James O'Brien
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Mike killed himself on New Year's Day. None of us went to the funeral, because none of us knew him very well.
Maybe if we were women, or if the women in our lives had known him, we would have done differently. Maybe we would have stopped what we were doing and driven to Fargo to pay our respects. But we didn't. We didn't even send flowers, because we were only his pickup basketball friends--or "acquaintances," as fate's copy editors will undoubtedly put it from here on out.
Our game is like any of the thousands that go on all over the country. The gyms have changed over the years but many of the names have stayed the same, and just a couple of weeks ago someone was saying, Whatever happened to Mike? Hope he's doing all right. We should track that guy down. What happened instead is that someone noticed his obituary in the newspaper he used to work for, and the age, "46," and the cryptic language, "in his home." And, realizing that aging white males are the biggest suicide-risk demographic, someone sent out a group e-mail, wondering if there was anyone who knew more.
The replies didn't exactly swamp the in-box. The commissioner called for a moment of silence. A few remembered talking to Mike about his drug and alcohol problems, his depression, and his devastation by his brother's rock-climbing death a few years ago. Someone talked to his sister, who said it was an apparent suicide. Most said nothing, because they never played with him, or didn't remember him if they had. From those who did, a composite player's profile came together that might read this way:
Mike, 5' 10". Guard. Liked to bring the ball up court very deliberately. Not much of a dribbler; could travel and carry the ball with the best of them. Known for tough defense and temper. Incredible hack. Favorite shots: 15-footer, hook in the lane. Charter member of the Layup Club, the long-standing informal fraternity of players who regularly miss easy layups.
Personal: Technology-computer wiz-geek before it was cool. Maniacal laugh. Spent time in halfway house, "getting my shit together." Left his VW minivan for several months in one player's garage until that player's wife finally flipped out and made them move it in dead of winter. Played in game regularly for years through '80s and '90s. After that, made sporadic return visits, looking heavy and puffy. Swore he was going to come back and get in shape. Stopped coming altogether two or three years ago.
The day of the funeral, we were at the gym. Not because Mike would have wanted it that way--nobody even bothered trying to sell that line--but because we'd heard about it late and because we're busy grown men and you can't save everybody and people die every day. So there we were, guys playing ball: quiet guys, loud guys, young guys, old guys, outgoing guys, misanthropic guys, guys who have nothing in common with the other guys besides the game itself, twice a week.
Not long after his divorce, one of the guys sat on the bleachers looking out at the empty post-game court and said, "I'd be dead without this." Five days after Mike died, Kevin Garnett talked to reporters about the basketball court being a "sanctuary" where you can "forget about your problems for a couple hours." He was talking about Kobe Bryant, and pickup game players the world over--and, once upon a time, fuck it all anyway, Mike.
The day of the funeral, someone brought along to the gym a photocopied picture of Mike with his name and the notation "1957-2004" and taped it on the wall. There was that snarky smile slithering out of a beard that came and went like wildfire, and those window-to-the-tortured-soul eyes. Unlike the obit, the picture brought him to life: Amidst the sounds of guys getting undressed and stretching, you could almost hear his squirrelly voice rolling across the gym and calling you by the nickname he always called you, or gushing about some blues record, or screaming when he missed a shot, or going ballistic on someone for calling a foul.
There was no ceremony. Nobody cried. One of the big guys gave one of the little guys a decisive hug and cradled his head in his shoulder for a second, but neither said a word about Mike. No one made any New Year's resolutions to stay better in touch or hang out after the game, but a couple of long-lost friends sent each other e-mails and made plans to watch some ball together soon.
After the first game, one of the young guys took a drink from the drinking fountain, stood by Mike's picture, and asked who the guy on the poster was. The older guys told him: a guy we used to work with, a guy we used to play ball with, a guy who might have killed himself because nobody ever called to say, "Hey, man. Haven't seen you at ball for a while. We're in St. Paul now. Good run, good gym. Glass backboards, two courts. You should come by. Some of the regulars are still there; it's a good bunch of guys, not too many jerks."
