My JV basketball coach way back in the day played for Seton Hall in the 1960’s—he has a photo of himself in a game against Army where he’s driving to the basket past Mike Krzyzewski— and used to open the gym on winter Sundays for a pick-up game, where he’d play with a mix of current and former students and faculty. If possible, you always wanted to get on his team, because it more or less guaranteed a good day. Not because he would personally take over the game and win single-handed— though he could—but because he was great to play with. As a big guy— when I started playing I was already well over six feet— I could just endlessly set screens for him, and we’d get good opportunities all the time. Sometimes he’d get free to go to the basket or pull up for the shot, but if the other team switched or doubled him, he would get me the ball, either rolling to the hoop or stepping out for a midrange jumper. It was like having a cheat code, as the kids these day would say.
The same was true of basically any other way I might get open in a decent position to score. Including some times when I wouldn’t necessarily think I was open— it was highly instructive in the need to always be looking for the ball, because if he saw an opening to make a pass, he’d take it. I got a lot of good looks that way, once I learned to be ready for a pass at any moment. That’s served me well over the last thirty-mumble years of playing pick-up at various other gyms.
I was thinking about this the other day because of the Jesse Singal post on being an “expert beginner” that I included in this past weekend’s Links Dump. Basketball is one of two areas that he mentions in a particular way that stood out to me, which I’ll quote both of:
I cannot really play the drums. My only “performances” were at grad school talent shows. If you sat me down with real musicians, they would quickly notice my limitations and I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them. My technique sucks, I trip all over myself if I get into anything too swing-y, and my stamina is subpar at best.
But the difference between being able to bake bread and not being able to bake bread is, it turns out, significant — and it brings a lot of satisfaction to have achieved expert beginnerdom. Same goes for the difference between being able to play the drums a little and not being able to play them at all. I also get a lot of joy out of the fact that I’m maybe an expert intermediate at basketball, depending on the scoring scale we’re using. I can show up at pickup playgrounds and be okay, at least not a drag on a pickup team, though I’m exposed if I find myself in a game with folks who played at a high level in high school or even a low level in college.
What stood out in both of these was the notion of not being able to hang with people who are actually good. Which is undoubtedly true in a really cutthroat context, but at the same time, that strikes me as a too-narrow version of being “really good.” Both basketball and music are fundamentally team activities, and at some level being truly good at either requires doing things that elevate the team, not just the individual.
That is, what made my old coach a great player in those pick-up games wasn’t that he could smoke anybody on the court, though he absolutely could. And if the game got a little too close on a day when he would end up having to sit out if his team lost, he wasn’t afraid to just hit three or four long threes to end it1. But for the most part, he played the game at a level that made sense for the context, and worked to make sure that everybody else got their shots, too.
I’ve played plenty of games with the other sort of really good player, too, the guy who wants everybody to know that he can score at will. It’s not much fun, even when you’re on the winning side as a result, because it goes against the nature of the enterprise. It’s individually impressive but at the same time kind of sucks, because there’s not much for you to do. I’ve played with guys who were more physically gifted than my old coach, but enjoyed the experience a lot less because they were focused on their own points, not matching the game. And that bumps them down below him in my mental rankings of the best players I’ve played with.
I’ve played a lot less music than basketball, but my impression of that is kind of the same. That is, if you’re in an improvisational sort of context, with people of different skill levels, people who are really good will match their playing to the level of the rest of the group. That leads to better results than virtuoso soloing that leaves the rest of the group in the dust in a way that makes them feel bad.
This is a fairly general flaw in definitions of “good” across a wide range of contexts, from sports and music to professional activities. We have a tendency to overrate a particular kind of ostentatious expertise at the expense of a quieter sort where the individual may be just as good at performing their particular task, but have the sense to match their performance to that of the team. Who, in hoops language, deals out assists as well as putting up points, making sure that even the less individually brilliant members of the team get their chance to contribute. It’s been a bit of a theme in my interviews with older physicists about the history of laser cooling— a lot of praise for people who didn’t try to grab credit for everything, but who provided the ideas and support that allowed others to flourish.
I’m not quite sure how I think this should be accomplished, but I do think it’s a bit of a failure in a lot of commentary about things that are, ultimately, team endeavors. There’s a bit of an element of noblesse oblige to this— an obligation on the part of those who are really good to be better to others— though that’s probably not a great framing in 2023. I’m not sure how to put it better, though.
Maybe the clearest framing is in the form of advice. An admonition to keep in mind that being the best player in the game, or the smartest one in the room comes with an obligation to elevate the team, not just rack up individual successes. That’s what gets you remembered as “The best I ever played with,” not “Oh, that guy…” plus a roll of the eyes.
Not sure this sort of typed musing actually accomplishes much, but it’s something I’ve been turning over for a while, and will probably keep doing so. Anyway, here’s a button:
And if you have thoughts on this, the comments will be open:
The last time I played there was 5-10 years ago, when I was home at Christmas and went down to the gym to get a run in. I was in my forties, and as the second-oldest guy there, was matched up against my old coach, who was pushing 70. He had finally lost enough of a step that I could keep in front of him on defense, but the instant I slacked off, he could still drill a 20-footer right in my face.