Get Your Change: Playing Pickup Hoops in Havana

Last month, the NBA became the first American professional sports league to visit Cuba since the reopening of diplomatic relations between the two countries. NBA officials spoke of the cultural bridge the visit would build. But the bridge was already built. Despite the political and geographic barriers that keep American products out of Cuba, basketball and the NBA have found a way to slip into the isolated island nation.

I first found basketball on the island because I was a bad journalist. I visited Havana in early 2014 on a freelance assignment to report Cuba's medical tourism industry. It was a good story, but I didn't write it. I couldn't bear to spend unending hours inside of Havana's hospitals. The aesthetics and subsequent anxieties of hospitals turn out to be the same everywhere.

Instead, I set off wandering the streets of Havana. People were easy to meet, and everyone I met asked me where I was from. Even though I was born and raised in Florida, I'd always say Nueva York.

"New York! ¿Te gusta los Knicks o los Nets?" Asked Alexi, a 40-something engineer who was a spitting image of Denzel Washington, plus 40 pounds.

I told him I didn't like either, but that I loved basketball. He asked me if I wanted to go play on the best court in Havana.

The next day I hopped in a taxi and headed for 23 y B, a park named for the intersection it's situated on in the Vedado neighborhood. The taxi was a candy apple red 1957 Chevy Bel Air.

I arrived at 23 y B in the early evening. It was a park with half-dead grass and two full basketball courts. The courts were split between two groups: some 30 basketball players and a children's karate class. The court occupied by hoopers was also split in half—-the side closest to the street was for lower-quality players while the other was reserved for the more serious.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The nets sprayed soot when the ball sunk through, maybe from all the diesel in the air. The court, made of concrete and shell, was renovated by some Canadian NGO a few years ago, so the rim and backboard were in fine working condition. But the court's surface was also dusty and subsequently slippery.

Stepping on unfamiliar court is a lot like a first date. Some butterflies and nervy energy. There's that period in between games where people get their shots up. It's a kind of wooing. You want people to see your form, watch you make shots, show some effortlessness.

I was surprised by the local habit of not passing the ball back to a shooter if they made the shot. In the States, not giving someone their "change" is an act of contempt. In Cuba, there is no change. It seemed un-meritocratic. I felt entitled to my change—vestiges of my capitalist upbringing, perhaps.

And like all first dates, I quickly became self-conscious of what I was wearing. I had traffic-cone orange Nike Hyperdunks, Nike avocado green shorts, and a Dri-Fit grey shirt, also Nike. I had unwittingly become a walking imperial endorsement. Everybody else on the court wore hand-me-downs. A couple didn't even have shoes. I could hear the hard slap of bare feet on concrete as we picked teams.

It's not to say that the locals didn't rock their own gear, but what they donned was athletic jetsam of generous tourists. A quarter of the players proudly wore vintage NBA jerseys: Allen Iverson in Philly, Steve Nash in Dallas, T-Mac in Orlando, Kobe's old number 8, Latrell Sprewell on the Knicks, Chris Bosh and Vince Carter on the Raptors.

The game was to 7 by ones and twos. That's not a lot. But after I played I understood why: the arguing, the fouls. The tenor of the games made it so that games lasted at least a half an hour. The games were dirty and cheap and soft and melodramatic all at once. People were good. They would hit uncontested shots with ease and were up to date on the latest iteration of the crossover. But it doesn't matter how good you are if your defender remorselessly fouls you, aiming for your head instead of making an attempt on the ball. And it doesn't matter how good your defense is when the person you guard shamelessly calls a foul at the faintest of contact. Every possession was interrupted with pitched and emotional arguments.

