Derek Schultz: My love letter to basketball

Before last weekend’s NBA All-Star festivities in Indianapolis, the host committee asked Hoosiers to pen love letters to basketball for the thousands of guests traveling into town. The hope was to enchant visitors, many of whom might be visiting for the first (and only) time, with personal stories to reveal the deep connection the city of Indianapolis and state of Indiana have to the sport. It might sound cheesy and a bit cliched—even I get tired of the “In 49 states it’s just basketball ….” thing—but with this once-every-40-years opportunity, I decided to emphatically lean into it! —Derek

I can still remember rushing up the stairs at Timmy’s house to see that poster on the cluttered walls of my cousin’s teenage bedroom.

On this unique poster, which I have yet to find anywhere on eBay, Gerald Wilkins of the New York Knicks is soaring through the air for a dunk. The photo is a bit chaotic; Wilkins’ body is twisting while in flight, each leg is fully outstretched, and there is an uneasy look on his face.

Something about a human defying gravity while also somehow contorting himself to successfully dunk an orange ball into a cylinder 10 feet off the ground was mesmerizing to 7-year-old me. I can’t recall if it was two minutes or 20, but I would often stand in the threshold of his room entranced by that poster.

Even though Wilkins failed to reach the bar set by his much more famous and spectacular brother, Dominique, the image of his spectacular dunk is the origin story in my love letter to basketball.

Unlike the thousands of other letter-writers in Indiana tasked with this exercise, I am not from here (I did not reference the Love Letter to Basketball eligibility rules before writing this), so I wasn’t raised in a place where basketball hoops were nailed to barns and it seemed every town had a gymnasium that could comfortably seat several thousand.

While I’ve spent virtually my entire adult life in this state, my love for basketball wasn’t born with Bob Knight or Bobby “Slick” Leonard, or with Rick Mount or Reggie Miller. In fact, I did not grow up a fan of the hometown Pacers but of the rival New York Knicks (now I’m very concerned about my eligibility)—Wilkins’ squad and the NBA team closest to me in southwestern Connecticut.

However, just like you Hoosiers, I have treasured basketball memories from my childhood. The Wilkins poster inevitably led to watching his games on the Madison Square Garden Network, and I grew up close enough to the city to religiously follow Knicks broadcasts on the radio. I spent most of my elementary school years pretending to be Patrick Ewing—the player who replaced Wilkins after he was traded to Cleveland—in my driveway while mimicking the Garden’s public-address announcer, Mike Walczewski: “Paaaa-TRICK EWING!”

I was good at pretending, but the playing part? Eh, not so much. Failing to reach 5 feet until my mid-teens, my dreams of becoming the next Mark Jackson or John Starks were abandoned early, and those aspirations shifted from getting on the court to getting behind the microphone. The great Marv Albert, MSG’s play-by-play man for the Knicks and national NBA voice, became my new Wilkins poster. That focus continued through my high school years, when I knew that, even if I couldn’t be out there dribbling and shooting, I just had to be involved with basketball somehow.

The driveway announcing continued, of course, but I also added writing to my repertoire, covering my high school’s basketball teams for the school paper. Basketball was a big reason I chose my parents’ alma mater, Indiana University, where I was fortunate to call a handful of IU games and graduate from the sport communication program, hoping to become a basketball announcer.

My love of hoops ultimately led me to a nearly 20-year involvement in sports media, and while my passions have expanded beyond just the hardwood, basketball was the sport that made me love sports. Basketball has not made me a rich man or even a noteworthy one (I’d be fortunate to land on the Gerald Wilkins tier of Indy sports media personalities, if we’re being honest), but the value of the joy it has bestowed upon me is incalculable. Today, even though there are people and things in my life far more important than the game, those joyful moments have lifted and continue to lift me up through the years.

So, here’s my love le—wait, is this actually more of a “thank you” letter to basketball? Is that more appropriate? Can I switch from man to zone mid-letter? (Furiously thumbs through the Love Letter To Basketball Rules handbook.)

Ahem, here’s my thank you letter to basketball:

Thank you for the 10-degree January open gyms at Hillcrest Middle School in Trumbull, where my friends and I would play for hours before huddling together in the freezing cold, rocking our oversized jackets and NBA shorts, with basketballs in the crook of our arms, arguing about the sport we loved while secretly hoping our parents would be late to pick us up.

Thanks for the epic games of 21 in Josh Makaron’s driveway, when the back floodlight would pop on at dusk, giving us the artificial light we needed to extend those seemingly endless summer nights.

Thanks for the indescribable rush walking into Madison Square Garden with my dad, when even from the cheap seats it felt important and special just to be allowed through the doors into one of the sport’s true meccas.

I’ll even thank you for the embarrassing memories, like when I punched one of my best friends, Pete, for making fun of Ewing’s season-ending wrist injury. The next day, we rode our bikes to the Merritt Canteen in Bridgeport so I could treat him to chili dogs and milkshakes—the best way for a young teenager to truly say, “I’m sorry.”

Now, as an adult, I appreciate the in-person pass you’ve given me to incredible moments, feats and atmospheres as a sports-media member: several Final Fours, Eastern Conference Finals, the WNBA Finals and countless memorable bouts at Assembly Hall, Mackey Arena and Hinkle Fieldhouse. I’m forever grateful for the opportunity to meet and interview Ewing at one of those Final Four trips, a culmination of my childhood dream. I mean, how many kids get to actually talk to the people plastered on their bedroom walls? Thank you, basketball.

Pretty soon, my son, who coincidentally turned 7 earlier this month, will be thanking you, too. Not sure if it’s genetic, but the basketball bug has claimed another Schultz. He’s adopted the Phoenix Suns as his team (again, sorry—we can’t seem to get this Pacers thing right in my household) and constantly doodles the purple and orange logo on his notebooks. Like his dad, his on-court skills seem to be limited, but I have something else to thank basketball for: the look on James’ face when he made his first basket in his first game just a few months ago.

Even with new milestones in my life, basketball still brings out those special emotions.

They all hit me at once about an hour before Indy’s much-anticipated NBA All-Star Game Sunday night. Being in the same building as Giannis Antetokounmpo, LeBron James, Nikola Jokic and all the biggest basketball superstars in the world immediately transformed me back into that 7-year-old boy. Not even the farce of a basketball contest that later ensued could interfere with my joy.

From staring at a basketball poster in my cousin’s bedroom in suburban Connecticut by myself to walking over a basketball court in Indianapolis that millions around the world were watching, the feeling was exactly the same.

All these years later, I still have basketball to thank for that.•

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From Peyton Manning’s peak with the Colts to the Pacers’ most recent roster makeover, Schultz has talked about it all as a sports personality in Indianapolis for more than 15 years. Besides his written work with IBJ, he’s active in podcasting and show hosting. You can follow him on X, formerly Twitter, @Schultz975.