Disrupting The Old Boy Network at Collins Court: Lessons of Survival by Intersectional Bodies

With a few of the regulars of the old boy network

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning at approximately 10:30 A.M., members of an old boy network congregate for an exclusive pick up game at Collins Court, UCLA's indoor basketball gym. Though many community and student bystanders attempt to join this game, they are all unequivocally denied access. Exclusivity means what it sounds - and in this case, the boundaries are sharply drawn to parallel social markers of success and belonging.

Two categories of participants play in this game. The first category comprises of mostly white, older-aged men who have reached the upper echelon of meritorious success - current and former faculty members at UCLA (one of whom has been playing at Collins Court for 45 years!), retired senior partners in big law, and former upper-level corporate administrators. The second category comprises of mostly black, young and middle-aged basketball "talent" - an imposing center who uses his size to dominate the paint, shoot-first guards who are training for the G League (formerly known as the NBA Development League), and long-range specialists who routinely make NBA-ranged three-pointers. The constitution of this Collins Court vanguard by black and white men directly reifies stereotypical constructions of entitlement and racial meaning in American society, while simultaneously reinforces barriers that prevent nonconforming racial and gender identities from participation.

Amidst this context, Binny and I have accomplished no small feat. Against all odds, we have made it and have been participating for the greater part of a year in this old boy network. It's not just that the network opened its doors to include just any East Asian man or any woman, which would have resembled a traditional affirmative action plan designed to admit "the most qualified" and "assimilationist" among minorities.  Instead, far from being token representatives of "qualified" or conforming minorities, Binny and I live out our experiences on the court as complex, intersectional bodies. As a result, the microaggressions and oppressions we face on the court are unique from what other East Asian men and other women face respectively.

Intersectional Identities

Jeremy Lin's breakthrough in the NBA simultaneously ruptures the rigid black-white boundary but paradoxically essentializes East Asian male identity in basketball. East Asian men who routinely join in high-level, interracial pick-up games at Collins Court are "masculine" in appearance and personality: physically strong, athletically built like football players, and arrogant. I, an East Asian, glasses-wearing man with a slender build, am regularly perceived by other men - especially other ASIAN men - to be non-gender conforming on the basketball court, so much so that I have been explicitly called "gay" or denied participation from pick up games implicitly because of my appearance. In other words, I am NOT raced East Asian on the basketball court, and because my presence queers a formulaic understanding of racial identity, I do not belong on the hardwood floor.

Unlike the droves of East Asian men who play ball at Collins Court - imperfectly resembling the high numbers of Asian students admitted into UCLA each year - women are, in general, grossly underrepresented, and, at any given session, not represented at all. Thus, on one level, Binny experiences the sex discrimination of any other woman who courageously sets foot on Collins Court: getting picked last or not picked at all, not receiving any passes from teammates, or being subject to explicit comments on the basis of sex (she's just a girl, how can you let her score on you!). As South Asian, Binny further experiences uniquely racialized sexual harassment from men who act differently towards other women - including raging men angrily telling her who the fuck do you think you are?, men explicitly asking her to come over to Netflix and chill, and South Asian men patronizingly patting her on the head.

Because neither of us neatly fall into one single compartmental social identity, our inclusion in the old boy network is aesthetically peculiar but politically significant. Externally, our presence at the exclusion of other black and white men on the one hand, or more qualified, conforming Asians or women on the other, disrupts rigid categories designed to police the game of basketball. It signals to other higher credentialed, envious bystanders who wish to participate in this exclusive game that it is precisely because of our intersectional identities, and the accompanying unique struggles we face, that Binny and I DO belong and that we CAN compete anywhere. Internally, participating in this exclusive game has allowed us to tremendously grow as human beings, recognize our limitless drive and self-worth, and discover our capacity to change how others perceive us.

The Lessons We Carry for Life

If, through the world-class instruction at UCLA, Binny and I learned book smarts (and it's debatable that law school taught me even this), Collins Court instilled street smarts - lessons of survival and success that we will carry on for life. For me, these lessons have been brought into sharp focus through participation in the biweekly exclusive games with the old boy network.

