Showtime in Shanghai - He Shoots, He Air Balls

Article by: Jim Doherty, September 2006

I had been in Shanghai for a few days, my senses assaulted by a steady barrage of scenes and places astonishingly foreign to me, so I was relieved when I found some familiar territory at T-Mac Court. It was a perfect day for basketball, a warm, breezy afternoon, far removed from the tourist riverbanks of the Bund and Pudong in Shanghai. I stripped down to my long blue athletic shorts and produced a shiny new ball from my backpack.

To me, Houston is just another team and Yao is just another NBA player, but in China, he is the hometown hero for a country of over a billion.

The lines and rims of the park’s courts were immaculately kept, a sharp contrast to the hoopless rims set on slabs of pavement in American city parks. There were lights in place for the latecomers who played into the night. The court was crammed with players; even in the US where the game thrives, basketball courts are never this busy on a weekday afternoon. Yet these crowds are commonplace in a country where department stores burst with NBA paraphernalia and basketball coverage saturates TV.

I sized up the opposition and the surroundings while idly dribbling my ball. The styles of play could not have been more diverse. They ran the gamut from groups playing serious pick-up games, sporting NBA jerseys and shimmering new Nikes, to less skilled students in pressed trousers and collared shirts, awkwardly showing off their meagre skills.

When I hit the court I introduced myself to Martin, a student of English. He told me that he and his friends come out every day to play and that he watched the NBA nearly every week. Since the games come on at the hopelessly unsociable hour of 9am, there aren’t that many public places to grab a beer and watch the game, but that doesn’t stop the fervour. When asked who his favourite team was he enthusiastically declared 'The Houston Rockets, of course', a foolish question since Yao Ming, China’s only great NBA player, plays for Houston. To me, Houston is just another team and Yao is just another NBA player, but in China, he is the hometown hero for a country of over a billion.

The play itself was a bit shambolic, as it seemed my team mates had learned everything they knew about basketball from the TV.

Missionaries brought basketball to China over 100 years ago and its popularity has sky-rocketed in recent decades. Names like Michael Jordan and the NBA are highly recognisable and cashing in on China - the league has given rights to Chinese networks to broadcast games. In 2004, NBA exhibition games were played here, to gauge the popularity of basketball. Raucous sell-out crowds paid up to US$240 to see Yao Ming and his Rockets play the Sacramento Kings in Shanghai - a pricey ticket by American standards, more so Chinese.

Back at T-Mac Court, players started gathering around the rim to take shots and Martin asked the question that I was looking to hear. 'Game?' We divided into squads of three and I was one of the first selected, which made a welcome change from my usual hometown scenario - perhaps they were expecting too much of me. We were not the most skilled bunch of players, but we drew a crowd nonetheless. The benches on the baselines filled up with people exchanging cigarettes and observing the action; even outside in the park, people came by to catch a glimpse. If the game did not intrigue them, maybe the sight of a tall American sticking out like a sore thumb did. I felt like an undeserving celebrity drawing this much attention. After all it was just a little game and we weren’t exactly All-Stars.

I found a cultural bridge and a little slice of home thousands of miles away.

The play itself was a bit shambolic, as it seemed my team mates had learned everything they knew about basketball from the TV. They imitated the pros with no-look passes, fade-away shots and between-the-legs dribbling executed with a few successes, but mostly failures. It appeared the object of the game was to impress friends rather than make baskets. Some even took a quick smoke break to chat about the game with their buddies, lungs of steel no doubt.

The courtside soundtrack was distinctly different to what I was used to. Instead of the usual yelling for the ball and trash talking while playing defence there was nothing more than the squeak of sneakers and the occasional mild, respectful golf clap. But then again, perhaps no words were necessary. We all knew where we were supposed to be, how to score and defend and how to enjoy the game. In this way, I found a cultural bridge and a little slice of home thousands of miles away. Another shot, another 'air ball', I was right in my element indeed.