It seemed as though the locals came to argue rather than play ball. In a country where there isn't free speech, the court offered a place for them to express themselves. It was its own little democratic, sovereign state. And the safety of it all allowed them to argue without worrying about the consequences. That's why so many people called travel. Stateside, you'd never, ever call a travel in the streets unless it was five steps. You'd never call a carry either. But 23 y B, players looked for that. Sometimes there was a democratic decision: the people on the sidelines would agree or disagree with a call. But sometimes, calls would be argued for five minutes, sometimes people would just straight up walk off the court and into the streets.

There was a drunk heckler who circled the courts during games. Occasionally he lost his balance and stumbled onto the court. There were neighborhood dogs in a state of frenzied joy darting by players' legs. After a long afternoon and evening, I was invited by some new friends to play on another court the following day.

This court was near the University of Havana. We reached an old rectangle of a building. The windows were shuttered and the vents were in various states of decay. The once-white walls were heavily spotted with mold and rot. It looked like it might collapse at any moment. But this would also be the most spectacular court I would ever have the pleasure to play on.

The court was run down. The bleachers stood behind five-foot walls and gave the court a bowl-like feel. The decayed shutters let in golden light and the floors were made of thin strips of weathered maple wood. The wood had been painted over so many times in so many different colors that the spots where the most friction occurred revealed a sort of tie-dye effect. When I jumped around on the court, it felt hollow inside and I imagined some great cavern underneath.

It was an officiated league game. I played with men of various ages and sizes. Some were former national ball players. The team water container looked like they had just pulled it in from a shipwreck. There were holes on top and rust on the bottom.

After the game, we were quickly ushered out by an old security guard. It made it feel like we weren't supposed to be playing there. I was assured that that wasn't the case. Outside, everybody lit their cigarettes and drank white rum from small, clear, and very thin plastic cups. I was offered a shot.

Over the rum and strong cigarettes we rehashed the game, who did what well, what could have made the game better, who played more or less selfishly. One of my teammates reached into his backpack and brought out slightly crumpled stacks of printer paper. He handed out pages to the dozen or so people sitting around drinking rum. They were photocopies of the sports section of the Spanish-language Miami Herald. They were three-week old reports on the condition of Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter and LeBron James's 30 point night against the Bucks.

Another teammate put his big hand on my left shoulder and asked me, ¿Qué pasa con los Knicks?

I laughed. Even Cubans, who have to jump through hoops to get news of the outside world, were aware of the dismal state of the Knicks.

He went on. Y Carmelo Anthony! ¿Por qué no pase? ¿Huh?

I asked him how he knew about Melo.

Vale Trés.

On Sunday nights, Vale Trés is the Cuban television program that shows basketball games from around the world: Euroleague, Argentine ball, FIBA, and, most importantly, the NBA.

That Sunday, I went to Rosalia de Castro in Old Havana with my new friends. It was an empty restaurant three stories high. We asked the unoccupied servers if they would turn the channel to Vale Trés. They obliged. Across the room there was another TV watched by some old musicians. They watched Tom Hanks's movie about Somalian pirates on mute.

Vale Trés came on at 6:07 p.m.. The announcer was a round, middle-aged man with a thick shock of gray hair. Logos from professional basketball teams around the world hastily paraded across the green screen behind him. When the program began, it was an anachronistic compilation of highlights from tournaments and international players. They dedicated about 10 minutes to Kevin Durant clips from 2010's FIBA world basketball championships, before switching to a Lakers-Clippers game.

The game was a wash. A couple of my Cuban friends lamented the state of the Lakers, mourning the once great franchise. Their eyes got watery over beer and the twilight of Kobe's career. The conversation stayed on basketball for the remainder of the night. In the taxi home, I was asked who I thought was the best player of all time. I rambled about Bill Russell and LeBron's potential. Everyone, including the taxi driver, mocked my answer.

Michael Jordan, ¿Entiendes? No hay discusión: MJ. Punto.

The conversation turned to whether money was ruining professional sports and whether athletes deserved such compensation. We reached my place and said our goodbyes. I turned and walked away when I heard them shout one last time: Michael Jordan!