If my journey into basketball could be reduced to one single mantra, it would be this: When life presents you an opportunity, seize it. Years ago, without having any prior knowledge of even the most basic rules of basketball, when I was offered a job coaching the freshman-sophomore team at a major high school in Seattle, I ignored my fear of the unknown and said yes. That simple answer would propel my life from the mediocrity of the familiar to a life of ambition and adventure. In analogous fashion, my invitation to participate in the exclusive game came on a whim: one Tuesday morning at Collins Court, I invited a middle-aged black man, Virgil, to a game of half-court basketball, to which he enthusiastically accepted. Unbeknownst to me, Virgil was a member of the old boy network. As other regulars of the network trickled onto Collins Court later that morning, Virgil introduced me to them and asked me to stay. Having been rejected in successive weeks before by the same members to whom I was now being introduced, I cast aside my fear of inadequacy and said yes. In the eight or so months since I've joined the exclusive game, Virgil has not once reappeared. Had I not seized the opportunity then, I would have still been standing on the sidelines dreaming of a way to get in.

The initial months of playing in the exclusive game were among the most mentally challenging basketball sessions of my short basketball playing career, which, up to that point, had mostly consisted of pick-up games highlighted by a handful of appearances in UCLA intramural and Los Angeles lawyer leagues. The challenges came in two ways. First, the stereotypical constructions of Asian American identity were amplified because I was the only Asian American man in the old boy network. Second, the exclusivity of the game guaranteed a unique form of team basketball to which I had not been accustomed. The haphazard style of pick-up or amateur league games was replaced by a rhythmic sensibility in which every ball and offball movement carried specific meaning. The mix between the two ostensibly clashing categories of regular members - older white men who tended to be methodical on the one hand, and younger black men who tended to be quick and athletic on the other - created a uniquely competitive, hybrid game where individual skills synergistically complimented a team's composition. For the first time, I was forced to play within a system, and if I could not adapt, I would be constructively pushed out of the old boy network.

With Virgil nowhere in sight to advocate for my participation in subsequent weeks, intimidation to constructively evict me began immediately. During these initial months, I was constantly yelled at by a majority of regulars of the old boy network. Some of the ridicule was a familiar refrain from the ordinary racialized insults I experienced in pick-up games: we lost because of him (it took a few months before members referred to me by name). Yet, the majority of condescending remarks made to me - even if they were made because of my race - contained invaluable insights that ultimately facilitated my development into a smarter and better basketball player. Comments like you are not the first, second, or even third scoring option on our team. You should not be taking the final shot! made me acutely aware of my team's composition and how, as a guard, I would be most effective by anticipating where my teammates are on the floor. Similarly, comments ordering me to basket cut instead of standing around for a shot have made me much more difficult to defend and aware of proper spacing within a free-flowing motion offense. Through listening to the content of berating remarks, instead of dwelling on the emotion behind them, I have come to appreciate the value of education from the unlikeliest of sources. This lesson restated is profoundly anti-identity politics because it recognizes that anyone, regardless of social power, might impart wisdom and knowledge so long as I remain open to receiving it.

Once I respected the process, and developed as a team player who picked his spots wisely, I noticed that my biggest critics began to reward me during games, and respect and compliment me after games. When I sprinted down the floor and correctly filled the lane as had been instructed, I would now be the frequent recipient of cross-court and fast-break passes that resulted in easy lay-ups. Similarly, after being yelled at for weeks by a center, I finally ingrained a basket cut after passing into the post every time I played on his team. This now led to the center frequently rewarding me with a return pass for an easy backdoor lay-up. Because I looked for my teammates more than creating my own shot, my teammates increasingly entrusted me with ballhandling responsibilities. The respect that my critics have shown me over time has given me the confidence in my capacity to change how others perceive me. Moreover, while I have incorporated a baseline level of rules from their game, I have recognized my agency to introduce my own creativity into the process, routinely integrating step-back jumpers and strong finishes to the basket, thereby enhancing the game while still retaining their respect. Cumulatively, the synthesis between my respect for their rules and the addition of my individual style has very visibly challenged their stereotypes of the unathletic, docile Asian American, as I am no longer target of their condescension. Additionally, because I do not conform to the essentialized East Asian male identity on the basketball court, winning the respect of members of the old boy network arguably exposes the very futility of racial categories and invites the possibility for more intersectional bodies to participate - both in the exclusive game, and in other high-level, interracial pick-up games.

