The blacktop gods are surely pleased for the signs are everywhere: mercury reading 28°C; smogless skies; a forgiving breeze. As I coast in on my bike, the first round of the Taichung Charity 3-v-3 Basketball Battle is underway. James Brown’s “Payback” echoes in the background, but it’s far too early in the competition (or in the day, for that matter) for vengeance. The match in front of me, more warm-up than cut-throat, is easy proof. I spy small families and at ease vendors on the sidelines—also, two women in tutus because why not? Though on the outskirts of a bustling city of 2.8 million, it feels like a blessedly lazy day at the beach.
If you exit the overhang and turn your head upward, you would never realize that the city of Taichung has a serious air quality problem. Tournament organizers Noam Eppel and Michael Schram want to help out in any way they can. “Air is something I don’t want to compromise over. Especially for a wife and a baby on the way,” says Eppel. Their first tournament gave its proceedings to Taichung Paws, a local animal charity Schram is involved in. When I ask about future causes, Eppel states, “I think it’s always going to be environmentally focused.” With donations still coming in, he estimates that their second event will raise around NT$30,000 (~1,000 USD) for the activist air group Air Clean Taiwan.
The courts at Chung Shan Medical University are split in half—one side is taken up by intramural volleyball players and the other by this tournament. Bemo’s, a team of American and Canadian expats, wins their first game against the local Ballerz 12-10 and it’s all handshakes afterwards. Of the congenial mood, Jarvis Watson has this to say: “That’s all you want. Ain’t nobody out here getting NBA contracts,” and the rest of the team agrees. The group also has great things to say about the tallish, green-haired Taiwanese official who looks like he might design apps for a living. In comparison, they jokingly refer to a foreign ref of years past who carried out his duties with a whistle in one hand and a beer in the other. But this event isn’t just better staffed, it’s a “big step up. Nice overhang and better competition,” adds Watson.
The vendors are busy fueling spectators and Uptowner, my most frequented local joint, has a stand with unreasonably cheap burgers. Another seller pushes amazing fried fish, while a third, draped in red cloth, features games specifically for the kids. (You can’t forget about the kids!) Two youngins’—one adorned in balloon apparel—smash blocks with as much ferocity as their tiny plastic hammers will allow. Baked goods are on their way. This is what Sunday afternoons were made for.
Back on the court, Bemo’s’ second game is a battle of long-distance strikes. While taking a breather, Watson—one of the most preternaturally good-natured people I know—fires encouragement at his team. But I get the impression that his positivity is no more discriminant than a shotgun blast and is actually meant for anyone in his general vicinity. It’s a bit disarming to see so many grown-ups drop the pretensions of the adult world with no significant assist from booze.
Bemo’s ends up losing their second game, but Michael Reyes wins the prize for individual fashion sense. He is rocking some kicks that swim through a coral spectrum (Imagine the sort of Nikes Aquaman would wear) and is sporting a Jackson Pollack-inspired shirt. Of their loss, Reyes says their opponents got lucky from behind the arc and for his team’s part, it was a case of “too little, too late.” Although his preference in play reflects the larger mood, (“I like to guard the bigger guys because they are slower.”) there is still a little bit of an edge to him. “Ball is life,” he tells me. “Everyone has their own agency. Everyone can make decisions. I like playing with new guys and getting into their heads.” I press him for the player who gives him the most grief: “Fil [Vyhnal] is the hardest to guard because he moves too much.” It turns out that Vyhnal has been making substantial moves off the court as well.
Last year, he held a tournament of his own albeit with a payout to the winners. While a resounding success, some of the less keyed up players felt that things got a bit too heated. But as I watch him on the court, I can’t imagine he would’ve had it any other way. It’s clear this isn’t just mere recreation for him, it is sustenance. And he’s taken it one step further by transforming that passion into a training center. Since last June, Taiwan Dream Academy (TDA) has given kids aged 3 to 18 tailored instruction in the game.
In the halftime break, the music becomes decidedly more chill. A dance troupe makes its way to center court and gets all sexy to Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name.” Afterwards, the kids in attendance are brought to the middle where three women lead the junior-aged festivities. The first two are Keshnee Mudaly (“Princess Cupcake”) and Hannah Hasch (“Princess Lollipop”)—they’re the ones sporting those tutus I mentioned, naturally. Each of their outfits reaches across the color spectrum and catch a wide swath, screaming out “Party!” in a universal sign language. The third leader is Chalsey who, although doesn’t abide by their fabulous dress code, more than makes up for it in her sheer ability to entertain. The children marvel at the wonder of balloon technology as they rocket to the ceiling, and not gonna lie, I do too.
