It wasn´t too long ago that a relatively unknown but talented Argentine national basketball team lead by Manu Ginobili, Carlos Delfino, and Luis Scola among other star players captured the world´s attention when they won the Gold Medal in the Greece Olympics of 2004. It was a milestone never reached in Argentine basketball, and it raised the bar of Argentine basketball standards ever since. Well various years since the gold medal run, Argentina's national basketball status has come down to earth, and the key members of Argentina´s golden years have aged considerably. With such recent basketball tradition in a country obsessed with football, one visiting Buenos Aires would never suspect such a strong basketball presence.
Buenos Aires is home to the port, la Boca neighborhood, the Casa Rosada, and Maradona, but not a large basketball history. As a fan and participant of basketball, or ¨basquét¨as it is called here, it took me around five months in the city before coming across an open street court which wasn´t filled with kids playing football in Buenos Aires´concrete jungle.
The fact of the matter is that basketball doesn´t have much following in the city, however step outside the city limits and the birthplaces of Argentine basketball exist in the smaller rural cities of Cordoba, Santa Fe, and Ginobili´s hometown Bahía Blanca.
As a basketball aficionado, I decided to tie up the laces and set out to play basketball on the mean streets of Buenos Aires*1. I went with a Mexican friend who was also a street baller, and we took a bus from the cozy and sleepy Boedo neighborhood to the crowded and bustling Caballito train station. This was living the street life with graffiti on the walls*2, a fence around the court, and hordes of football fanatics loaded on passing trains who chanted Boca Junior's battle march. This wasn't exactly the typical American urban basketball scene, but it seemed close enough. Entering the court we quietly laced up our tenis and tried to stretch off 6 months of Argentine steaks. Other hoopsters waited along the sidelines, chatting, mocking the players on the court, or trying to shoot some hoops while the players rotated from one end of the court to the other.
*1:The streets were so mean that the court was located on a small plaza mainly visited by old folks and small children.
*2:Almost every wall in the city of Buenos Aires has some type of graffiti, some are more artistic than others. This one happened to be a mural by the city government.
One of the first things I noticed is that the rims had very little net. Also, many of the players didn't really have any idea what they were doing. Balls were kicked, thrown up towards the upper backboard and traveling was a national right. The game ended with one team dominating the other and another team of players hopped on to play.
This was true winner stays on, gangsta street ball. My Mexican buddy Edgar and I joined up with a group of other players waiting. The next game was a group of Argentinian's against some Asian, or as I found out later, Taiwanese ballers. None seemed to speak Spanish, one dressed in an Allen Iverson jersey complete with new Nikes, headband and an arm sleeve. He could shoot, but he passed just as much as Iverson and his team's small physical presence seemed to hurt them in the end.
Just as the game was winding down, a scuffle broke out. One of the Taiwanese players pushed a big fat Argentine away from him. All of us looked on as another player came in to separate the two. The fat Argentine tried to apologize for the inadvertent elbow, but the Taiwanese player didn't understand anything. He continued to give the I'm going to judo your ass look before the next point ended the game. Now it was our turn.
My friend Edgar, a Colombian, an Ecuadorian, Argentine and I were all together to take down the Argentine court dynasty. Or at least score more than five points against them something neither of the previous two teams could do. This was a big game, and I was excited because I hadn't shot a basketball in months.
The game started slow but picked up in intensity after our team scored a couple of baskets. I bricked three straight shots, but my friend Edgar had good rebound instincts. The other team was younger, but not as composed and a bit lazy. They hadn't had to play much defense. In one instance the Colombian named Alex stole a lazy pass and threw it up to me, I raced forward and the laid the ball in the hoop. It was a relief, the first basket made, and my confidence was sure to increase.
I realized that the court was relatively small which made running easy because one didn't have to cruise a long distance to go from one end to the other. It was also very narrow which made dribbling and finding space complicated. We called our own fouls, and many on the opposing team preferred grabbing you if you raced around them. It was not fundamental basketball and extremely sloppy. I don't think I've seen so many basketballs to the face, and fence. Although it was a riot to watch. I saw a few out this world basketball shots that could have easily of made SportCenter's Top 10. It was also relaxed to hear talk and jokes on the court. The game got intense, but most of the players on both teams knew each other, and after the game many of those still around went down the street to buy some liter bottles of Quilmes beers from the nearby Kiosk.
Spectators stopped and viewed in on the court to see the motley crue of foreigners, and Argentinians trading hoops. Our team was challenging the dynasty. I began to make a few long range shots, the Colombian continued to make great passes, the Ecuadorian played tough defense, Edgar grabbed a few rebounds, and the Argentinian made a few miraculous lay-ups. I didn't know the short Argentinian's name but the Colombian Alex called him "Fantasico" because of his Fantastic Four comic strip on his shirt. The name stuck, and soon enough I was yelling "Fantastico" every time he got caught dribbling too much (which was very often). The game ended in our favor and we became the new court kings.
Our team managed four more games, against even better competition, yet as the sun began to go down, so did our game focus. My endurance wore thin, and my shots transformed into bricks again. Edgar attempted some And 1 passes which might have worked if I were as tall as Kobe Bryant, and the super human, out of this world lucky lay-up touch from Fantastico seemed to return to mere mortal status. It was the end of another dynasty, and my legs were ready for the sofa.
Other players began to show up including a group of Haitians, a Chilean,and more Argentinians. The star Haitian was a lanky but athletic player called Jo Jo. I'm still not sure if this was his name, but it was the name everyone seemed to be calling him. He spoke a bit of Spanish, but I introduced myself in English. Of all the points in the cosmopolitan city this was truly the United Nations of Argentina.
I watched one more game and then the group headed off to the kiosk. We talked about the games, the NBA, and the Colombian who was a bit older referred to old NBA greats that no one but me seemed to remember. Everyone else was around 20 years old. I began to feel like the old veteran. The night remained warm. The sun disappeared and I took off my tenis, said my goodbyes to the dream team, and dizzily parted ways down Rivadavia.
