Jakarta Ballers
Sideline
I am knocked so hard on the move to the basket, I swear a feel a piece of earwax fall onto my shoulder. It is a slow motion moment when everything fast becomes clear: The look of the orange rusty rim, the momentary gap, the push off from the opposite leg, the lifting of the ball up and away from the surprised defender, the turn of the center’s head, the lick of his lips, his decision to help, the tilt of torso away from anticipated contact, the ball switched to the opposite side, the punch.
Later I will unconvincingly describe how I can hear my second vertebrate grate against the first vertebrae each time I turn to the right. Most people don’t know that the second vertebrae sticks out a protrusion called the dens into the hollow of the first, lest we human look like robots or Arnold Schwarzenegger watching a tennis match. The schema looks something like this:
So your head doesn't fall off
I guess what I am saying is that what I am feeling is at least anatomically plausible. Even crazy assertions have origins.
In short, Indonesians play ball like Americans. Physical. They don’t call too many fouls. They hustle like mad dogs. A shot is as valuable as the pass. This was a pleasant surprise after two years of being in Liberia where basketball games are kind of like the government-- lacking. Moving to Asia, I had low expectations. The facts of the continent are that the Chinese play ball like they can do whatever they want. The Japanese play like they are building another Toyota Camry. The Thai would rather play badminton. The South Asians remain unnoticed. The Koreans play too angry. The Vietnamese are short and know it. Only the Filipinos exceed Indonesian skill and this is only because they were occupied by America for sixty years. It is fair to say that the Filipinos got the short end of that deal.
My friend Mario says that the style here is the result of a lot of Indonesians going to school in the States, but unlike their Asian counterparts, they come back. “We like it here,” Mario says. “But while we are away, we learn to play ball.” Mario plays a game similar to Carlos Boozer on the Chicago bulls.
“Yes, I kind of study the game,” Mario says, “I watch him on NBA TV and I look at his moves until I can do them too.”
I got into Jakarta basketball scene through the internet. A posting written over a year ago talked about pick-up ball on the sixth floor of a place called the Senayan Trade Center (STC). I hailed a cab, repeating STC with the few other Indonesian words I knew, “Saya mau pergi ke STC. Ya STC. Anda tahu STC?”
The taxi driver must of thought I was crazy. I thought I was crazy. How in the world could there be a basketball court on the 6th floor of a Jakarta mall? But there it was. In the elevator I asked a guy with a gym bag if he knew of the game. He said yes there was a game but it was a private game. Maybe he saw the dejected look which immediately swelled my face, or imagined the predicament of being enclosed with a sobbing forty-two-year old stranger, but he said, come on. You can play with us. No problem. The man’s name was Wiki.
It was the Mean-Joe-Green commercial in the 70’s played out in my own life! In this commercial the Pittsburg Steeler hall of famer Mean-Joe-Green is fatigued and beaten. He meets a starry eyed (white) boy in the stadium tunnel leading to the locker room and though he doesn’t want to, still finds it in himself after drinking an ice cold bottle of Coke to throw him a bone. “Here kid,” he says and tosses the boy his sweaty dirty jersey. The boy says “thanks Joe” and runs off with a memory for a life-time.
What was tossed to me was an expansive community of Indonesian ballers. From STC, I found out the games at Senayan park Hall C on Saturdays at 11, Mondays at 7 and Thursdays at 7. When people at the office found out that I play, I then found out about the games in Kuningan on Saturdays at 8pm and Tuesdays at 6 in Kemang.
My favorite game remains on Saturdays at Senayan Park. Hall C is massive and imposing like a plane hangar without a sliding door. It is all metal and concrete and when it is hot (every day) one feels like you are really getting roasted. Sometimes I swear you smell liver. Lights from the ceiling illuminate the single full-length court as if it could actually be a secret world war workshop. The caretaker is four feet five and slightly retarded with a companion with a short left arm. Outside there are benches with casual conversants to disguise what goes on therein.
It’s a hodgepodge of players. 3 players are former professionals from the Indonesian basketball league. Fast, mean, aggressive. You have to earn their respect. Mario comes when his knee doesn’t hurt. There is Jendra, a real life LA boy, who plays like I did 20 years ago—lanky, crafty, athletic, loose. Marius has flashes of genius but is still developing, unfortunately with breasts. There is Bram, who doesn’t understand that he is an Indonesian in a 6 foot 4 man’s body, instead opting to play like he is 5 foot 11. Tawor has a jump stop so good he uses it even when he doesn’t have to. Oh, he also banks all of his shots off of the backboard which is annoying, unless you're on his team. Sweet Willie looks like he only plays Ping-Pong but boy can thePing-Pong playa shoot! Joko has seen better days. Michael just came back from the States. His hair never tousles. He can do it all and it is a challenge to guard him week after week as Michael is 27, confident.
Order in the Court
Games are to twenty two points. Two and three pointers. First ten on the court. Odd man out refs if there is a whistle. No one ever questions the ref, albeit occasionally there are threats to his sister.
In this game, I am with Jendra, Tawor, an old guy who knows his limitations and sweet Willi. It’s a good team. We are all unselfish but can each score when we have to. Saturday games unlike Sunday games are man-to-man. I am on Bram who outweighs me by 35 pounds. But on defense he has switched off me because when he comes out I drive past him. When he falls back I shoot. Bram is not handsome. It is fun to frustrate Bram.
But Bram’s inside game is improving. My only choice is to prevent him from getting position by putting my knee between his crotch and lifting when he tries to widen his stance. I opt not to front him because Kain, their point guard passes well. Because Bram is awkward, sometimes I lean heavily into his back with hidden hands and chest. As he pushes back with even more demonstration of power, I step to the side, allowing him to stumble against free air, while I then reestablish position. It’s a back and forth, back and forth and I have the advantage until Michael switches onto me. It’s a strange feeling amidst all the motion, emotions, sounds and activity of a game when suddenly you realize that the guy you are up against is faster than you. Stronger than you. Better than you.
Your only choice is to be consistent and smart. You can’t be more than what you are. But by being all that you are, over and over again, there is a good chance there will be a lapse. Michael doesn’t box me out just one time and I am there for the rebound and the put back. He consistently has to work for his sweet shot and it is probably in the 20th minute when a new bead-line of sweat appears on his forehead. This has to be explored.
It is a team sport. Jendra picks Michael and at the switch, I bounce pass the ball between him and Joko and Jendra lays the ball oh so gently into the net. Willie’s man can’t guard him. We set double picks for him at the baseline and get him in the ball at the elbow for one cool swish, then two, then three.
Tawor is like a obliquely oriented jumping bean. His is jump stopping hard into Mario and Mario is scared for his knee and letting Tawor shoot off the back-board over and over again. We will win.
Transitions
When the AirAsia group comes in at 1pm, we are spent. We are seated along the east sideline, changing while sweating, drinking bottles of water sold for thirty cents. My Bahasa is getting better but listening to the others shoot the shit, I realize that I have yet to learn this brand of Indonesian. It probes, it jokes, it expounds and weaves. I care and don’t care. I know and don’t know. I feel that a dialogue has already taken place on the court. The give and take of duals. An impromptu dance that takes place in the context of competitive friendship, where nothing and everything that is important is acted upon and said.
Team Indo
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