A few years ago, I scrambled my first boulders at Old Rag Mountain, reportedly one of the most challenging and dangerous hikes. Coming and going, the nearly nine-mile hike itself took us the entire day as my friend, his father and I stopped every now and then to enjoy the views and rehydrate; it was June, and what began as a cool morning soon warmed up. When we got to the boulders, I watched his father climb them first. Then my friend followed suit, turning to take my hand if I needed help. Sometimes I did, but I was stubborn and wanted to climb them myself. Sometimes I was successful.
After the hike, we showered and then went out for chicken and beer. I was woozy (it turns out I didn’t drink enough water, which one should when a hike is that long and strenuous), but felt a new sense of accomplishment. I liked feeling this kind of exhaustion, the exhaustion of pursuit, the exhaustion of returning to your life below. Somewhere in the course of our long dinner, my friend noted I had a “natural athleticism” that, in his opinion, was unfortunately marred due to my predilection for daydreaming. Scrambling boulders had taught me to focus, he’d said, but he noticed during the rest of the hike that my mind would wander, that he’d try to pass me the water canteen and I’d turn to him with a dreamy look in my eye, my thoughts elsewhere.
While at the time I argued that I was simply blown away by the natural beauty of Old Rag, that I made sense of the world in concrete, crowds, and crossing block after block (due to my city-dwelling life), I understand now that I do daydream, and quite often. This happens whether I’m in a ballet technique class or playing one guard in a basketball game. Of the latter I can envision elaborate plays to set up players so best utilize their skill, but then once the game gets going, that’s when I get distracted. Because that’s when the writing happens.
When my husband and I walk home from dinner on these hot summer nights and I see kids and adults alike glued to their phones playing Pokémon GO, a game largely unsuited for people like me who like to wander in body and in mind. In motion, I cannot focus for long because, for lack of better words, it’s when I’m walking that I hear the music—by which I mean I hear the poems or prose I’m going to write.
And it’s when I write that I am intensely focused—often I forget to eat, do the laundry, or answer the endlessly ringing landline when I’m in the thick of it. I lose track of time. It’s just that getting there requires me to let my mind drift and stray. So my writer self scrambles boulders: all there is myself-and-the-boulder, and climbing to the top. My in-progress self is the dreamer, the castle-builder in the desert, the deserter, the dissenter, the touch-and-go of the world around her, from which she enters and departs; all of this together is what I mean when I say “hearing the music.”
All that said, I still enjoy scrambling boulders, and I’d rather play sports (however badly) than watch them. There is one exception, and that exception has existed since 1997, when Tim Duncan was drafted by the San Antonio Spurs as the first pick.
I might be alone in saying that Tim Duncan was one of the most exciting players to watch. Because in every game, Tim Duncan was scrambling boulders. He arrived, already a step closer to the summit. And flash won’t get you anywhere on a boulder; it’s all about focus.
It’s all about hearing the music.
* * *
In 1997, the Twin Tower era was born and San Antonio was a serious team to contend with, winning their very first championship in 1999. With Duncan by his side, David “The Admiral” Robinson retired as a champion in 2003; I was living in Jerusalem at the time and could only watch the highlights online until almost a year later, when my brother bought me the DVD set of those games along with the Sport Illustrated issue where Duncan and Robinson were named 2003 Sportsmen of the Year. When I left Jerusalem and had to leave many things behind, these came with me. Because in Jerusalem, and now in New York City with not one but two basketball franchises, I remain a Spurs fan. And among us Duncan is not only Duncan, TD or The Big Fundamental, but also known as Timmy.
Any Spurs devotee will tell you that our kind of fandom is a whole different animal. Despite the “beautiful game” argument, there’s been many an article explaining why the Spurs aren’t as exciting as other teams, on or off the court. Perhaps our biggest celebrity claim were the Tony Parker-Eva Longoria years. And if you wanted the insane-fancy, if you wanted pizazz, you watched Manu Ginobili execute passes like this and three-point shot-clock beaters like this. Timmy is solid. He is all about the perfection of the fundamentals, about playing the game as it was meant to be played: as a team. (Side note: Kobe Bryant, who also retired this year, recently stated that TD is “More cutthroat than people give him credit for. I loved everything about him on the court.”)
The lack of flash and personal ego set him apart from other legends of the game, and even after Robinson retired, there was the one and only Gregg “Pop” Popovich, the anti-Mark Cuban if you will, whose no-nonsense, blunt style often turns the tables on reporters and puts in “a league of his own.” Off the court, Pop’s quiet pursuits include a passion for wine, “foreign films, Dostoyevsky and fine food“; you’re not going to hear of Page Six exploits. And there could not be a better match in this world than Pop and Timmy, even if Popovich hosted a news conference in the Big Fundamental’s honor—without the player present. The usually straight-faced Popovich got emotional. I imagine Spurs fans everywhere did as well. I know I did.
* * *
It was a great disappointment that Duncan did not retire winning one last championship, like Robinson. I’m not going to argue whether or not he was The Best Player in the last twenty years or some other honorific that Duncan himself most likely would not care about in the first place. Let his career show what he was. He’s played for nineteen seasons. If he felt it is his time to retire, then it’s his time to retire. The only thing worth arguing about, at least in my eyes, is that TD was never boring. He was a graceful, loose-limbed, who-you-turn-to player that, as Kobe stated, definitely had a fierce, contagious determination to win. Some have made precious the iconic image of him hugging the ball before each game; I see it as something more telling of his focus and dedication, his constant physical and mental adjustment to a game that wears out the body and mind as the years pile up. For Duncan on the court, the spiritual is the what-you-did. It’s not a promise but the proof, a moment of stillness in a packed stadium. It’s the hard work put in, the nothing-came-easy, the silence he could find amid the screaming fans.
