Whole Wild World (33 page)

Journalism seemed limitless. I was sure there would be space for me in this club. Yet beyond a starter job called a cadetship, and my cousin Zdenka's blossoming career, I was clueless. How you progressed to write longer pieces or even found stories were mysteries. Yet instead of working to an orderly plan, I simply craved to be swept up by journalism and taken away.

I was going at things freestyle, an erratic, alternative existence of leisure, cutting corners at school and squeezing all study into a few hours at home. At first it did not feel like a high-risk approach, rather it seemed a logical, if not reasonable, extension of the school's ethos of freedom and individual responsibility. The cadetships in journalism would be determined long before the HSC results came in. Why bust myself?

Hanging out in the mornings at Wally's pool or in the Kombi, staying up late and sleeping in were the rewards of an easing in my academic policy. Every night I did something social or sporty – I'd been chosen in the NSW Catholic Opens basketball team – anything ‘un-school'.

‘
Pasha
, where do you think you are going?' Teta Danica would say as I waited outside for a lift from Harpo.

‘Out.'

‘What about your homework, when are you going to do that?'

‘I've finished it,
pušti me na miru
!' Leave me in peace. It was the Croatian phrase most often spoken by Sam and me to our killjoy aunt. When I was on the phone to a girl or a mate, she'd keep a running commentary.

‘Who's he talking to now? Probably some Australian hussy.
She should be helping her mother, not talking to you.'

‘
Pušti me na miru
!'

‘If your mother hadn't lost the girl, you'd never have been born. She would have been here helping Milenka, not talking on the phone to boys like you.'

‘
Pušti me na miru
!'

‘Oh, when he came along his father thought a king had been born. Call him Tomislav.'

‘
Pušti me na miru
!'

‘Out all night,
lutalica
.' Wanderer.

‘
Pušti me na miru
!'

‘House to house. Who knows where
pasha
goes?'

‘
Pušti me na miru
!'

Unless hounded to action by Teta, our parents were content to stay out of our lives as long as Sam and I didn't squander their resources. We had a non-aggression pact, whereas Teta tried to light fires at the heart of family life. Too often, she scorched us all.

My dad was busy on the new house at Condell Park to all hours. Mama's routine hardly ever changed; her daily happiness hostage to the mood swings of her older sister. Teta could always get under my skin, suck me into a fight, because I thought I could out-talk her, despite my seventeen to her sixty-six. I was sure if I found the right words, I could soften her stony face; that through reason, I could whisk her out of the Balkans of the 1930s and bring her into the 1980s. Then she would leave me alone.

Anyway, ‘
pasha
' sounded like posh or pash, even Passiona, words far from distasteful to anyone. I soon discovered, however,
pasha
was actually Turkish, not Croatian, and a title for a high-ranking official or dignitary in the Ottoman Empire, which went toe-to-toe with Croatia over territory for some 400 years.
Pasha
's battle with Teta might last some time.

A basketball court is eighteen steps wide, thirty or so long. In breaths and heartbeats, my body remembers how long it takes to dribble basket to basket; by foot feel, it knows the spot on the floor from which I can throw my longest pass on a fast break to hit a running man at the free throw line so he can make, one-two, an easy lay-up.

With the ball in hand, I sway space and time. If the game tempo needs to change, up or down, vary stride. A chest-high diagonal pass, missile-like, unexpected, is as devastating as a punch from Ali.

The ball is sacrosanct. Possession is the game. Eyes locked on the target – bottom of the box on the backboard, just below the hoop's rim – I lose sight of the ball for a nanosecond when it is above my head at its zenith for a shot. But I'll know instantly how sweetly it's left my hand.

If I don't have the ball I trust it to find its way to me. I'll present in open space; if I can't see the ball I'm anxious and will use the press of other bodies to find it.

I've learnt to glide backwards. On defence I want to be on the main ball handler. Arms and chest out, I'll crouch as low as I can go, sliding backwards and sideways, trying to limit his passing options. I'll watch the spot on his singlet over his belly button; no matter what fast trick he has with his hands or eyes, I know the belly never lies. I've adjusted to his dribbling, my body ghosting its beat. If he gets close enough, just after the ball hits the floor I'm going to finger-flick it out of his grasp and collect it before he can recover.

I'm above average height for a schoolboy, just below 180 centimetres; physically I have no advantage, other than large hands and a wingspan out of proportion to my torso. I'm neither quick nor flexible, although I try to feel loose, as if I'm on the dance floor.

If I have an edge, it is that I understand the game, know the limits of what can occur in this space. Under time pressure, I can quickly gather information, partial and imperfect, and act.

I've been captivated by this ritual of play for thousands of hours stretching over thousands of days. The bouncing ball on concrete, asphalt or wood, is as essential, yet unnoticed, as a pulse.

Playing basketball is where I am my most self, revealing flaws and gifts, and the young adult I will soon be.

In spite of a game plan or role on the team, there is no script. A game of infinite variety, it is performance. I thrive when the play is helter-skelter, in broken passages where the ball zings from hand to hand, randomly. Or so it appears. There's always an explanation.

Don't overthink or pre-think; good opponents can read your internal codes, which reveal themselves in gesture – as slight as a body bend, a shift in weight.

