Daily Thunder.com

When the ball meets the pavement, when that asphalt echo reverberates throughout my neighborhood and I know that somewhere a young boy or girl is dribbling down a sidewalk or working on their jump-shot despite the frigid winter winds, that familiar twinge of nostalgia and the innocent love of the game always hits me. Sometimes it’s potent and overwhelming, like when I’m playing 21 with my buddies in a concrete driveway and for whatever reason I realize what that moment really means and I tell myself to mark it and appreciate it, cling to it before it passes. But other times it’s subtle, perhaps even imperceptible, silently stirring up an ancient ache to grab my worn smooth basketball and head to the playgrounds for an impromptu five-on-five game in the middle of whatever I’m doing.

With each bounce, with every ringing echo of the sweet pavement ping or the warm hardwood drum some sentimental string inside me resonates as well, reawakening that childlike love for a game that is simple and direct, yet complex and far-reaching in its impact.

And with another year behind us and the next year peeking over the horizon, I can’t help but return again to a thought that continually draws me back to the game of basketball and a conversation that I’m not certain fans or even players and coaches know how to put into words or contextualize. Read more…

Commentary Sunday Discussion

(One thing lacking here at DT is Sunday fodder. Our good friend J.G. is here to fill that void. So turn off that boring Bengals-Chiefs game and have a read.)

Dense droplets of saturated air hang thick around the rusted metal rim, the humidity resisting the flight of the worn leather ball shot after shot. Dust disperses at each bounce of the faded basketball as the chorus of dribbles, feet pounding towards the basket and the familiar clang of an unforgiving rim echoes around the outdoor court.

He catches his breath, inhaling the 89 percent humidity and bouncing the ball a few more times for good measure before returning home, a home lying at 0º00´ North of the Equator. A home of tropical temperatures at the hot and humid equatorial river basin of Brazaville, Congo.  A home that he grew up in without electricity and running water; the same home that  served as the cradle to his still developing craft, one in which he honed outdoors for the majority of his young life, not playing an indoor basketball game until only a few years ago.

And now a few years later, Serge Ibaka finds himself in a place very unlike the sub-tropical climate of his home, in a culture very different from his Brazavillian heritage and in a city where he must learn, yet again, their native tongue so that he can further the education that has spurred him on his whirlwind journey across the globe.

Yet one constant remains. The worn leather ball, the familiar clang of an unforgiving rim and the passionate talent that has brought him thus far. Because wherever Serge Ibaka has gone to continue playing and growing in the sport of basketball, one thing persists throughout all of the changes in scenery, culture and language: The love of the game.

And it is that game that has become his home, his one true constant despite all of the change, and it is his undeniable skill at that game that generates what so many Thunder fans currently find themselves wrestling with: The Ibaka Conundrum. Read more…

Commentary Serge Ibaka, Sunday Discussion