At the end of his life, the great French painter Henri Matisse (1869 to 1954) took to making paper cutouts due to health problems that left him bedridden and unable to paint.
Although a simplistic art form usually favored by children, in Matisse’s masterful grasp, scissors, paste, and paper made for some of the most wondrous works of the 20th century. In fact, many leading art historians consider Matisse’s cutouts, including his famous creation “The Snail,” to be his very best – the lines pure, the colors vibrant, the composition inspired.
It was as if Matisse used his physical limitations to focus his immense imagination, much like a poet might use a restricting form such as Haiku as a means to carefully choose the most powerful, meaningful, impassioned words.
So what do Matisse and his cutouts have to do with basketball and my own aging body?
Let’s start with the recent NBA draft, held at Madison Square Garden, and the fact that for the 19th year in a row, since I graduated from college, I was completely ignored in the selection process. I never actually was good enough to play for my university, relegated instead to intramural league mediocrity.
And in the ensuing years, I toiled in deserved obscurity on a variety of hardscrabble indoor and outdoor courts, such as Hoboken’s Church Square Park and the North Hudson YMCA.
Yet, illogically, I still dare to dream of hearing my name called out by the NBA Commissioner on draft day: “John McCaffrey, point guard out of Hoboken, taken in the first round by….”
I can see myself, even today, loping up to the stage to shake hands with the commissioner, my middle-aged friends, my “posse”- accountants and stockbrokers and elementary school teachers – whooping it up in the audience as I strut toward the podium, squaring the hat of my new employing franchise atop my head, twisting the bill so it covers my receding hairline at a rakish, hip-hop angle.
And, of course, there’s reality: hamstrings as tight as piano wires; knee joints that crack and pop like machine gun fire; ankles so weak they’d roll over in a stiff breeze; a rusty gate for a lower back.
In sum: I’m falling apart – not yet bedridden and unable to dribble, but certainly a good candidate to take up a less demanding sport like golf or foosball.
But I don’t want to quit just yet. I can’t imagine not playing basketball anymore, not lacing up sneakers and calling out “winners,” striding onto the court filled with anticipatory energy. Leaving with the delicious adrenaline rush of competition.
This is where Matisse and his cutouts relate: I’m hoping that like the great master, I can also discover genius on the court within the confines of my diminished bodily capacities.
Perhaps I can circumvent the fact I can’t jump over a nickel by improving my “elbow to the defender’s throat, lean back and shoot” move. Or stop baseline penetration not with quick footwork but with well-timed flops, pretending to be run into and scooting backward across the floor with a wild grunt and the words “offensive foul” flinging from my lips.
The whole idea of revamping my basketball game this way, tailoring it to fit my incapacitated self, fills me with renewed hope – even excitement.
And I’d like to believe that Matisse felt a similar thrill at the end of his life with scissors in hand, slapping a little glue while he worked.
There are new beginnings for every ending, and if the NBA ever drafts me, I hope the stage is wheelchair accessible. – John McCaffrey
John McCaffrey is a writer living in Hoboken. His short stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in a variety of magazines, newspapers, and literary periodicals. In addition to playing pick-up basketball, he likes to fish. He can be contacted at jamccaffrey@earthlink.net.