The greatest life lesson that I learned from participating in the exclusive game is to never succumb to the victim mentality. I may not be able to escape the omnipresent social dynamics pervading the court, but I sure as hell don't need to fall prey to them. Had I allowed myself to fall victim to abstract structural analysis, I would have robbed myself of the unspeakable pleasure I derive from the act of playing basketball, and the aforementioned growth I have achieved as a player and a human being.

Finally, though I ultimately discovered my inner strength, it is doubtless that love and solidarity allowed me to persevere through the most difficult challenges presented by the old boy network. During those initial months, I frequently sat down on the baseline following a game feeling depressed from the chorus of insults I received from members of both teams. The loss of confidence transferred over to other aspects of life, silencing me and increasing my vulnerability in ordinary interactions and classroom discussions. These feelings were often accompanied by larger existential questions: if basketball is no longer enjoyable, what am I doing at UCLA? (Somehow I had tricked my mind into thinking that law school was only secondary, and that ball, quite literally, is life). The genuine love and solidarity I shared with Binny, over sweat, blood, and waterworks - as we collectively vented our frustrations, strategized, and overcame these challenges - has made this experience in the old boy network endurable, and in the end, the most remarkable accomplishment of my past three years at UCLA.

The Women of Collins Court: Patriarchy and Racism in UCLA Pick-Up Basketball

I envy those who can so easily put on for their city. I am always hesitant to answer the question, where are you from?, mostly because home has always been about people, not places. Last summer, New Orleans changed this calculus. The warmth, hospitality, and laid back personality of locals; the rich, vibrant music and Mardi Gras Indian culture rooted in solidarity and struggle; the unrestrained freedom to celebrate and express oneself - all felt like home. It was as if the entire city, much like a close friend, embraced me for who I was, replete with imperfections.

As much as I enjoyed improvising my leisure time in the spirit of New Orleans jazz, the thing I miss the most about New Orleans was the one regular activity built into my daily schedule: basketball at Loyola University. Each day, I scrimmaged with the Loyola University Women's Basketball team, which had just ended the 2014-15 season with an impressive 27-4 regular season record and its first ever Southern States Athletic Conference (SSAC) Championship title. I became acclimated with Loyola's outgoing point guard Janeica Neely, as I was always matched up against her. Unbeknownst to me then, she came off a strong season averaging 19.1 points per game and was named MVP of the SSAC Championships. At 5'5", she is one of the few players I've ever guarded where I have a height advantage, albeit ever so slightly. I'll always remember two things about her game because these were exceptional moments in my life when I felt completely powerless to stop another individual taking advantage of me. First, each time she brought the ball down court, she executed a hesitation move, which momentarily froze me, and then proceeded to cross me over and go straight to the net. Alternatively, if she didn't blow by me after a hesitation move, she broke me down with an impeccable step back jump shot that always went in. Whenever I decided to counter her step back by leaving my feet to block her shot, she would anticipate my anticipation of her, manage to retain her live dribble after stepping back, and explode past me for a floater or lay up while I was still mid-air. I think I developed my habit of saying fuck my life - which I'm told I say quite often now during basketball - from these two maneuvers of Janeica alone.

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Collins Court, UCLA's indoor basketball gym, houses only three full courts to service a student population of over 40,000. As such, from mid-afternoon until closing, pick up games tend to get rough, competitive, and occasionally violent, as teams play to win in order to remain on the court. During these busy stretches, losing teams might wait upwards of two hours for an opportunity to play another game. In this climate where victory is the sole measurement of success, gender constructions of women as soft, gentle, weak, slow, unathletic, and unintelligent are deployed to effectively exclude women from participation. Moreover, the rampant misogynistic practice of men verbally demasculating other men further constitutes Collins Court as a male-oriented space. Unsurprisingly, I have gone for days at a time without seeing a single woman playing basketball.  Far from being an exhaustive list, this post, then, begins to recognize and celebrate the handful of UCLA women who choose to live defiantly and fight against the overwhelming gendered and racist mechanisms operating against them at Collins Court.