If my mind is clear, I'll hear music, just a few bars. I can never be sure whether I'll pass or dribble or stop and pivot or dribble some more to beat a man or make him commit with a feint or if the space will just open up or who will be in the best position to score. There are nine others moving on the court, creating vectors, angles, trajectories. But I trust myself to act at the last instant.

And then someone else has the ball, odds are recalculated like on a totalisator board, and he will make a choice; it's perpetual improvisation upon an ocean swell, up the court and down, backward and forward.

When I don't have the ball, there's more work to do. By moving you change the passing equation, you're a blunt object, opening up the floor by stopping a defender from taking a position.

There is always contact in this non-contact sport; if it looks like equilibrium you won't infringe the rules. If I am called for a foul I judge it a failure; it represents a loss of control and finesse. I've learnt, after years of futile irritation, not to blame officials.
It's on me. I should not have given the referee the chance to make that call.

A foul is like an injury. A few fouls are a tumour, preying on your mind, when all you want to be is weightless; three fouls are reckless, against nature. Two more will see you out of the game. Get a grip, recalibrate and inhale, find the balance this game offers.

There is game-clock time and mind-action time. A lot can happen in ten seconds. Never panic. A bullet pass spits through air and compresses distance like conjuring.

I'm conservative with shooting, unless the scoreboard invites risks. I am acutely aware of skill limits, you can't bend reality on that, so don't even try to shoot from there; it's an insult to your comrades, such hubris is corrosive. Their faith is liberating and a reward.

If one ingredient changes – say a new player comes in or a foul is called – the game is immediately different, so adapt quickly or lose the flow. The court demands you find your level, your role. When I first played, opponents were several years older; to get better we now compete against men, proper men with scars: maniacal Balts, flashy Filipinos, has-beens, inmates at Silverwater at the end of a stretch.

Brother Geoff has mercilessly thrown us into a raging river. One Sunday night, when Harpo and I are on duty, there is an affray involving Riga and the jailbirds: a push, punch, head-butt, splat of nose, blood, all in. At the judiciary all eyes are on us. Shoot straight.

I've learnt about the organic nature of teams, fitting in and playing a role, leading and following, and the instincts of people. When Harpo turns his head in a jerk and rapid-bounces it on his right he is launching a jump shot; I'm moving to the basket, in flight, just in case he misses. If I take on a man, one on one, to the basket, and another defender is drawn, Phil is running armout into space to make the easiest of shots. These patterns are
written in play-memory, which draw muscle impulses that can't be resisted.

No matter what else is happening in my life, there is basketball, anchor and therapy, source of joy and identity, the sum of me. I've played every position, been the best and worst on court – maestro, scorer, scrapper, chaser, blocker, bench warmer. When I was ten, I snuck onto the high-school playground through a pulsating maze of players to join in. I stayed in the game, never subbing out: before and straight after school, at every break, several nights a week.

I began seeing, like a coach, patterns overlaying the kinetic drama on court. Change perspective, but get back in.

I study to steal moves from the best in the National Basketball League at Bankstown Bruins home games and national championships. I know the measure of a player simply from the way he passes and when, not how he shoots or dribbles. After watching visiting US college teams I sought advice from playmakers.

‘Stay ground low on the dribble, you between the defender and the ball,' said a chunky point guard.

‘Stand tall in open space, head still, to see every possible passing lane,' said a lithe power forward.

I try both approaches, shaping them to my style. Variations make you whole. You're always adapting. Even the young kids you are refereeing can teach you if your eyes are not simply looking for fouls or searching for three-second violations.

Practising alone has no appeal, no hand about to swoop. Shot after shot, falls through the net exactly as I'd visualised, or not, who cares? It's less than routine, static, existing in a void. On the court, there are options, chaos and tension.

Watching only makes me want to play. If I'm on the bench a story is being written that I won't be able to fully understand or feel.

I want to compete at the level where I am just good enough
to be the fifth man, then work harder, get control of the game; be the one who amid whistles and shoe squeaks, above the ball thud on floor, is humming a radio tune, free in space.

I tagged along with Sam one morning to check out Sydney University. The pace was more leisurely than I'd expected, the place eerily school-like. I'd expected something more thrilling. There were several ex-Benilde guys doing science and engineering and they'd catch up at lunchtime in the Wentworth Union building on City Road. While Sam went to lectures I went to the Fisher Library; at the entrance I stood and watched an over-charged, quite theatrical argument between two groups about Middle East politics. I went to a listening library, chose an LP and an attendant set it on one of several numbered turntables; the cover was placed above it. I sat in a comfortable chair, put on bulky headphones and tuned into the right channel. I read the student newspaper
Honi Soit
. I'd flicked through it at home, but with time to spare I paid more attention. The stories and images in it felt unconnected to the normal-looking people I'd observed around campus or to the wider world I knew from newspapers and TV. I didn't find any pull from either end of this spectrum: the people who inhabited
Honi Soit
or the diligent mass of students in jeans and sloppy joes who filled the lecture halls and ordered pie and chips for lunch. Coming out of the library two hours later, only two students remained in argument, but it was more heated. Then one checked the time, realising he was late.