I started a substack, “I Never Left NYC and All I Have to Show for It Is This…” to share some anecdotes that made me love New York.
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A Slice of Brooklyn’s Finest Indoor Street-Ball

Why we all need to “move without it”

I moved to Brooklyn 13 years ago. I lived on the corner of Smith and Atlantic, which for those who don’t know, is a very loud, very public cross-roads of dirty trucks, street-arguments, hipsters, expensive coffee and some pretty good cocktail bars. It’s also a great place to buy an “I visited Brooklyn” souvenir back then. Having way less crime than the outskirts of Williamsburg, which even then had already become overpriced and busy, I settled on good old downtown Brooklyn. My apartment was 450 square feet — massive— and surrounded by mouse-infested walls, right across the street from the holding facility that famously housed Mike Tyson whenever he got arrested. 

It was the summer. It was hot as hell. Pause for shock: there was no air-conditioning. It was my first time living in “the city” — because Staten Island is not the city. The walls were sweating, and mice tickled my toes if I stood in any spot for too long. I needed to do a lot of things, but above all, I needed to get out of there.

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I ended up at the YMCA, hoping for an air-conditioned pick-up basketball game. What I walked into was an energy-injection: a stage for a throng of screaming spectators and a handful of players who looked like they were college-standouts. Standing-room only, full-court, sweat-dripping, high-intensity. 

You didn’t need to ask if there was a sign-up list. You could just tell from the glares you got while squeezing into an empty spot to stretch and watch. I was met with eyes that said, “you ain’t next.” It took 45 minutes of waiting before I got on. I’m not sure why I waited so long. To be honest, just being in there made me nervous. I probably had no business on that court, and it was intimidating as hell. 

That’s when I met Snow: a person, not a precipitation. 

Gazing at the game, the summer heat from a day of moving started to sink in, and I dazed out. That’s when Snow screamed from an earshot, startling me, at which a handful of the graybeards got a chuckle: 

“MOOV WIDDOUT IT!” 

“Move without it” … the ball that is. He wasn’t wrong. Moving without the ball in basketball simply means you’re committed to staying active, even if you’re not the focal point. It means you’re not just going to stand there waiting for the shit to happen for you. It’s moving without the basketball on offense that made Steph Curry a legend. 

That was one of the only things Snow said that I could understand. At the time, Snow was about 60 years old, bald, short, stocky, grumbling, and angry at everything: a fixture. Despite his ineloquence, he was the mouthpiece of the game. His voice cut through controversial foul calls, even if you couldn’t understand what he was saying. Simply put, Snow is a local legend.

Perched on his own foldable stool beside a gallon of gatorade, Snow rocks all the gear one could: arm compression sleeves, knee compression, high socks, headband, wrist bands, “And-1” shorts long enough to interchangeably be long shorts OR short longs. Complete the look with that sweet, sweat-wicking technology of a dri-fit Nike sleeveless tee. 

This elderly man was ready to check-in and fuck shit up. 

He wasn’t the only grey-beard at the game. There are a handful of Snows, albeit more articulate. Bulky, hobbling, weathered, each wearing a giant grin to imply “I’m still out here at my age— and I’m having fun with it, too!” A smile that taunts, “Call me old, talk shit, but whatever you do, do not leave me open.” These guys will DRILL a three from where most NBA teams print their logo on the court: the step-back “logo three.” They’ll snap that net like celery. And the college semi-pros know it. Or if they don’t, they figure it out during game one of day one. 

Every year, a new set of these young guys come through, and every year, the grey beards are still here.

My perspective in this mix is sort of in-between. I’m no semi-pro. I’m an almost 40-year-old dad. Lifting weights upstairs later on, I would meet a lot of guys like me who love basketball, except they didn’t want to deal with the chaos or wait-time of the games downstairs. It’s probably for the best. Pick-up hoops at the Y is not a litigious environment, middle aged dads love to argue. and some unwritten rules in pick up don’t make sense— but everyone gets it anyway. 

That’s the beauty of the Y pick-up game in Brooklyn. It’s tough enough to keep the stinging culture of the street, but organized enough to still exist: backed by gym memberships and if need be, an authority to keep shit right. 

I checked into the game and introduced myself. The squad was comprised of me, Snow, another grey beard, and two college kids: one 6’8” inch stilt, and an “undersized” combo guard who was actually 6’4” — he was unbelievable at basketball. 

My first game was a win. I was WOOFED, but I stayed on. A fair assessment: I held my own on defense, I grabbed a few contested rebounds, and I got my layup swatted into the rafters for an “OH SHIT” moment that made the gym erupt. Snow relied on creativity, shifty movements, a mid-range jumper you could set a clock to, and a touch of sympathy from defenders, but he held his own out there. My shins started to tingle in game two, partially from the pressure I was putting on myself to stay competitive. That’s when Snow hit me with his only other understandable phrase, after he saw how bad my jump shot was: 

“Ay Pass the ball!” 

I don’t know if it was my jumper or the catchy rhythm of the phrase, but that’s what he called me from then on. I would enter the shark tank, wait my 30-45 minutes until: “Ay Pass-the-ball,” eyes darting as he hit me with an obligatory fist bump. Some of the other grey beards smirked at the nickname, but called me by my actual name, which I appreciated. 

He continued to scream “pass-the-ball!” and “moov-widdout it!” almost exclusively for the next two hours, for the rest of the summer, and for all the years I lived there. 

I started going to a more convenient gym as life got busier, but just last summer I drove by the Y on 9th street, and who was there, wearing all the gear, arguing with the street vendor? 

It was Snow. 

He saw me, too. Driving slow while leering out your window apparently is an attention-seeking move that can definitely be taken the wrong way. We locked eyes, and he made the nastiest face, like someone put salt in his smoothie, then he points to me, smirks, and screams: “Ay Passtheball!” 

Pass the ball, and move without it. That’s what I learned from Snow, a tried and true New Yorker who brought the street to Brooklyn indoor pickup basketball for decades. 

-Passtheball