I am reminded of Janeica's fierce competitive spirit in Rachel, an undergraduate at UCLA who lives on the hardwood floor. Due to the confluence of race (East Asian), sex (woman), height (5'5"), and size (she's tiny), she appears physically unintimidating and seemingly out-of-place. To the extent that I face racist social constructions of unathleticism due to the Model Minority stereotype, she faces additional barriers arising from race and gender (Asian women are docile, subservient, unassertive). When I first started noticing her around the court earlier this year, no one wanted to play with her. That she has since found a way to compete with all levels of competition has been nothing short of her perseverance and sheer will to succeed, despite the external pressures against her. Rachel plays with a genuine intensity that so few players in pick up basketball possess. Even with a shorter wingspan, defensively, she plays with active hands and gets a remarkable number of steals and tips. When she steals the ball, whereas many other amateurs would slow things down in fear of mishandling the ball or getting blocked by a recovering defender, she's fearless in pushing the ball forward and scoring off the break. Over the past few months, she's transformed from being a spot up shooter on the perimeter (she is an assassin from three-point range) to developing confidence in taking the ball into the teeth of the defense for a higher percentage shot, or, when contested, making a smart play for others. Her growth in observable toughness and skill is a personal reminder that there is immense power in resisting a victim mentality.

I can't say enough about Binny, a deadly mid-range jump shooter who has bailed me out so many times whenever I have a rough game. Her basketball instincts developed out of the necessity to make each shot attempt count, lest she be invisiblized or verbally discredited by her male teammates on the basketball court. Thus, her offensive game is very clean and her every movement is calculated. Unlike most players who selfishly dominate the ball and thereby stagnate their team's offense, Binny makes quick swing passes to her open teammate and routinely facilitates scoring for her team. She also moves extremely intelligently without the ball to position herself both within the passing vision of the ballhandler and where her shot is most likely to go in. When I drive north-south into the teeth of the defense, she always rotates to my east-west to an open mid-range spot where she knows - and where I too now know - that her shot will go in. Moreover, like Steph Curry, she has the quickest shot release I've yet seen at UCLA. I can specifically recall a few instances when she proved me wrong by scoring from shots that I thought would have been blocked had she had a split second slower shot release. She is deeply analytical and extremely hard on herself when she has a bad game - two sentiments that have helped her survive and compete in a sport that fails to recognize the worth of South Asian women. Her drive to reflect and train on her weaknesses, both in basketball as in life, inspires me to do the same.

The person who has taught me most about playing ball is Katelyn, a former forward for Occidental College. At 6'1", her ability to shoot beyond the arc allows her to spread the floor well. We've developed a nice pick and roll dynamic, which has expanded my game and made me a more intelligent player because I am forced to make quick decisions based on reading our two defenders. Her versatility in scoring allows her to either pop for a shot or roll to the net with equally high efficiency. She is an incredibly intelligent player and understands positioning very well. When her defender camps in the paint, she'll make him pay by spotting up for an open three-point shot. As the defender adjusts to contest the three-point shot, she'll quickly basket cut, receive the pass, and finish strong at the rim. A former coach herself, she has scrutinized and worked with me on my individual game, from the fundamentals of squaring up to shoot, to looking ahead to pass while starting a break. She has chewed me up for shooting terrible shots, and as a result, I have become a more selfless and balanced offensive player. More than anyone else, because of her attention to detail and her relentless criticism towards me, I have become a more intentional, smarter, and better all-around basketball player.

Finally, there's CarCar, an absolute scoring machine and one of my favorite teammates to have because she plays the full duration of the game on both ends of the floor. She has taught me, through her personal example, that every second on the floor is valuable and that defensive intensity is as significant as offensive possessions. Cara is an efficient jump shooter from any range, and like Katniss, when she catches fire, her shots will be automatic for the game. As great a shooter as she is, she's even deadlier in the post. She epitomizes patience and intelligence when she posts up. She has a brilliant grasp of footwork fundamentals and executes the pump fake to perfection. She'll comfortably play her back to the basket, get her defender to bite on a pump fake, and go under the defender for a finish. She is living proof that intelligence and poise is routinely a deadlier combination than speed and strength. She is one of the few amateur athletes who is an absolute joy to watch play as it is to play with her, because she'll kick ass even if she is ostensibly outmatched.

