Hello, Chris? What’s up? How have you been?
Let me explain the whole purpose of this: a couple of days ago I got surprised like never before by seeing that you left a “like” on a tweet of mine talking about a short story that I wrote using you as an inspiration. Now I must assume that, kind as you are, you pressed the “like” button because in the middle of all my portuguese-texted-tweet, I left a single “Love you, Chris” and included some wonderful pictures of you and your wife together at “Cristo Redentor” when you came here to my country to play the NBA Global Games with the Miami Heat. So I thought to myself how wonderful it would be if Mr. Chris Bosh could actually read the whole story that I wrote. And then, here we are.
I truly hope you enjoy it and, needless to say, it’s truly an honor for me, a die-hard Miami Heat fan, to even get a “like” on Twitter from you. Imagine getting the legendary Chris Bosh to read one of my texts.
One thing I must tell is that those are part of a weekly column that I write every Sunday, called “Pelada de Domingo”. “Pelada” is an umbrella term in portuguese for every pick-up amateur game, mainly when it’s a soccer game. So, I guess in english the title would be “Sunday Pick-Up” or something close to it. I started writing this column after a knee injury and the covid-19 breakout, both making it impossible for me to have my weekly pick-up games. I’ve been playing pick-up games on weekends for 12 years and writing down these stories brought me many good memories and allowed me to catch up with some good old friends who are now my readers.
So, with no further ado, I present to you the story that started with your number 1 Heat jersey…
Pelada de Domingo – Puttin On The Jersey
Hey yo, Bosh! Pay attention!
I must confess that this kind of comment hurts me deep down in the soul. No, I don’t go by the name of “Bosh”. Chris Bosh, two times NBA Champion playing for the Miami Heat, got the franchise’s story most important rebound, soon-to-be Hall of Fame member, father of a beautiful family, had breakfast with his wife by the feet of the “Cristo Redentor”, many millions more on his bank account than I could possibly have. DEFINITELY this one is not me.
But in that swift moment, I was. I was a stranger playing a pick-up game on “Aterro do Flamengo”, not knowing anyone and no one knowing me. In need of yelling at someone, the girl looked upon the jersey I was wearing at the moment and assumed that while I was on the court, I was the one Chris Bosh. For reasons like these, my soul aches by getting called when borrowing one’s name. Because like it or not, wearing a jersey carrying the name of an athlete from the NBA has a little something of child’s play when kids argue on who is who. I’m the one who flies!; I’m the one that drops lightning from the hands!; I WANNA BE LEBRON JAMES!
Deep inside everybody knows about those childish unsolved delusions, which would provide a long debate worthy of Freud, although I guess the father of psychoanalysis probably was lame on free throws. Gatorade, with that story of I wanna be like Mike, blackmailed on our emotions. Yes, we want to be like those guys. Yes, we wear the jersey as a poetic license to do it just like them. And miserably fail on the mission, of course. The thing is that pumping the fist on the chest and saying I’m Nash, summoning the great NBA point guard Steve Nash, and being known as him, is a whole other feeling… which obviously I never had, since point guarding is not my cup of tea. The “Nash” who I know here from “I” Street and from Guilherme’s Square would go mad if another one took away his fame. Except from the original Nash.
Surely we are not always prepared to carry the fame on our shoulders, as heavy as it might be. Like at that time after a good basketball game under the Rio de Janeiro’s West Zone sun, specifically at Toronto Street’s court on the Ponto Chic, in Padre Miguel. A group went to grab a bite at the local snack bar. Orders taken, guys having a good talk, the waitress starts calling for Rose. Rose! Hey, Rose!, but Rose wouldn’t answer. The biggest problem was that Rose wasn’t Rose, she was Vanessa. Whose jersey was from the Chicago Bulls’ point guard by-the-time MVP Derrick Rose. But ain’t your name “Rose”? Isn’t that the thing written on your jersey? – mad as she was, the waitress only willing to do her job.
Where did you get this one?, we ask the friend arriving at the court with an almost never-seen model. The jersey probably spent some good many days in Curitiba, where all the mail from overseas arrives here in Brazil, until being allowed to reach its final destination. But we’re all great admirers and collectors of basketball jerseys. We keep, take care, display. During times of pandemic and broadcasting lives, it’s not unusual seeing them as part of our scenarios. I still have for them the same admiration that I had since my first jersey brought from the U.S. by my father. It was the 90’s period and if it wasn’t to put a lot of information on the print, it wouldn’t even be worthy. Mine was deep purple, Houston Rockets, with the little rocket going around a basketball. Number 4. Charles Barkley, Dream Team and Hall of Fame member. For a long time I was a miniature Charles Barkley learning how to play the game. Later I was Shaquille O’Neal, Dwyane Wade, Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen…
But at that moment, I was Chris Bosh. I called for the ball, went for a mid-range jumper that hit nothing but net. I looked back at the girl and gave her a little wink.
This one was for you, Chris Bosh.
