Everyone is Saying the F word
How Competition Expands Our Language
“Show me my opponent” — Lil Wayne
“Once I get between those lines, there’s no friends.” — Angel Reese
I used to live with a guy who, every year, takes off work the first two days of March Madness. I had always envied how he could sit at the bar all day, hang with a revolving door of friends coming in and out, and watch all the basketball he wanted. This year, I finally did it.
I was more excited for this than I’d been for anything in a long time. Even Elizabeth kept saying how happy she was for me to do it. There’s something about loving something so much you want to indulge yourself with as much of it as possible, dead-set on tasting every last drop.
Nearby bars opened at 9 A.M. with grown adults ditching work and all other responsibilities to experience the thrill of witnessing their favorite team, whether it’s the team they always root for or a team they’ve never watched but would give anything for if they can help bring them closer to a perfect bracket.
There is no limit to the number of favorite teams you can have when there’s personal pride, bragging rights, or money on the line. Several of my favorite teams are contenders in the women’s tournament, which is stacked with an overwhelming amount of talent.
Truthfully, it’s hard to justify watching their first-round games — or at least not a whole game — because household names like Caitlin Clark and JuJu Watkins star on top-seeded teams that typically blow out their opponent to kick off the tournament. As the gap between the seeds gets smaller, that’s when the competition really gets interesting.
As the second round began, basketball was constantly on our living room TV. Elizabeth usually questions how often basketball is on in our house, but March Madness is that special time when we’re both equally invested. Checking scores becomes a shared language between us. The live betting also helps.
By the end of basketball games, sitting is no longer an option for me. I stood in our living room as Cameron Brink, who recently declared for the WNBA Draft, fouled out with two minutes remaining in her final home game at Stanford’s Maples Pavilion. It was absolutely a foul, but we always hope we can keep playing, that we might stay on the court by sheer desire.
As Brink walks to the bench, it looks like she yells “fuck you” at the ref. People have speculated if she really said this. I guess it’s hard for us to believe a woman could use such language. But whether she did is not important, because it can be said, and it is said, and sometimes our desperation to win moves us to a place beyond the thoughts in our head where all that’s left is “fuck you,” spoken or not.
Basketball is a game, where even with little at stake, if you’re on, you feel emboldened to talk your shit. I laugh at those videos of youth basketball players holding their follow-through after hitting a shot or telling the other team they’re too small. Even I have reminded my opponents they can’t stop me after scoring a few buckets in a row.
“Shut the fuck up!” yelled Caitlin Clark after a crossover and and-one in Iowa’s second round win against West Virginia. She seems to look at the crowd when she says this. It doesn’t matter if it was directed at one person or the crowd as a whole. Sometimes you’re just tired of people talking, and you’ll do whatever it takes to silence them; it’s saying I’m here and I’m really fucking good at this shit so if you think you’re going to stop me you better think again.
Clark’s passion is one of the things I love most about her game. Big emotions can make us uncomfortable. We try to police them instead of feeling them, grasping for ways they could’ve been displayed differently to relieve our discomfort. And still, even though I don’t show much emotion in my everyday life, there are reactions I can’t help when I’m on the court; they’re inherent to competition.
Caitlin Clark | Photo by Matthew Holst/Getty Images
I tilt my head back and yell after a big shot. I nearly fall to my knees when I think a call should go the other way. I smile like my world depends on it when my teammates make a play. And if you’ve been lucky like Clark to have someone you love in the stands, who knows you inside and out and understands your tipping point, there’s gratitude for how they protect you from yourself, not allowing you to get lost in your own competitiveness.
I bask in Clark’s “shut the fuck up,” a kind of “fuck you” like yelling at the clouds telling god they better send a flood if they want to put a stop to this. And I feel just as at home with Clark’s dad yelling for her to stop complaining from the stands — another form of “fuck you” that reminds us to put ourselves aside and return to the matter at hand.
Love is at the root. Love for the game, love for our abilities, love for ourselves, love for the ones placed in our care. For opposition doesn’t implicate hatred. “To talk about our enemies is also to talk about our beloveds,” wrote Hanif Abdurraqib. We can be our own worst enemies, and sometimes we’re matched against the ones we love most. And still we respond in passion, with passion, believing we could win either way.
That belief in a future that includes victory is what leads you to call for the ball with no food or water in your stomach and less than three seconds on the clock against the defending champs. When Denver took away his right, Kyrie Irving said fuck it I’ll go left (but the halal version). And he let that thing go with his left hand over Nikola Jokić, the world’s best basketball player, who also happens to have a 7’3” wingspan. And when the ball dropped through the bottom of the net, Kyrie balled his fist as if to say, fuck your fave I’m Him (but again, in a way most pleasing to Allah).
There is God, and then there are the basketball gods, and I know they might be one in the same. But at this point in my life, I’m most familiar with the deities that dictate on-court play. And what I know most about them is that they’re capable of great disappointment and overwhelming triumph, often in the same breath. Basketball’s biggest plays carry multitudes. Teammates mob Kyrie, and teammates also navigate through the scrum to say goodbye to their enemies and grieve where only their own can see them.
Basketball presents us with many altars. And as the saying goes, if you want to make god laugh, tell him your plans, and surely I’ve come to god with hopes and dreams for my favorite teams and I pray they’re answered. And yes, there is always an answer. Sometimes I’m met with losses that feel like a “fuck you,” and other times, I receive victories that make me want to yell fuck everyone else.
Kyrie’s floater placed both answers on the same side of the coin. I’m a lifelong Denver Nuggets fan, and while I want us to win every game, if we’re going to lose, let it be to the most beautiful shot I’ve ever seen. Let it be to the shot that shouldn’t have gone in, made by the player who defied all odds.
“[Ramadan] is a difficult journey, and to be able to play 48 minutes and not have a drink or eat any food is nothing short of a miracle,” said Kyrie after the win. “There’s definitely a universal God out there that’s protecting me, and I have to give credit to him.”
I also stand before my gods giving credit for the miracles that keep us on the court, continuing to come back to this game called basketball. The love shared between teammates and opponents that makes this a game worth returning to. Amid these bonds, our emotions reach new heights. Language is spilling forth without restraint, composing new holy texts. This, too, is a miracle.