I am so remarkably inspired by the personal resolve, mental toughness, and training regimen that each of these women undertake to actively challenge internalized and externalized patriarchy and, for a few on this list, patriarchy compounded with racism. Their act of showing up to the gendered and racialized space of Collins Court, let alone demanding to play, is courageous, bold, and trailblazing. That they not only show up to play, but put it all out on the floor when they do, demands utmost respect and commendation, given a setting where most men play haphazardly, unintentionally, brutishly, and selfishly. That is all to say that as these women actively break down the contours of acceptability, they simultaneously elevate the game of basketball.

Ball is Life: The Inferiority Complex of Asian Americans in Basketball

Image from www.realtytoday.com

Ball is life. For most, this popular refrain echoed across hardwood floors and concrete courts across the nation connotes a particular way of life, quantified in the number of hours spent in devotion to the love of the game. Among the most impassioned, this refrain assumes the added dimension of practicing until one’s breaking point, and then sweating and bleeding beyond that point, just for a shot to one day get paid for this love. For Asian Americans who repeat this chorus, though, merely acknowledging their obsession, self-definition and self-expression through the game fails to capture the game’s construction along social, political, and racial lines. That is, if ball is life is existential for ballers of all colors, Asian American ballers exist in and experience the game through a racialized prism in which their lack of athleticism, ability, skill, and basketball IQ have been predetermined under the Model Minority construct. Playing basketball is not simply a matter of competing at a sport; playing basketball is about competing against the racist social constructions of unathleticism and docility/lack of toughness on the one hand, and in turn, the internalized notions of inferiority and self-doubt on the other. Being victorious, then, cannot be measured by any number of wins or points one scores, but by the gaining of self-confidence, mental strength, and discovery of one’s worth despite these constructions constantly pulling one down.

Whenever I travel or relocate, one of the ways I familiarize and experience a new city and its people is through playing pick-up basketball at a local gym or outdoor court. Although conversations with local ballers reflect a parochial dialect, the perception of ballers towards me is a constant from city to city. Upon my asking to join a game, there is immediate suspicion, at times sprinkled with a few chuckles, followed by a genuine look of perplexity as the locals struggle for the right words to say to exclude my participation. “Oh, we’re waiting for our friends to come.” Oh, so can I play with y’all until they get here? “Nah man, we’re good.” I’m trying to run with y’all right now. “We’re teammates and practicing for our upcoming game.” I can play within your system and be a hard working practice player. This verbal dance usually lasts anywhere between an uncomfortable thirty seconds to two minutes, until my resolve forces them to abandon their passive aggression for a more direct approach (“No. We’re trying to win.” – implying that I’m the loser and unfit to play) or until they give in to my demand (in which case, they amp up their machismo and physicality in hopes to dissuade me from playing a subsequent game). This pleasant pre-game routine foreshadows the truly satisfying in-game experience that follows… every single time.

The Asian American pick-up basketball experience goes something like this. I am picked last. My teammates complain to the opposing team that they are effectively playing 4 on 5 whenever the opponent scores. My teammates refuse to pass to me. On the rare occasions I do happen to have the ball, my teammates insist that I instantly pass them the rock instead of dribbling or shooting. When I make a smart basket cut to facilitate offball movement in our offense, my teammate with the ball complains that I’m clogging up the driving lane. When I get outrebounded or scored on, I’m reminded that I’m worthless. When I miss a shot, my teammates yell that I shouldn’t be shooting in the first place. When I commit a mistake or turn the ball over, my teammates give me dirty looks and don’t transition back on defense and allow the opponent to score, as if to remind the opponent that they are winning because I’m the liability. My defender sags off, gives me space, and dares me to shoot, because I won’t be able to make the shot. When I do make a basket, I’m lucky, and still unfit to receive passes from my teammates. The in-game experience is like the Kobayashi Maru, a no-win situation even if I make all the right moves. On days where my play successfully shatters and transcends preconceived notions of my ability, it will never carry over to the ‘next time,’ when unfamiliar faces emerge to reacclimatize me with my inadequacy.

