I was in El Califate, Argentina when I took this picture. About to run a marathon through the mountains of Patagonia (as one does, and don’t worry, this story isn’t about that.)
When you go on a trip, you tend take a lot of photos
When you go on a trip to Patagonia, you tend to take a LOT of photos.
Mountains, rivers, mountains, rivers, more mountains, a glacier, which is a massive river frozen between two mountains (don’t check the science on that one.
But this photo right here…did something to me.
I’m in El Califate, Argentina. But I’m from Dallas, Texas. 635 and March Lane. Born too late to remember the dynasties of the Cowboys really, but I do remember the energy I felt in the city. And how that energy dissolved as that version of the Cowboys did too. Too late to enjoy Michael Jordan, who I’m named after. Bleak sports town at that time. And then…Dirk happened. Nash happened. Finley who had happened already happened. And that became my team. That became my sport.
In fact, my very last high school basketball game ever was played on the American Airlines Center floor. Hours before Dirk would play too. I will always remember holding up my hand after hitting a transition three from the break, and sticking my tongue out like my goat. My mom didn’t like that very much.
I grew up in a city getting obsessed with basketball. In a country where all the best players in the world go to show what they’ve got. Where it MATTERS. Where five guys wearing the same clothes can bring an entire city back to life forever.
And here I am in El Califate, Argentina. About as close as you can get to Antarctica (don’t check the science on that one). And some kid probably out here. In the freezing cold. Getting shots up. WA kid who (you never know, but unlikely!) probably won’t ever step a foot inside the States let alone an NBA arena to watch the gods impress the mortals (unless it’s the All Star Game. C’mon Adam). Frozen dirt, no D1 ball to consider, just hooping for the love of the game on the step of the Andes mountains. And I like to think before before they hit the frozen ground (it does get warm there sometimes, allegedly), they’ve got those same YouTube compilations lined up that I watch. And you watch. They’re studying Kyrie’s handles. Steph’s form. And Luka’s step back.
So as I’m standing there, getting emotional about this imaginary kid that I’ve invented and probably doesn’t exist at all and every day asks his dad why that’s up there and the dad doesn’t know either, I’m reminded of the line from Moneybag where Brad Pitt’s character Billy Beane’s character asks “How can you not be romantic about baseball?”
And well…
How can you not be romantic about basketball?
And in that moment, in El Califate Argentina, for a split second, I’m no longer a traveling athlete two days away from running a marathon through the mountains of Patagonia (I told you this wasn’t about that.)
I’m back in McKinney, Texas. On my packed dirt court. Steve Nash road blue on. Trying to figure out Dirk’s step back as I beat the buzzer over. And over. And over again.
For that split second, in El Califate Argentina. I’m only one thing.
I’m a Dallas Mavericks fan.
