Between the rim & Reality

There’s a moment in basketball when a shot clangs off the rim and the ball hangs in the air, caught between what was and what could be. We know this as a rebound, an opportunity, a chance to reset,  or to try again. Joy, as it turns out, works the same way. It doesn’t disappear, it lingers in between moments, waiting to be seized.

When Jimmy Butler confessed earlier this year that he’d “lost his joy” in Miami, I wasn’t surprised. I and anyone who watched could tell from watching that something was different. Maybe it was the money, maybe it was bout the roster, or maybe sometimes lifes just hits you hard and shit just happens. But those details aren’t the point. What matters is, the joy was gone, and how does one get it back?

I’ve been living in Mexico a little over two years now, and I get what Jimmy Butler meant when he said he’d lost his joy. Settling into the Yucatan allowed me to recognize places in my life I had lost my own joy. The things that drove me and inspired me were changing. Along the way, I realized my passion for basketball was also evolving. I wanted more than what NBA league pass and highlights could offer. Season tickets were not even enough to fill what i was longing for. I continued my journey and found joy in the hidden angles and arcs of the game. I found peace in the sound of my own dribble at the park in morning. I found satisfaction in the writing about it all. There’s a poetry in the game that I never noticed until I stepped back and became a student of the game and its flow.

Everyone from players, to people, to our pets, want purpose. Butler finds fulfillment off the court in hawking his expensive Big Face Coffee. Something that  started in the bubble is now a sanctuary where he trades playbooks for pour-overs, reminding us that passion doesn’t need a jersey to matter. And then there is Derrick Rose, Chicago's prodigal son who found freedom in a flower shop. After retiring last year Rose opened a pop-up flower shop in the heart of the city, handing out roses to fans who braved freezing temperatures to meet him. The same hands that once palmed basketballs now arranged petals. His joy, once dimmed by injuries and unmet expectations, found a new form, not in points per game, but in the quiet act of giving.

I learned that psychologists call this “self determination theory” —the idea that fulfillment comes when we control our narrative, master our craft, and foster genuine connection. Butler and Rose are examples of mastering a new craft, and choosing to connect intently to find their own new rhythm. And guess what? Surprise, surprise a week after a blockbuster deal sent him to Golden State, Butler sat before cameras,and he looked freer, lighter,and unburdened. The Warriors, much like a perfectly placed screen, gave him the opportunity to rediscover the joy he thought was gone. (Or maybe it was just the $121 million he secured from the Warriors.) 

And then on the other side the business of basketball. The NBA is a machine that never stops, built to thrive in the spotlight of commerce. And yet in the grand world of professional basketball, even the events meant to celebrate the sport can lose sight of its essence. This year’s All-Star Weekend arrived with a revamped format and high expectations, only to feel more like a drawn out spectacle than a true tribute to the game. The stoppages, the over-the-top theatrics (Kevin Hart, Mac Maclung), the endless ad spots—it all drowned out the one thing fans came for, BASKETBALL. Instead of spotlighting the rhythm and artistry that make this sport electric, we got two hours of Shaq and the crew. Hundreds of bright lights blinking, but never settling into a single beam or vision. 

Players and fans openly complained about stoppages, Draymond Green called the format a “zero out of 10”. I recall SGA yelling at Kevin Hart to be quiet so they could continue the game. The league, in its quest to engineer virality, forgot that joy can’t be focus-grouped.

We’ve allowed our thoughts and feelings to be mined, and in return we’re given a watered-down product that lacks the creativity and fresh perspective the game deserves. 

All of it from,the trades, the takes, Stephen A. Smith, the endless scroll of “content” drowns out the beauty of the game. Casual fans now judge careers by Instagram clips and Twitter takes; broadcasters slice the games into digestible bits, forgetting that beauty lives in the unedited moments.

So where do we go from here? The league has no plans to slow down. Trades will continue to dominate headlines, Silver will keep chasing metrics and next year's All-Star Weekend will probably add a VR halftime show sponsored by a meme coin. But basketball—the game itself will endure. This game is older than social media and bigger than the spotlight. Joy is made in sweat on your local court at dawn, or taking notes during the replay of your favorite team's last game. Or in the cup of freshly brewed coffee in Miami Design District. And in the smile of a Hall-of-Fame guard handing out flowers to strangers on a cold morning. Joy might slip from view every now and then, but it’s never truly gone. It waits for us, just like a rebound. Will you  seize the moment? Snatch the board, and run your game?

Artsmith