Because pick-up basketball is a game played with different strangers each time, it’s unsurprising so few Asian Americans consistently turn out to play. The renewed feeling of Kobayashi Maru each time one wants to play basketball takes a very real stressful, demoralizing, and emotional toll. Thus, Asian Americans who enjoy basketball tend to shy away from a true pick-up basketball experience, instead opting to play amongst Asian American friends. The problem with self-selective segregation is that it reproduces the Model Minority construct, outwardly conveying that Asian Americans lack the physiological and mental capacity to compete with ‘real’ (black and white) ballers; that Asian Americans only play basketball as a casual, social experience and never as a serious, ball is life lifestyle. Compounding this problem is that most Asian Americans who fall in this category do play basketball as a casual experience, such that the level of competition and effort is visibly different from that of ‘true’ pick-up games running concurrently on adjacent courts. For Asian American ballers who wish to improve their game, the self-selective segregated in-house ballgame cannot and does not accomplish this goal, cyclically reinforcing the obscurity of those Asian American ballers.

The converse is invariably true: the minority of Asian American ballers who opt for a true pick-up basketball experience are the bravest, toughest, and smartest players on the court. They understand that every time they play the game, they are playing against themselves, their teammates, and their opponents. They must tell themselves, I’m as good as the next guy, this is exactly where I belong; and they must play like they truly believe it, because others pick up on the slightest inkling of self-doubt because inferiority is the norm and the expectation. They learn to tune out the insults and disrespectful behaviors of others, and use that hatred to self-motivate and elevate their own level of play. They learn to reflect on their weaknesses after every game, and work diligently to eliminate those weaknesses, because those weaknesses are not perceived as isolated areas of weaknesses (like it would for other players), but scrutinized as evidence for their total incapacity to play the game altogether. For the few Asian American ballers who stick it out, the reward is unparalleled. In the process of improving their game, they learn to control their body movements, act with deliberation and purpose, and read and exploit their opponents’ tendencies – they otherwise approach the game with superior intelligence.

I surprise a lot of players with my game nowadays. I often receive compliments as a ‘good’ player and for my style of play. People generally want to play with me. What these players don’t know is that I started balling at the age of 22. While this late start may have foreclosed a lot of opportunities in terms of playing organized basketball, it has given me an unparalleled understanding of, deep connection to, and mastery over my body and mind. Every time I would hear opponents yell aloud that I can’t “go left” (that I can’t dribble with my left hand or finish a left-handed layup), I was pushed to develop my left-hand. Every time I couldn’t drive past an athletic defender, I was impelled to read my defender’s body positioning, and develop a set of reactions with my footwork to exploit their superior athleticism or wingspan. Every time I would get blocked, I was forced to develop my athleticism through training my body to perform a Euro-step, jump stop, or double-clutch layup. Every time my team would blame me for a loss, I was compelled to develop my court vision and anticipate the movements of my teammates, such that I would time my pass to lead to an easy scoring opportunity. Basketball has made me incredibly intelligent and sharp, because playing with brains and purpose equalize the playing field when against superior athletes.

Whereas the vast majority of older players complain about losing their athleticism, I have only uncovered my untapped athleticism – and my body constantly surprises my mind with new moves and ever-increasing explosiveness. Moreover, my engagement with basketball has given me the focus, perseverance, and self-confidence to embrace any challenge. Finally, as an Asian American who has and still constantly experiences both blatant acts of racism and microaggressions, the game offers the most effective therapy for confronting racism: instead of talking it out with a therapist and passively reenacting previous racist instances, I can proactively and productively liberate myself from the chains of the past by acting against the aforementioned stereotypes held by players on the court in the here and now. In so doing, I am not only equipped with a tool for moving past historical pains, but more powerfully, I am equipped with a state of mind that will prepare me for inevitable acts of racism in the future. 

The next time you hear an Asian American baller say ball is life at a basketball court, understand that its meaning entails all that it traditionally is, but so much more. Because the game occurs within the bounds of a racialized society, an Asian American’s participation in the game cannot be apolitical or race-neutral. Ball is life is a political statement against the Model Minority construct, a testament to the personal commitment an Asian American makes towards breaking boundaries and to the arduous process such a commitment demands. Yeah, ball is life.