“Dear Basketball, From the moment I started rolling my dad’s tube socks and shooting imaginary game-winning shots,”— those were the starting words from Kobe Bryant’s award-winning short film titled Dear Basketball. Now, I’m no Kobe; although I have his jersey hanging in my college room, Kobe and I shared one thing in common. Our love for the game. But while Kobe mastered the triple-threat and the footwork of a ballet dancer, I’ve mastered something even more elusive: the ability to play this game entirely with my eyes closed.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re imagining me tripping over the baseline, missing a shot into a neighboring court. To the skeptics, I say, you don’t understand the deep connection I have with the ball. I don’t just see the court; I feel it. I’ve reached a level of basketball mastery where my eyes have almost retired, letting my instincts and hands that move like a concert pianist take over. Most players need to scan the court to track the defense, but I have the entire layout mapped out in my mind. I can sense the friction of the floor under my feet or, rather, I can feel the ground’s resistance even when I’m perfectly still. As I move toward the corner, I don’t need to look down to see if my toes are behind the line. My body just knows. It’s a sixth sense, a connection between my nerves and the energy around me.
I’ve spent so many hours in the gym that I’m sure I could sink a step-back three while wearing a bucket over my head, relying only on the slight vibrations in my hands. There is a certain arrogance that comes with being this good at something without trying. My roommates walk by and see me staring at a blank wall with my hands twitching in a claw-like grip. They think I’ve finally lost it under the pressure of my Macroeconomics midterm. They don’t realize I’m actually locking down a prime LeBron in a fast-break situation, timing my jump based on a quick sound cue.
Dear Basketball, you’ve taken my sleep, my social life, and the strength of my left thumb’s ligament. You’ve made me a legend in a world that feels more real than the one outside my window. I’ve practiced the “fadeaway” until it’s part of who I am. I’ve mastered the “pick and roll” to the point where I could run it in my sleep. People ask if I ever miss the “real” game. I tell them I am the real game. I’m the only player who can sustain a career-ending ACL tear, get up, and be back on the court after a thirty-second break. I am the Iron Man of the hardwood. I am the spirit within the machine.
So, when I say I can play with my eyes closed, I mean it literally. I’ve memorized the vibration patterns of my setup, making visual cues just suggestions. I know exactly when my player reaches the peak of his jump because I feel a tiny, soulful tremor in my grip, a spark of energy that tells me, Now. Release the button now. Because in the end, I don’t need a real hoop or a leather ball to show my commitment. I don’t need a jersey made of anything but pixels. I am a master of the court, a wizard of the fast break, and a god of the blacktop. As long as my console doesn’t overheat and the servers stay active, I’ll keep dominating the league. Because let’s face it: NBA 2K is the only place where a guy with my actual 2-inch vertical can win a Slam Dunk Contest against Michael Jordan.