Watching the Bucks by Myself

I got home from work and had time on my hands, won by passing my defense and finishing my master’s degree. My girlfriend was busy writing, trying to finish up her first semester of graduate school, so it seemed prudent to give her space. I could be sitting in a different room, chilling with headphones on, making not a peep, but I know that I’m still a distraction to her while she writes, so I need to get out. Timing was that the Bucks were playing.

I contacted some friends about meeting up for the Bucks-Suns, but no one was available. My brother messaged me about watching it, but he lives a two hour drive north of me, so it’s not like I was going to meet up with him. He said to just go to the Laurel Tavern, a pub nearby my apartment, and watch the game by myself. I scoffed at the thought; who goes to a bar on their lonesome and do I want to be that type of person? This was judgmental of me, I know. I wavered in this judgment. I really didn’t feel like doing much else other than watching basketball, and this was only going to happen if I’d go to that bar. Maybe this is the expected change, post-thesis – I’m now the guy who goes to bars alone.

It took me a bit to come around on watching the Bucks alone, so I only show up to the Laurel as the second half started. One of the televisions already had the game on, a real shocker in Madison. Madison loves sports, with many residents defining themselves on their sports fandom, but speech and silly shirts show the state’s loyalties.

The assumption is they suck, they will suck, and sucky teams aren’t worth investment. Or maybe they see Bucks basketball as a Black thing, while Wisconsin is so damn White… anyway, I digress. Something to discuss in a different way, or a different post. I was able to just get a beer, find a table near the Bucks-playing TV and just watch the game.

Posted up at a high table by myself, I felt subversive and self-conscious. Not only was I alone, I was watching the Bucks. Of course I had my friends and my brother on the line, messaging them as the game progressed, but it’s not the same. Nobody knows if you’re actually messaging someone or just frantically checking your phone, lonely and hoping for contact. I didn’t feel lonely. I felt anxious. The thought that others might perceive me as lonely is a bother.

I worry too much.

The game came down to the wire. I messaged my friends while peering at the screen, all of us guessing how the Bucks would mess up the final play and lose the game to the Suns. I think I called a five-second violation on the inbound. A friend foresaw Jerryd Bayless bricking a shot. Another predicted a Khris Middleton shot rimming out of the cylinder. My brother was confident the Bucks would get it through the hoop, even though he didn’t say how. I expected the worst and hoped for the best. I can’t say how my friends feel about the team, but I do break down into the sort of fan who says “we did it!” despite all evidence against my contributions to the team. The thoughts that held true for the past few years of Bucks fandom – should they lose first to get better later? – are nowhere in sight now, huh?

Khris Middleton’s shot rimmed in. I cheered, hooted and hollered a bit, joined by other tavern patrons who tuned into the final play. Not many mind you, just three or four folks. It was gratifying to see others give a damn, even if it was just for a moment. Over our clamor I could hear others, however, each asking what the hell was going on. My self-consciousness returned, anxiety that slipped away during that moment I shared with those other patrons-turned-Bucks-fans. I’m still alone, watching a sports team that few people care for. I wish I were strong-willed, but I’m not. It’s hard for me to be defiant in my fandom, resolute to openly care about this team when others fail to see what I see. In broad scope, sports are silly. Basketball is silly. Fandom is silly. In the past I’ve mocked pride without accomplishment. Defiance is hypocrisy. I’m just a guy who looks lonely, unable to fully enjoy the good fortune of others because I think too much about what it all says about me.

I finished my beer quickly and left. During the short walk home, I vacillated between unwarranted joy and contemplative sorrow, unable to appreciate much at all: not my victory over academia or my teams’ victory over the Suns. I entered my apartment to my girlfriend’s cheer, her having said something like “how about them Bucks?” She was watching the score updates, knowing that it matters to me more than I care to say.

I smiled, moving quickly to the story of what went down in those last seconds of the game. My life has changed, but I have not. There is no revelation post-degree. Just more time to be problematically conscious of myself.

My History with Basketball Prior to Liking It

I liked Jordan as a kid, but who didn’t. My mother told me that I used to recite facts about Jordan to her – height, birthday, and favorite food – as if she’d find them fascinating. She said that she asked me to keep it to myself one time, and that my eyes welled up about to cry. Then she told me I could keep talking.

There was a Jordan poster on the wall immediately above my pillow for a few years. I would often push my pillow up the wall as I slept, damaging the bottom part of the poster. I eventually threw it out and replaced it with a drawing of Yoshi that a middle school friend made for me.

My brother, who I shared a room with, hung up a Shawn Kemp pennant and bought a Vin Baker collectible figure. These were hung on the wall with Sesame Street posters, a White Sox windsock, and a calendar. I have no idea what has come of any of these items.

I played a lot of NBA Jam as a kid. One time, when my American grandparents visited, I convinced my grandpa to play the game with me. I remember that he scored two points and I scored the rest. I think we won, but in NBA Jam, if you win, it’s always by the skin of your teeth.

We had a basketball hoop put in next to the driveway to the family home. Sometimes, when I was really bored, I would shoot around. Nobody ever told me my shot form sucked. To this day I really can’t hit a shot.

I played basketball for some youth league in 5^th or 6^th grade, mostly because my brother did and I usually did the thing he did at that age. I feared getting the ball because I couldn’t dribble or shoot well. My point total for the season: four. We managed to get 4^th place overall. The parents of the other players wanted to get us trophies except for my mom. We didn’t win anything anyway and money was tight at that time. She backed out, but the rest of the parents chipped in extra to get me a trophy anyway. My trophy was a little different though; I got the “Most Improved Player” trophy.

My friend (and contributor) Nick and I played a lot of NBA Jam during the Bucks’ “Fear the Deer” season. Finding out that he actually watched the games, I too started watching. I didn’t want to be labeled a bandwagon fan, but I didn’t know how to avoid it. I told my brother this fear at Lucky’s on Regent one day. He told me the following story. He was listening to Milwaukee sports radio in the car during the Bucks postseason, and the radio host said that they had a poll up on their website asking whether listeners would rather hear stories about the Bucks’ postseason or the Brewers’ preseason. Listeners overwhelmingly voted for the Brewers.

That’s the day I started to like basketball.