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Most of the memories of basketball I have from my childhood merge in my brain like some super-montage. “Roundball Rock” is inevitably playing in the background, I’m seeing a lot of orange, white, and blue fly across the court, and on occasion, there’s a black and red blur streaking across my mindscape… always with a tongue sticking out. No actual personal physical exertion is present in this montage, though. Most of my basketball memories were from watching others on a flickering screen. Except for that puffy-paint Mark Price jersey my cousin made me from an old t-shirt. That’s in there, too.
TV and video games were how I was plugged into the NBA for the most part. I always knew who played in the Finals every year because there was a video game series called “[East team] vs. [West team]: NBA Finals” that EA sports used to put out. I’d played “Celtics vs. Lakers” and “Bulls vs. Lakers,” but for some reason, my favorite was always “Bulls vs. Blazers.” I’m not really sure why. Lots of red and black symmetry, perhaps.
The year that game came out was the year that the Bulls made the Finals again–this time, against a super-team Phoenix Suns. Sir Charles, KJ, and Thunder Dan (along with a pretty stacked roster) were finally something we all thought could dethrone the MJ-era Bulls. We all know they came up short, but that series–20 years ago now, holy shit–was my first Finals series that I remember watching. I don’t think I stayed up late for every game (I was only 8, after all), but it was the summer, and I did get to see at least part of most of the games. And for the first time after watching the tongue-protruding red and black run amok on my Cavaliers did I have another protagonist to grab my attention: a portly, bald man with a thin mustache and a foul mouth by the name of Charles Barkley.
I don’t remember all the details of the series so well, but I do remember that I was mesmerized by Chuck. Not only was he giving the the Bulls a run for their money, but he was a beast doing it. He was an inch taller than MJ (later we found out that he was actually 2 inches shorter than MJ), and he was strong and grumpy. The night he was his grumpiest, I assume, was the night the two teams went to triple overtime. I don’t remember all the details of the game, but I do know that it’s the first time my brain ever processed the phrase “triple overtime.” I mean, can you even imagine laying it all on the floor for 2.5 hours, then having to play for basically another hour? No energy. No sleep. Just adrenaline.
The night of that game, my family was at a party at a friend’s house. They didn’t have any kids my age, so I didn’t really have anyone to hang out with. And I was 8, so sit me in front of a TV or video games, and I was set. They had a TV in the basement with a Sega Master System with “Alex Kidd in Shinobi World” and “Hang On,” so I played a lot of that. But when I got tired of dying a million times, I shut off the system, and turned on the TV. And there he was, in all his rotund glory. Saying “FUCK FUCK FUCK” on national television after a call he didn’t like.
I suddenly felt shocked, but at the same time, I felt a little bit grown up. That moment was mine. It was my secret; no one else was around. I didn’t try to sneak anything past the grown-ups. I was just thrown at the big kids’ table, and I was initiated. I watched a lot more of the game, and I tried simulating dunks and “3, 2, 1, [buzzer]” fallaways while the game was going on. I didn’t want to be like Mike, though. I wanted to be like Chuck (minus the profanity in front of the parents). I didn’t stay up for the rest of the game (it was a Sunday night, and, again, I was 8), but I found out later that the Suns had won the game. Later, I also found out that the Suns had won that game in Chicago… after losing the first two games of the series at home. What a series.
To this day, every time I see him on TNT, the kid inside me smiles. Not in the same way that maybe the rest of you all smile–like, he’s saying something unexpectedly brilliant or he called someone a dummy. No, in my special way. He’s reminding me of that first time I was hooked on the Finals and hooked on the NBA. He reminds me of all the posters I I accumulated–like my Sir Charles one and my Muggsy Bogues/Shawn Bradley one. And he reminds me of that one time I bought a $1.95 book from the Scholastic book sale by counting out 195 pennies and scrawling my mom’s name on the permission slip–as if that was some sort of convincing forgery.
So, thanks, Chuck. Thanks for helping me remember. And thanks for helping me get here.