Welcome to From Insults To Respect. Today, let’s consider a story in which the N-word gets used in a couple of very different ways.

A Rough Basketball Game

May, 1965.

            “Wandering around the Coney Island area a few blocks from the amusement parks, 15-year old Steve and his nine-year old brother, Pete, spots some guys about his age playing basketball.

            As they come closer, they see that a five-on-five game is in progress. “Look, Pete, they’re all colored guys.”

“You’re colored, Steve. You got brown skin and darker brown hair. The tall guy over there, Steve, his skin is darker brown than you, and, look, the guy who just shot the ball, he’s almost black.”

            “Marone!  Did you see that guy make that turnaround jumper?” Steve cries.

            “Those guys are good, Steve.”

“Listen, Pete, let me play a quick game with them? I’ve played against some colored guys before and sometimes one or two were a step above, but these guys—Marone! You can watch or play over there with the guys your age.”

            “I don’t mind watching you. It’s fun. You’re really good.”

            Steve was taller than most kids his age and his speed and quickness led him to search out games that would really challenge him. Although not as tall as the two guys playing the center position for the teams playing now or one of the guys standing on the sideline, who looks to be close to six-feet, Steve is taller than most of the other players.

            Walking beside the six-footer, Steve calls out, “I got next!”

            “What?” the tall guy cries out as he turns to Steve and glares into his eyes.

            “I got next,” Steve reasserts.

            “Listen, kid, you watch any of this game over here. We guys are the best fifteen-year-olds in the area. Ain’t no white-ass boy gonna keep up with us.”

            “You ain’t afraid to find out how true that is, are ya?” Steve replies with a twinkle in his eye.

            “Well, I wouldn’t mind finding out if I was to play ‘gainst you, but I got next. That means we’d be on the same team. You make my team lose, I gotta sit out another game, you know what I’m sayin’?”

            “I’ll tell ya what. After one game, if I haven’t proved to you I can keep up with you guys, I’ll leave and it’ll be the last you’ll ever see of this low-down white-ass kid.”

             “Now here comes a real player,” the six-footer says as he notices the arrival of some guy he obviously knows. Heading over to greet him and his little brother, who is by his side, he warmly calls out, “How’s my nigga doin’?” Steve is a bit startled by this greeting, because he thought the use of the word “nigga” was insulting, and yet the six-footer used it as a pleasant greeting.

            “I’m doin’ fine, Shorty.”

            Calling the six-footer Shorty makes Steve smile.

            When Shorty and the new arrival come close enough to one another they start giving each other this weird handshake: a slide of their palms, a bump of their fist, some twisting of their fingers, another palm slide, and then finishing up with both pointing at one another.

            “You and the white kid got next, Shorty?” asks the new arrival.

            “Well, I got next, Earl, but I don’t know ’bout this other guy. He says he wants to play, but sheeeeet.”

             “Hi Earl. I’m Steve.”

Earl, a shade darker than Shorty, three inches shorter, has curly hair grown out distinctly longer than the others on the court. He sizes up Steve, shrugs his shoulders, and declares, “Let’s give him a try, see if he can fly.”

            Shorty let’s out another prolonged, “Sheeeeet,” but resigns himself to having Steve for a teammate.

            “You think you and these other guys out here are the best fifteen-year-olds in the neighborhood?” Steve asks.

            “We don’t think it, we know it. We all play in this kick-ass basketball league in Coney Island. Last year’s basketball season, the coaches got together, and they made All Star teams for each of the age groups to compete with All Star teams in other neighborhoods. We guys were the Coney Island All Stars for the fourteen-year-olds, ya know what I’m sayin’?  Now we’re fifteen and we’re getting ready for next season.”

            “You guys get to play real organized basketball, like with grown-up coaches and real refs?” Steve says very much impressed.

            “Sure.”

            “Me, I only ever played street ball,” says Steve.

The game Steve, Earl, and Shorty had been waiting on comes to its finish.

            “If ya fuckin’ passed the ball sometime, we could’ve won that game, ya fuckin’ nigga!” says one of the losers to a teammate.

            “Ya momma!”comes the reply.

              Steve notices this time the word “nigga” was used as an insult, leading him to scratch his head.

            Shorty begins to walk on the court with his hands apart, looking at the guy who’s holding the ball.

            Shorty catches a bounce pass, takes a couple of quick dribbles, and tosses up an eight footer—swish.

            There’s a quick minute or two for some loosening up, and then Earl calls over his squad for a strategy session. “Listen-up,” he says. “We’ll play man to man. Steve, you take Mad Dog, the brother with the orange sweatshirt. Clyde, you take…”

            “Time-out!” Steve interrupts while making a ‘T’ with his hands. “That kid over there with the gray sweatshirt, that’s who I want.”

            “Sheeeeet!’ cries Shorty.

            “That’s Jet!” Earl says looking astonished. “He’s the fastest nigga here!”

             “I’ve been watching him,” Steve responds. “I think I can take him. When the game gets going, as soon as any of ya think I can’t, say so and I won’t say a word. But at least give me a chance.”

            Earl shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay, then Steve’s set wit’ Jet. Clyde, you take Mad Dog for now. Shadow, you do your thing on Darnell. Shorty, crash dem boards ‘gainst Bull and show him ya mean it!  I’ll continue my habit of taking Rabbit. Me and Clyde are the best shooters on our team, so see if you can set us up. Obviously, if Shorty’s open underneath, work the ball into him.  Steve, watch for Jet on the fast break.”

