, but 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 lot of oxygen can activate free radicals in mitochondria, the instant intoxication and forgetfulness caused by sweating can make you indulge in it endlessly—so, exercise. The gym isn’t open outside the system, and the living room is full of glassware—don’t let these inconveniences dampen your enthusiasm—go out to the street! Don’t forget to bring your ball.
If anything is wrong, just say it directly. Don’t cower in the corner. If you’re unhappy, argue until the end. What’s with this basketball thing? 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, stylish fake move—amazing, I dominate the entire court. Man-to-man defense, lurking in the lane, fast break, grabbing rebounds—all thanks to 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 stays stuck—always stuck. Why does it stay stuck? Why?" Your girlfriend cheers 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 toss the ball, my anger burns—I’ve wanted to beat you up for a long time. Don’t think you can leave. Look at me, I’m watching you. Don’t tremble. Lift your head. Take it to the first-aid kit. Don’t blame me.