COLUMN: Hoop dreams at Gimbel Gym

From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99 From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99It is 3:07 on a Friday afternoon and inside Gimbel Gymnasium court one is already filling up. The first game is under way and seven or eight people are scattered around the perimeter of the court. Some sit alone on the baseline, taking time to stretch their limbs. Others stand in small groups along the court, arms crossed, nodding earnestly as they watch the game. 3:25. The usual suspects have begun to arrive. Everyone greets each other with pounds and hugs. Their are smiles and light laughter. But there is also a breathing hesitancy. A slight urgency pervades the air. It's Friday afternoon and nobody wants to go home early. I put on my shoes and start to shoot around. Gimbel Gymnasium has three full-length basketball courts. But for many, only one of these courts is sneaker-worthy. Court one is located adjacent to the entrance; the only court with three walls for players to lean on, the only court with a bench for players to sit on. It is where Penn students, local Philadelphia ballers, old hands and erstwhile star athletes converge. This motley crew of actors play out a basketball drama staged daily on the second floor of Gimbel Gymnasium. Earning the respect of the players on court one means not having to wait for games because people always save a spot for you. It means that in the free-flowing rules of Gimbel basketball, your word counts more in arguments. It means that when the game is tied and next point wins, people want you to shoot the ball. But most of all, it confers what every red-blooded basketball player desires more than anything -- respect. To the virgin passerby who is unused to the rituals, court one will seem a dangerous place. Players bark at each other, push and shove, mutter expletives under their breath and threaten to come to blows over disputes. But when the game is over all is forgotten. Some of the best friendships I've made have been with people I nearly fought during the game. There are Gimbels in every city, suburb and town in America, places where the game is played, discussed and theorized. They are filled by those whose names never appear in the paper, who are never payed a cent, who are never noticed outside of their circle of comrades. They play for nothing more than the love of the game and the visceral thrill of competition. To play at these places is to know that for every Michael Jordan there is an Earl "The Goat" Manigault, who could jump so high he could put a quarter on the top of a backboard. For every Magic Johnson there is a Joe "The Destroyer" Hammond, who snubbed the Los Angeles Lakers because he thought he could make more money selling drugs. And for every Jed Ryan there is a Carl from Physical Plant who can't be stopped in the post, for every Matt Langel there's a Reuben from the Bronx, who is as good as any point guard in Philadelphia. Six games later, I plop myself down on the bench in a fatigued sigh. It will feel good to begin my weekend as a winner. Tired, I close my eyes and can hear the flurried squeal of plastic-soled shoes, the playful bellow of arguing voices that aren't really arguing. Young men talking basketball. There is laughter and excitement, an entire drama acted out in a few hours. What might happen today will be discussed for weeks or even years to come. Like the time when Bobby Black dunked over James Nelson. (I threw the pass. Sorry James.) Looking back, I have begun to realize that my fondest memories of Gimbel have little to do with basketball. What will stay with me is the memory of the people I met and befriended, fought, sweat and argued with on countless afternoons. Last week, I played on a team with a Penn Law student, a worker from '20 Commons and a high school kid from North Philly. Young white guys from Andover and Exeter play on the same team as young men from West Philadelphia. If one of them makes a good play, the other one nods or pats him on the butt. On the court, you play together or you lose and go home. My glory days at Gimbel have already begun to wind down. Gone is the time when I spent three days a week in the gym and when Bobby Black and I would infuriate opponents with our brash trash talking and impudent behavior. A little older now, I don't say as much as I used to. A little more tired now, I'm more likely to lay it up then try and dunk. On the way out of the gym, I joke with a friend about being named to the "Gimbel 50 Greatest Players of All Time." He laughs and we are silent for a moment. Both of us are thinking about what number we would be.