Watching the Playoffs...No, REALLY Watching the Playoffs

(Originally published on May 19, 2015)

I haven’t had a chance to watch the NBA playoffs, so I’ve been reading the day after recaps on Grantland and Deadspin.

I thought I was following the playoffs, but it occurs to me now that I’m not.

What I’m doing is following the stories of the playoffs.

I haven’t seen any of the actual games. I’ve seen the articles of people writing about the games.

They tell me the Los Angeles Clippers are a bunch of whiny, flopping crybabies. They tell me that James Harden and the Houston Rockets are ruining basketball. They tell me the Memphis Grizzlies’ Tony Allen is a national treasure and that the Eastern conference is such a train wreck, it isn’t even worth following.

And I believe them.

I am now cheering against the Clippers and the Rockets. I never had an opinion of the Memphis Grizzlies before, but they sound good. I have no interest in what’s happening in the East.

But only because that’s what I’ve been told. I haven’t seen enough to form my own opinion.

I’m not seeing the games. I’m seeing stories.

It’s a subtle but crucial distinction.

I can find out the score online as easily as I can having watched the game. I can learn which teams won and which teams lost and look up the statistics for each player.

I can learn ABOUT the game. But that’s not the same as watching the game. It’s DEFINITELY not the same as being on the court and playing in it.

I can apply this same distinction to the rest of my life.

And so I ask myself: am I participating in my life or am I telling stories?

Have I learned the lessons I tell people I’ve learned or am I just telling them I‘ve learned--hiding the same old actions behind shiny new words?

Am I living my relationships with my partners, my nephews, my family, my co-workers? Or am I experiencing them through the stories I’m telling myself about those relationships.

Am I really watching the playoffs?

I want to be someone who deals in reality, not stories.

So today, I’m turning over a new leaf.

While my nephew plays upstairs and the sun shines and birds sing outside, I text my friend to say I’m not going to make it over today, sit back on a couch in my mother’s basement with a remote control in my hands and turn on game seven of the Rockets-Clippers game.

After all, I wouldn’t want to miss anything.