The Yang Slinger: Vol. XCI:

Pickup basketball has played an enormous role in my life. No one brought more joy to that world than the late Curtis (Bishop) Dorsey.

I was not planning on writing my substack this week.

I needed a break; time to relax.

But then … something happened. And, as a guy who’s been doing this for quite a while, I can confirm that—when something happens—one is often called to his keyboard.

So here I sit.

Crying.

As I write this, my heart weighs 1,000 pounds. I am dumbfounded and crestfallen and at a loss for words. I have experienced the death of my father, the death of my father-in-law, the death of my uncle, the death of grandparents, the death of a beloved pet. None of those passings left me as shocked as I am at this moment.

About, oh, an hour ago, I received news that Curtis (Bishop) Dorsey has died after a brief illness. Unless you happen to be a member of the Laguna Niguel YMCA, or partake in one of, oh, a half dozen Orange County basketball runs, or are well-versed in underground Washington, D.C.-produced hip-hop drummers, odds are near 100 percent the name means nothing to you.

To me, however, it means everything.

Absolutely everything.

This is going to sound weird, but when I can’t sleep at night, and I’m tossing and turning, one of the things I try and do is think of every … single … person I’ve ever played pickup basketball with or against.

It is, of course, an impossible task. I’m 52-years old. I first experienced pickup when I was, oh, 8 or 9, before the basket my dad installed at the lip of our driveway at 8 Emerald Lane in Mahopac, N.Y. Back then, it was a neighborhood crew—Gary Miller, Dennis Gargano, David Clingerman, Jonathan Powell, Jon Ballerini, Scott Choy. I fell in love with everything about the ritual. Not merely the rhythmic sound of dribbling, or the endorphin rush of hitting a shot … but the sense of togetherness that accompanies the game. The community. The shit talk. Hard picks. A hand in someone’s face. An electrifying give and go. A water break. A pat on the shoulder. A pound. Run it back. Who’s up? You next? You can’t guard me. Even when it’s played poorly, pickup basketball is a cohesive and binding endeavor. You take a bunch of people (often strangers), stitch them together on the quick and say (without actually uttering the words), “Figure each other out.”

As the decades passed, my passion for pickup never faded. I remember, as a young teen, visiting my Grandma Mollie and Grandpa Nat in Ft. Lauderdale, and begging them to take me to the beach along Seabreeze Blvd., where a handful of courts sat feet off the ocean. I’d pace and pace and pace the perimeter, waiting for the runs to thin so someone might pick gangly ol’ me. At the University of Delaware, my Christiana Towers roommates (Dan Monaghan, Scott Capro, Paul Duer and Paul Hannsen) and I would often wait until 11 o’clock or midnight before hitting the dimly lit outdoor courts for intensive/blissful games of 2 on 2. As a summer intern at the Champaign-Urbana (Illinois) News-Gazette, I broke my right ankle playing pickup at the town Y, returned six weeks later, then severely sprained my left ankle. As a cub reporter in Nashville at The Tennessean, I sliced my days with intensive afternoon runs at the local church gym. When I moved to New York to work for Sports Illustrated, the 92nd Street Y became an oasis (until I dislocated my left shoulder driving toward the hoop).

Have I experienced stardom? Never. A guy you pick Top 5? Generally not. I’m, oh, Eddie Lee Wilkins: the Quad City Thunder year. Maybe Todd MacCulloch on a banner day. Back to the basket. Set picks. Hit the cutter. A career 4.3 ppg, 4.7 rpg, 1.8 apg type of guy. Hard hat and lunch bucket and all elbows.

But mid-level skills be damned, I fucking love pickup basketball, and even though my lower back is Dollar General peanut brittle and my knees plead for ice and my once-Mike Smrekian 11-inch vertical has been sliced in half, I still play nearly every single weekend.

At the El Lazo basketball courts.

Ah, the El Lazo basketball courts.

I first discovered the spot nine years ago, not long after we moved 3,000 miles west from New York. A guy I knew recommended it as a “decent” pickup base, so one Saturday morning I arrived around 9 o’clock, not knowing what to expert.

Here is what I found: Awesomeness. Motherfucking awesomeness. Awesomeness in every sense of the word. Awesomeness unlike any awesomeness I’ve known. The games run to 11 (scoring in 2s and 3s)—except the first game of the morning, which goes to 15. Fouls are called, but not nearly as often as East Coast runs. There’s nonstop banter, but minimal shit talk. The rims are fairly unforgiving. A dude named X always supplies the music (hip-hop. Only hip-hop). And if he’s unavailable, Nate fills in (hip-hop, but also some top-choice R&B). There are usually joints passed around along the baseline, and the odor tends to punctuate the air. The age range scans, oh, 14 to almost 70. In a region that is not particularly diverse, the games are remarkably diverse—White, Black, Asian, Hispanic, Persian, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Mormon, Republican, Democrat, short, tall. On and on and on. There’s a dude named Gabe who’s a high school teacher and cancer survivor. A military vet named Wes is the best bowler I’ve ever met. Kermit’s nephew pitches in the Majors. Dave is a former college player who moved here from Boston. His son Markus drains nonstop threes. Tony always wears a faded Dominique Wilkins 2000 Olympic jersey. Jay-Z launches threes from five towns over and posts the makes on Instagram. There’s a former I-AA football player named Jerry who—on the rare occasion he misses consecutive shots—mutters aloud (to my secret delight), “C’mon, Jerry! C’mon, Jerry!” Cole glides toward the hoop with an annoyingly unstoppable up and under. John is as smooth as cream. Whenever X gets fouled (or sorta fouled) he bellows, “Annnnnddddd onnnnnnnne!” with Michael Buffer vigor. A dude nicknamed Butter sets picks that make your insides scream. Nate the UPS man is nonstop chatter, nonstop information—before dropping four-straight jumpers atop your head and telling you (warmly) about it. It is a blissful, delightful, otherworldly collection of disparate personalities from all corners of the country, and even the most hostile on-court moments (and there have certainly been a few) fade like melted sugar. Not a weekend approaches when I don’t look forward to lacing up my (uniquely ugly $50) Pumas and hitting up El Lazo.