Below are tributes from two poets and a musician who played on the drumline during a Spurs NBA finals game. I’ll always remain a Spurs fan; after all there’s still Parker and Ginobili, as well as incredible talent like Kawhi Leonard, Boris Diaw, LaMarcus Aldridge and veteran David West. But the sadness is real, knowing he won’t return next season. In that conference in honor of a player who shies away from such things, Popovich said it best when he said:
“He’s made livings for hundreds of us, staff and coaches, over the years and never said a word, just came to work every day. Came early, stayed late, was there for every single person, from the top of the roster to the bottom of the roster, because that’s who he was, in all those respects . . . He’s irreplaceable . . . We’re all unique, but he’s been so important to so many people it’s just mind-boggling.”
Here’s to you, Tim Duncan. Here’s to hearing that music that came from deep within you, that music that will never end, that will outlive all its courts, their summits, and those who seek them, who endlessly, achingly, seek them.
* * *
In 5th grade, I started playing basketball for the first time. I was at a new school, desperate to fit in, and basketball was the one thing all the boys at St. Paul did. I wasn’t much into sports; I preferred playing Pokémon and watching Twilight Zone reruns. I liked the Sonics, but they were my hometown team and I was supposed to.
To get me to take the game more seriously, my dad told me to watch the Spurs and Tim Duncan. He knew I was quiet and reserved, told me I could be like Duncan: unassuming, quietly good. I became enamored with Duncan. I started following the Spurs religiously, rooting for them in the playoffs. When they beat the Sonics in ’05, I was only mildly disappointed. In Duncan, I found someone who I thought was like me, someone I could identify with more than Kobe or Kevin Garnett. More than that he kept me interested in basketball when the Sonics were moved to Oklahoma City, and I no longer had a home team in the NBA.
So, thank you Tim. Thank you for making me a basketball fan. Thank you for keeping me one. Simply: thank you.
—Malcolm Friend
The last time grown men cried, one who many deem the greatest entertainer, to have ever lived, had died. Grown men cried again July 11, out loud, in the cybersphere, in our houses—and I, along with them, grief over what we know will never be replicated again, and if one comes close, it will be a rarity. Duncan is generational.
In each case, we lost an era, in my eyes and in those of many—the Beethoven of their respective industries, the true star power of a time. We know this—their predecessors, The Great American songbook and sports-book of names, were their loudest appreciators—in the first’s case: Bernstein, Astaire, Sinatra, Mandela—in the latter: Russell, “flattered” to be compared, Duncan was to Russell what Russell was to Jackie [Robinson], Robinson’s favorite athlete to watch [in any sport]; the NBA logo, West, stitching strings of praise for Duncan; Magic’s “I love everything about Tim Duncan.” Jordan, claiming Duncan could have played in his era. Pundit Marc Stein offered this, two months back, saying he is “the closest thing to Russell . . . we’ve ever seen.”
Singular in the best of ways, victor, champion, king—Atlas—he carried this team on his back, still so in the quieter years; he was the anchor, the boat, and the sea—nothing, there, without him, would be—golden. The way his defense and offense would sing, my God does he deserve this outpouring.
The second most playoff wins in NBA history?! Forty years old, two decades of humble power. My eyes never left him during the minutes he played. He was key. I studied his defensive moves; the non-statistical, where he’d discombobulate triple teams; his sky hook that sang like Beethoven’s highest note in his grandest chorale; his crosscourt pass; the speed and accuracy of Marino and Montana, strong shoulders heaving, as he hurtled the ball to the open man he spotted down the length of the court; the keen eye of knowing. Alert. And “always” ready. His one-legged, one-handed Hail Mary, him falling back, and it went in. Clutch. Especially in the OT.
Shaq said, THE UNBREAKABLE CHAMPION. Power. Grace. The way he backed up a defender, defending, all the while, even as he was on the offensive, ready to spin—jab step, once, twice, fake-out, pump fake, pump fake, pump fake—again; like breath in poetry, like dancing, the brain in chess, timing, and brawn—sinews tight; he backed you down, his whole body heaving, steady—muscular overtures, but loose enough to spin, and bank that geometric shot off the glass, and in.
To me, he was The Ninth Symphony. And he “rocked, steady.”
—Marian Haddad
Musicians always joke about how many (or, more often, how few) people they’ve played for. I joke with my buddies about that little gig that one time: drumline on the court, playing the intro for the Spurs starting line-up. And not just any lineup, but the post season lineup. It was the playoffs, baby, and at the moment, we’re in the NBA Finals.
So there I was, center-court, Spurs logo beneath me. It was a very, very dark and sold out AT&T Center; for the next few moments, because I had the intro, I was completely in charge of that building. Boom! Spotlight, muscle memory, drums, a final note and an eruption of cheers that took my breath away. The lineup starts as we leave center court and shortly after I hear it, “Tiiiiim DUNCAN!!!” Crowd goes nuts, drumline floats off court and we’re done.
I have a bucket list and this was definitely not on it. Of course, I was ecstatic and eagerly added it to my new and improved bucket list. Playing on the biggest stage for the team you love, in a city you love, while the people you love are watching somewhere in another state.
The best part was not playing with my friends or being where so many dream to stand. It was not playing for 5 million viewers or the temporary social media rock star status. The best part was playing for five million and “21.” I’m beyond thankful for that opportunity and I’ll never, ever forget it.
Thank you, Tim Duncan.
—Michael K. Gomez aka “The DMG”