                                  *                                  *                                  *

The way they play, it takes eleven points to win. Rabbit brings the ball up court at its start, Dribbling confidently, Rabbit dashes first to his right, then to the left, as Steve’s team-mate, Earl, D’s up on him—his hands taking swats at the ball, his body cutting off direct lines of attack.

            Jet tries to break away from Steve, but Steve sticks to him like glue.

Mad Dog flashes into the passing lane as Rabbit shoves the ball into him. A quick step to the side, a spin jump and the ball is lofted upwards. Clyde leaps, sweeps at the ball, and ticks it just enough. Shorty pulls down the rebound, passes to Shadow, who dishes to Earl.

            Crossing over to his team’s side of the court, Earl dances around as his players set up, then fires to Clyde, who spins and tosses up a mid-range jumper. It rattles around the hoop and kicks out.

            Shorty tries to move in for the follow-up, but Bull has other plans. Although lacking a couple of inches in height, Bull has a twenty-pound advantage. He places his thick body in-between Shorty and the basket. The rebound goes to the high jumping Rabbit.

            Steve starts back peddling as he sees Jet trying to dash by him. Rabbit flings the ball over everyone’s head in the direction of the basket down court. The ball is targeted to land about ten feet from his team’s basket and Jet is expected to have run it down and execute an easy lay-up.

            Steve quickly turns his body as he switches from back-peddling to an all-out sprint in the direction of where the ball is heading. The adjustment costs him a precious fraction of a second, and he finds that Jet now has a half step on him. Putting his head down, Steve pours on the speed. As the ball hits the ground, Steve is dead even with Jet, but Jet has positioned his body so he has a direct line to the ball while Steve is to his right. Steve’s legs strain for some extra speed, his left hand rises, forms into a fist, and with the side of his fist he smashes the ball down against Jet’s shins. Careening off of Jet, the ball ends up out of bounds.

            Jet and Steve use their final few steps to prepare themselves for crashing into the fence just beyond the basket. Then—Wham! As they bounce off, they go sprawling down, roll, and then thrust themselves back onto their feet. Because the ball last touched Jet before going out of bounds, it’s Steve’s team’s possession.

            As Shorty recovers the ball, and from the corner of his eyes, he glances over at Steve.

                                                *                                  *                                  *

Both teams are evenly matched. As it approaches the end, it’s even 9-9. The intensity ratchets up a notch. All game long, Bull has been doing some fine trench work, pushing Shorty off his favorite spots, but now he’s really smashing into him. Shorty, for his part, is playing pay-back with a vengeance. You can hear the thuds from a block away. And whenever someone sets a pick, look out. Collisions are becoming more and more violent—everyone pushing the limits.

            Now, Jet is racing down the court with the ball.

            No way he’s getting by me, Steve says to himself.

            Eight feet from the basket, Jet slams on his breaks and leaps up for a fade-away jumper.  Steve’s right on him.

            Jet sees he’s got to fade back even more than he anticipated if he’s to get the ball over Steve’s outstretched arms. Arching his back, shifting his weight backwards as far as he can, while he and Steve are still in the air, Jet takes aim and launches the brown leathery sphere. A moment after the release, Jet comes crashing down on his back. Everyone watches the slightly rotating sphere sail upwards, then curve downwards, and then—slip through the hoop.

            Jet’s teammate, Darnell lets out a long whistle.

            “ALL RIGHT!” cries Bull.

            Shorty, who had moved in for a rebound, comes down with the ball, takes it over to Steve, glares into his eyes, smashes the ball down, catches it as it bounces back up, tucks it under his arm, turns his back to Steve, and walks away fuming.

            Steve’s face flushes, then he looks over to Jet. He’s still on his back wincing. With an extended hand, Steve helps him to his feet. Looking into Jet’s eyes, Steve says, “Nice shot.”

            Jet smiles, then walks around testing the feel of his back. He touches his toes, goes through the motion of taking a jump shot. “I’m okay.”

The score is now 10 to 9. One more point by Jet’s team and Steve’s team loses.

Earl dribbles the ball on his way to his basket. Suddenly, Mad Dog, who is now about five feet from Earl, screams, “ERRRRRR!” Earl, momentarily distracted by the scream finds his eyes flash at Mad Dog. Rabbit, looking for this opening, leaps toward Earl and grabs the ball away. Mad Dog, at this same instant dashes in the direction of his basket. Rabbit flings the ball to him. Mad Dog is wide open and sinks an easy shot. Just like that—game over.

                    *                                  *                       *

Somehow, despite Earl having messed up, Shorty is decent about it. “We gave them a good game, man,” he says. “They won’t fool us with that play again, that’s for sure.”

             “Well, me and my brother are gonna get going, says Steve.”

            “Why don’t ya stick around?” says Shorty. “The next game will be over before you know it.”

            “I got a few things to take care of,” says Steve, “but you ok if I come back sometime to play. I learned a lot from you guys today.”

             “Yeah, sure. I was just joshin’ ya earlier. We play Saturdays and Sundays in the afternoons and most days after school.”

               “You’re all right, Shorty,” says Steve. Then he waves good bye.

                                                *                                  *                                  *

It’s a curious thing how the N-word is used so differently in this story by these Black teenagers, as well as some current day rap singers. Although sometimes used as a term of endearment, if tried with non-Black guys, Blacks most likely would understandably seriously object. How come? What’s going on with this? And what does this have to do with respect?

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Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. There is no cost for doing so. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE. 

 

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