And, of course, there was Bishop.

Bishop was the glue. And I would be writing that were he (fuck—if only) alive and well and standing beside me.

Bishop was the glue.

He was there the moment I arrived—a Washington, D.C. transplant who stood, oh, maybe 5-foot-10, with dangling dreads, a Steve Nash-meets-Buddy Hield skillset and more natural kindness and charisma than any human I’ve met. To explain Bishop and Saturday morning hoops, well … hmm. How to do this?

He was late. Almost always late. Notoriously so. Nowadays games start at 10, and he would usually arrive closer to, oh, 10:45. But he wouldn’t just arrive. He would arrive and greet every … single … person. And not merely hello. But, “Hey, what’s up? What’s new?” And never just a pound or a handshake, but a pound/handshake/lean-in bro hug. He asked about your family—always. Not sometimes—always. And he would remember details. My son Emmett is a freshman at Northeastern, but over the course of his high school years he participated in myriad El Lazo games (Full transparency: I’m crying as I write this). Emmett loved playing with Bishop (as we all did), and not a recent Saturday run passed without Bishop turning to me and saying, “What’s up with Emmett? How’s he liking college?” or “How’s Emmett doing with the ladies?” or “What’s Emmett studying these days?” I can literally hear Bishop’s voice as I type this, because it was the baritone of a genuinely inquisitive, decent, kind man who wasn’t seeking out social points, but was blessed with compassion. I actually just got off the phone with Emmett, who spoke with a lump in his throat. “Bishop was the perfect model of how to be with people you know, but don’t know incredibly well,” my son said. “He made you want to know him.”

Bishop was an enormous hip-hop fan and, like me, an East Coast-born hip-hop fan. Many Saturday mornings involved detailed discussions of Tupac Shakur—“Yo, Jeff, what are you up to in the book?” and “Jeff, anything new you can share?” He would bring up little points from Tupac history, ask me to elaborate, explain, cite. And, whether I offered up interesting nuggets or flat nuggets, he blessed the information with the same phrase: “That’s what’s up.”

Bishop dressed … like Bishop. I’m not sure why, but he always played with his head and mouth covered by bandanas. He wore long sleeves, and leggings beneath his baggy shorts. On the court, the dude was phenomenal. I’d say a rotation of 30 or so players make up the El Lazo regulars, and (for my money) Bishop was the top pick in the draft. First, he had high-level point guard skills with a dead-eye jumper. Second, he was a master of the pick-and-roll and give-and-go. Third, he got to the rim like a young Kenny Anderson. Fourth, he never, ever, ever, ever, ever made a teammate feel like shit over a missed shot or bungled pass. If anything, he took the blame when it was rarely his to absorb. Bishop could stop on a dime. His hands were lightning. He had quick feet. His defense … um, well, he was an outstanding shooter. :)

One of the weird things about El Lazo hoops is that, for as much time as I’ve spent with these guys and as much as I truly embrace these guys, ours lives are sort of base-level mysteries to one another. Like, I know Jerry played I-AA football because I once talked I-AA football with him. I know Kermit’s nephew pitches because I covered the Majors. I know Cole is a Green Bay Packers fan because there was a Jordan Love discussion. But are they married? Divorced? Gay? Straight? Do they like long walks on the beach? Green Day? Olive Garden? The “Police Academy” films? I have no idea, and our two-hour basketball runs don’t lend themselves to deep probes.

Truth be told, the details of Bishop’s life largely eluded me. For 90 percent of our basketball weekends together, I assumed either his first or last name was Bishop (and I still know not why he went by that sobriquet). I was aware (via conversation) he’d been a touring drummer for the musician Wax, and through some dull-day sleuthing I found a page with the remnants of his 2010 solo album, “NeverDoubtSelf.” I also knew he worked at a nearby Y—which is actually how many of us first learned of his passing.

Via this e-mail …

Sigh.

Bishop leaves behind a longtime partner, Anbar, and a delightful, inquisitive young son, Zoran.

He also leaves behind a legacy. Of dumping the ball down low and cutting to the basket. Of stopping on a dime and draining a three. Of playing the drums. Of coaching children. Of character. Of kindness. Of compassion. Of heart. Of empathy. Of the value of a quick smile, a warm bro-hug. Of remembering to ask how someone’s wife is doing, how someone’s son is doing, how someone’s day is going. Of understanding that positivity matters, in doses both small and large. Of always saying Hello and always saying Goodbye.

I am crushed by the passing of Curtis Dorsey.

I am gutted by the loss of Bishop.

A great man and a great friend who knew, more than anything, what was up.