I saw RJ go left!
My classic (ahem) iPhone does its very best to capture the floor at the Mercedes Benz Arena in Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg, which (as you can see) was practically on fire.
I’m on the clock when I find out RJ Barrett, small forward for the New York Knickerbockers, is in my city. An interview is conducted mid-scrimmage on a cellphone likely as old as mine, in which RJ barely audibly says, “Yeah, sure, the restaurants are nice.” I wonder which ones, and specifically whether anybody’s had the common sense or decency to introduce my guy to the coconut chicken at the Umami in Kreuzberg. As soon as the caption confirms the details, that Team Canada is in Berlin for a tuneup game against the Germans, I immediately commit both my evening and some euros to showing out for RJ!, Shai-Gilgeous Alexander!, Lu Dort!, and yo … Dillon Brooks is Canadian? Him too, I guess.
I purchase a nosebleed along the edge of a curve of seating, correctly presuming it’ll make the action look like a weird camera angle on 2K. I send frenzied, disbelieving voice-notes to my nephew in Winnipeg and a few of the homies in Lusaka (“RJ’s in my fuckin’ city!!!”) — half-contemplating the purchase of a cellphone with a decent camera, via next month’s rent, as I glide into a hoodie, jeans, Timbs, and a tram headed southwards.
I make out the Mercedes Benz Arena from a bridge along Warschauer Str., pursuing a handful of Orlando Magic jerseys across the street and towards the glassy gills of the dome. I spot at least three Dirk Nowitski jerseys in the crowd, one of which is Luka era, and a bubblegum blue and tangerine Gilgeous-Alexander jersey on a brunette I trust has high expectations for the season. It takes me about 5 minutes to realise I’m on the wrong floor if I’m to get to my section, which costs me another 15 minutes in line for fries and a Coke. Through the doors, I see the lights dim to a surreal Canadian red, and I hear RJ’s name, and Shai’s, and Lu Dort’s, announced for the starting lineups. I hustle my ass in just in time for the national anthems, a little all over the place but more ecstatic than I’ve ever been for a FIBA tuneup game. I try to snap a couple pics, am promptly foiled by the low-light, and genuinely regret not purchasing a Pixel 7 on the way over.
Attending a basketball game with a smidge of national pride on the line reminds me of attending an outdoor performance of the Berlin Philharmonic, a month after I arrived in Germany. The people applaud in mostly stately fashion at clean buckets, like it’s a symphony rising and crashing and dissolving on the floor. Both the crowd’s chanting and some post-millennial Dr. Dre recur in spurts, as though in the silences between reside opportunities to hear the thoughts inside the point-guard’s head. In his homeland Dennis Shröder is quite the maestro, bringing the ball up with pomp I last saw when he was playing for a free agency bag. Franz Wagner is the horn section, rousing the home crowd more than once with some timely field goals and valiant scuffling in the paint.
The Germans race to an early, comfortable lead, at one point up 18 because the scoreboard won’t refresh. Team Canada look exactly like they’re trying to end the evening injury-free, and at best resemble the pre- Jalen Brunson Knicks of 2021: RJ driving himself once or thrice away from the basket, or from conceivable layup range, and the team overall without a clear orchestrator for all the open 3s they keep trying to design.
It’s strange to see some of your favourite and not-so-favourite athletes in person. RJ’s Bart Simpson fade is so unmistakeable I could spot it easily from the nosebleeds. Dillon Brooks swaggers around exactly the way he does on League Pass, like new money by the pool in a bathrobe. Shai Gilgeous-Alexander can alter the geography of the court, partly by reputation perhaps, with simple, behind-the-back dribble motions — which makes me wonder what a dream it must be to witness Kyrie Irving in person. Even more strange, however, is watching Kelly Olynyk do most of the driving inward for an entire first quarter. Gilgeous-Alexander is a mere version of something that’s supposed to be magnificent, on a short stretch of iso’s the Germans can see coming, and can’t impact the game before being deactivated. All of Team Canada, actually, keeps trying to make stuff happen with way too many bodies in the way — get Mike Breen and Walt Frazier on the announcers’ table, and Spike Lee courtside, and Berlin will start to feel a lot like home.
Speaking of Dillon Brooks he is met with prerequisite boos upon entry, shortly before the 2nd quarter. I suppose the paycheques help him sleep at night but I wonder if my mans gets booed when he goes on vacation, to the grocery store, or Sunday service. He seems to just take it all in stride, only acknowledging a mediocre chorus of “Fuck Dillon Brooks!” with champagne fingers after a problematic layup. (I wouldn’t be surprised if Germany, famous for its bureaucracy, told the Canadians there are forms to sign before you can make butter on their soil.) Maybe Brooks has to pretend all the vitriol represents a kind of affection; that people recognise you all over the world and go to all the trouble of tailor-making a response to your mere presence.
Towards and after halftime, the Canadians start to get their shit together. RJ makes two quick corner threes, another layup, invites contact. Team Canada’s finally playing some defense, and they’re ramping things up on the fast break. For pride maybe, Gilgeous-Alexander tries to counter some playmaking heat from Shröder but can’t quite penetrate downhill, making only a handful of free point shots. In this set of sequences (from out the Thunder’s playbook, one imagines) the Germans get a crucial make for every Canadian brick. Our old friend Daniel Theis does the sort of clean-up work he built a tidy little career with on the Celtics, including a put-back dunk amidst a middling momentum swing. He will end the night with 17 points, Wagner with 18.
To facilitate any sort of comeback, Team Canada decides it wants to hurt the crowd. RJ dunks an alley-oop, and as only the game’s second such motion I’m again struck by how quickly this manoeuvre happens — it’s like spotting a UFO, or an apex predator exiting a state of camouflage. I cup my mouth and yell out my first and only “R-J-BA-RR-ETT!” of the affair, confusing the spectators next to me. Literally no one, it appears, is here to cheer on the Canadians.
Nickeil Alexander-Walker and Lu Dort take over, in this order, in the 3rd and 4th quarters — at one point cutting the German lead to just 1 point. But a late scoring surge by the home team, and a futile pick-n-roll by Team Canada, turns out to be the game’s defining characteristic. By this point neither Barrett nor Gilgeous-Alexander are on the floor to capitalise on an improved defensive performance. This is the most I’ve seen of Lu Dort outside of a stat line, and he does good work swinging towards and around the rim to keep things both physical and close — but that first half has cost the Canadians dearly.
A pair of eagle mascots come out and shoot some merch out of t-shirt guns, right before the very end. Big Dirk, clearly enjoying his retirement, sells everybody ING bank accounts on the jumbotron. I vanish in the crowd a few minutes later, striding back towards the trains at Warschauer Str., a little disappointed there wasn’t a West Coast game to catch right after.