I notice that the tunes have yet to misstep; hearing a rap song from front to back can be a bit of a rarity in this country, so I’m incredibly grateful for the things happening in my ears. Virginia boy I am, those ears prick up an inch more when “Grindin’” by Clipse comes on. The day is packed with more personal favorites: “Flava in Ya Ear (remix)”; “Ruff Ryders’ Anthem”; “Elevators (Me & You)”; “Lyrics to Go”; “Hip Hop Hooray.” Watching these games along with this soundtrack has me wondering if there’s another sport with a kindred spirit. And not just a fellow recreation, but a partner from another planet entirely? Doubtful. Hip-hop & basketball are as tightly knit as they are distinctly American. Their partnership is what pb&j aspires to.
Paying respect is only proper, so I go over to compliment the DJ (Digital D). But instead, I’m pulled into a 3-woman maelstrom so fierce there could be only one thing at its center: an adorable 11-month old. “I have someone I want you to meet,” insists Princess Lollipop and I oblige because I am not a monster. He is indeed adorable, even by baby standards, and turns out to be the son of Digital. At one point, his father and I catch each other mouthing the words to “Barry Bonds.” On his face appears that knowing smile you get when you please an audience.
Halftime is over and the points have been trimmed—it is now the first team to 9 points instead of 11. The game is Dem Boyz vs Deli D and it’s the most intense one I’ve seen so far (Vyhnal plays for the former.) Both squads drive on the rim in a higher gear and communicate with walkie-talkie-like efficiency; the fouls a touch more afflicted. Julie Red, who “[doesn’t] do the sports,” likewise notices the heightened pitch of this match.
I’ve always been taken with the particular sounds of individual sports, especially when things heat up. In basketball, there is no mistaking the squeak of high tops or the echo of that 4,118 dimpled sphere. But it’s possible that the particular din of this game stands alone its ability to communicate—I am convinced that with eyes closed, no other sport would allow you as accurate a temperature reading of a match, even with no crowd. (Perhaps hockey?) It would be just as obvious with my back turned that Dem Boyz go hard, and go on to win.
By the semis, much of the goodwill between teams has dissipated. Fun has been replaced by a different, heavier 3-letter word—and I love it. It’s the proper counterweight to the previous games. And with the finals (F4J Ballerz vs Sausage Shack) comes a dedicated cheering section; even the crowd is more aggressive. Unfortunately, however, hip-hop has been replaced by canned arena sounds: buzzers, crowd stomping, and those uninspired, obligatory chants fill the air instead. (Here we go blah blah here we go.) The Caribbean’s who make up the F4J Ballerz definitely take matters on the court the most seriously. Their emotiveness and penchant for contact rub some other players and spectators the wrong way. But maybe this is not a bad thing.
Learning how to get along here, where the stakes are low, is good practice for living together out there. It’s why we send our kids out on the field for little league soccer and Peewee football. (And why we continue to play in adulthood.) It’s the same reason Air Clean Taiwan holds peaceful protests. It’s the ideology present in so much golden era hip-hop.
To build greater community.
It’s the sense of community that makes locals and foreigners alike so attached to this land. But the forces bringing together a rainbow of nationalities to this particular spot [24.123562, 120.650920], are the same forces dirtying the air here and the world over. Like a fast break down the sideline, the earth is still in transition and we’ve yet to see if we’ll regroup in time before the buzzer sounds. The battle for clean air is really just one of the countless proxies in this struggle of learning how to get along. On our chances as a global community, Noam is “forever optimistic.”
The final game is, as advertised, a true battle with the F4J Ballerz winning the trophy in the end. Hip-hop returns in the form of Kanye West’s “Champion.” The rundown crew poses for some clicks and the tournament is a wrap. “I’m looking for people to be exhausted,” beams Eppel. I look at the champs and there’s no doubt they got their money’s worth.
Later over dinner, I ask Eppel how he thinks the tournament went. He’s pleased, but is insistent that he “wanted it to feel like a Taichung event, not Noam’s.” Let’s tally up the points: a gathering of people from across the island; a cause that will benefit the country; fun had by all. That’s a win in any book.
by Agya Aning (theglownote.com)
Published in Guan Xi Magazine- Summer 2017 issue
