Ballin’ at the Graveyard: A Film Review

Ballin’ at the Graveyard: A Film Review

by David J. Leonard | special to NewBlackMan (in Exile)

Growing up in Los Angeles, I spent many weekends, some evenings, and most of my summers on the basketball court. Whether on the courts at my high school, at any number of local parks, or other spots spread out around West Los Angeles, pickup basketball was a fixture of my teenage years. I love to play ball; while a mediocre player on my best days the chance to run with my boys or prove myself to others was something I relished growing up.  

Through college and graduate school, I continued to play whenever I made it back to Los Angeles; visits home came with an expectation of multiple days of ballin’.  Although kids and AGE, not to mention geography (not a lot of pick-up games in Pullman) has resulted in my retirement from the game, the cultural, social, and personal significance of this space remains strong in my mind.  Based on both nostalgia for the Saturdays spent on the court, calling “next,” and even the arguments about a travelling calls, and my intellectual curiosity about the subculture of the “pickup game,” I was very excited to watch Ballin’ at the Graveyard, a new film from Basil Anastassiou and Paul Kentoffio.

Chronicling the weekend battles at Albany, New York’s Washington Park – the Graveyard – the film is much more than a basketball film.  It is a glimpse into the sociology – the rules, the community – of the subculture of pickup basketball.  The filmmakers describe the film as such:

For millions of basketball players across America and throughout the world, there are no refs, no sneaker deals and no doctors on call. To get in the game, you have to show up at the local park or gym, claim a spot and fight to keep it. The next game isn't a guarantee. Every point matters. That's pickup basketball.

Ballin' at the Graveyard is a gritty, intimate look into the culture and community of pickup basketball as told by a group of hardcore ballers at Albany NY's Washington Park - aka, the Graveyard. It offers a courtside view of the unwritten rules, hierarchy and special code of ethics of pickup ball, and provides a revealing glimpse into the off-the-court struggles and triumphs of a core group of players who call the court their home. It's a thought-provoking portrait of urban basketball that will challenge what you think you know about the world behind the chain-link fence.

Ballin at the Graveyard tells the story of America’s weekend warriors.  It chronicles the importance of ballin’, which one person describes as “like food.”   To him, “other than job and family,” there is nothing more important than the Saturday run.  Ballin’ at the Graveyard explores why this is the case, explaining why these asphalt sanctuaries are so important: family, community, and brotherhood. 

The pickup game is a place where everyone has a role, where the players come together not just for the game but the experience; they become a community because of the shared hours spent on the court and off debating politics, war, relationships, and what is going on the community.   They are not just ballin; they are all chattin, debatin, and lovin one another in the graveyard as well. 

The film focuses viewers attention on the rules of pickup basketball – you have to know who to pickup on your squad; you have to know how to get next; you have to know who gets a call (all about status); and you have to know how to make a call (“the walk”). If you want to stay on the court all day long, you have to perfect these rules.  Ballin at the Graveyard highlights how everything goes back to the desire to stay on the court. 

Knowledge, however, isn’t simply about surviving the graveyard but rather fitting into the community as well.  New arrivals have to learn the system, becoming part of the community.  In this regard Ballin’ at the Graveyardnot only highlights the process of basketball acculturation, but the ways that players, especially new arrivals, must prove themselves within the community.  Whether through withstanding (and dishing out) the physical play or engaging in trash talking; whether by “respecting the call” and not backing down, pickup basketball is about integrating into the community and its established rules and mores. 

Assimilation is as much about mental toughness as one’s crossover and ability to finish at the rim.  It is also about proving one’s manhood over and over again.  This is quite evident in watching Ballin’ at the Graveyard, although the film misses an opportunity to complicate and unpack these gendered performances.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not asking for Judith Butler and Pierre Bourdieu to critical interrogate gender identity on the court (although their voices would be greatly appreciated) but a little more attention to the performative dynamics within this space. The desire to let the players speak for themselves, to elevate the voices of those from inside the community, leads to limited critical analysis and depth throughout the film. 

The decision to privilege the voices of the players limits its potential to unpack the ways that masculinity and race plays out on the court.  With the handful of white players, one being Basel, Ballin’ at the Graveyard leaves viewers without the necessary depth regarding race.  It argues that race matters on the court, but that the omnipresence of race doesn’t result in conflict and tension.  In one scene a player laments a white competitor’s success against him, describing the humiliating experience as one where he “bust[ed] my ass.”  In another instance, Basel describes himself as a “minority” on the court where his “whiteness isn’t an advantage.”  These moments point to the immense potential of the film whereupon the social, cultural, gender, and racial realities on the court could have taught viewers about how race matters on and off the court.

As an ethnography, the film offers very little space for intervention and expanded complexity.  Whether in regards to race, gender, identity, or even the ways that segregation remains a distinct reality on (and off the court), the film never moves the discussion beyond the court.  Yet, the film isn’t about sociological analysis or cultural theory, unless articulated by the ballers of Graveyard, but rather shining a spotlight on this community.

The privileging of the players represents the strength of the film in that it concludes by telling the stories of several of the Graveyard’s legends.  Although these back-stories would have better served the film had they been integrated throughout, they represent a powerful part of the film.  Those on the court are teachers, counselors, principals, and others committed to enriching the lives of others.  The film documents how they are preparing the next generation on and off the court.

The film’s success rests with its ability to elicit a range of emotions.  I found myself analyzing, and thinking, reflecting on my own pickup ball experiences all while analyzing it as a scholar.  I found myself crying during parts of the film and laughing at other moments.  For me, one moment encapsulated the rich texture of the film. In that instance, a white player finds himself being ridiculed for getting dunked on by a black player – “he dunked on you for segregation.”  As such, the film gives viewers this range of emotions all while conveying depth, humanity, and complexity of the players.  Although the film had the potential to turn pickup ball into a spectacle, into a touristic experience defined by a white gaze at the trash-talking and hard fouling,  Ballin’ at the Graveyard stays away from this territory, leaving viewers with much to think about. 

***

David J. Leonard is Associate Professor in the Department of Critical Culture, Gender and Race Studies at Washington State University, Pullman. He is the author of the just released After Artest: Race and the War on Hoop (SUNY Press) as well as several other works. Leonard is a regular contributor to NewBlackMan, layupline, Feminist Wire, and Urban Cusp. He is frequent contributor to Ebony, Slam, and Racialicious as well as a past contributor to Loop21, The Nation and The Starting Five. He blogs @No Tsuris.