This article is published in number 5 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until February 2, 2021
My father played basketball twice a week. In the university gym. The team was made up of people who worked at the university and their friends. Once every few years they played in the Jobs League against other teams. And they lost. But mostly they played with each other. Five to five. And five others were waiting their turn on the bench. I sat at the secretarial station.
I was six. Then seven, eight. My job was to record each team’s points on a sheet of paper. In case a dispute arises over the result. A free throw point. Two points to the basket.
When it was time to drink or to change players, I was allowed to throw myself on the pitch and make a basket. Or rather, to pull. From the thrill of being on the pitch with adults, I usually didn’t hit the mark. There were a lot of squabbles in the college basketball team, I remember. Distinguished professors were arguing animatedly about a home run or a foul. When the tones rose, everyone turned to my father who in the team – like at home – was the referee. At the end of the game everyone shook hands, made peace and went into the shower. I showered with them, even though I didn’t sweat as much. And I laughed at the dirty jokes they told, even though I didn’t understand them all.
My dad surprised us by continuing to play on the university basketball team even after we were sixty. Even after sixty-five. He compensated for the drop in fitness with expertise. He wore knee pads. And it helped that the other team members didn’t rejuvenate over the years. He continued to play with them twice a week until one Friday night, during a family dinner, he left us speechless that the pains in his knees had worsened and he intended to retire the following Tuesday. My younger brother, the director, immediately proposed to film the historic match, and my father – balanced as usual – replied that there was no problem as long as the others agreed. The others agreed and so, thirty years after I had last set foot on the university basketball court, I went back.
I had a pen and paper with me, and with the utmost naturalness I approached the secretary’s desk. To discover that in the meantime they had installed an electronic scoreboard. With a push of a button I could easily project the results onto the billboard. A free throw point. Two points to the basket. Three points shot from outside the three-point area.
The team split into five and five. And my father’s last basketball game has begun.
My brother was filming. I was in charge of the scoreboard. When one of the players pulled a muscle towards the end of the game, I even joined my father’s team. From the thrill of playing with the adults, I didn’t hit a basket.
At the end of the game they did an impromptu ceremony, they gave him a team shirt with our surname printed on it. Just like in real teams. My father tried to say a few words of thanks, but his voice choked halfway. Looking back, it was the only time in my life that I saw it crack.
After that they all went to take a shower. I followed them too, despite not having sweated as much.
I noticed that no more dirty jokes were told in the shower, but they shared complaints about ailments and recommended names of doctors.
I have been listening, aware that it is only a matter of time.
(Translation by Raffaella Scardi)
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