Given half a chance Ben Wilson would have turned 55 this year. He was Chicago-born: a son of Bellow’s sombre city when it was truly that – stalked by a crack addiction and casual gun violence. The year 1984 was a momentous one in the cultural fabric of the city: Michael Jordan was chosen by the Chicago Bulls and became a late 20th century American icon.
At the same time, Benji Wilson, aged 17, was regarded as the best juvenile basketball player in the city, an insane accolade in a city of 2.5 million. He was 6′8″ and played like a guard: “Magic Johnson with a jump shot” was the summary of his coach. Less than a month after Jordan’s debut for the Bulls – the lake winds turning icy and vengeful – Wilson got into an everyday casual street row which escalated. A gun was produced, Wilson was shot twice and died in hospital. Because of his profile and reputation – the NBA beckoned - his story gained national coverage and decades later became the subject of a sad and gripping ESPN documentary.
But he was just one of the 1.5 million Americans to die through gun violence between the years 1968 – when he was one years of age – and 2017.
The latest atrocity in Uvalde in Texas happened to occur just before a scheduled media conference for Steve Kerr, the head coach of the Golden State Warriors. In a previous life Kerr was the pale, sharp-shooting wingman on Jordan’s dominant Bulls team. He was, by his own admission, a true grafter, with nothing of the silken, athletic explosiveness of most NBA players.
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He worked demonically. He improved. And he was tough – one of the few players who punched Jordan back during a typical training fracas. In his coaching life Kerr quickly established himself as an equally fearless voice for social and political progress in America. It was no surprise that he found the idea of speaking about a basketball game ridiculous and even wrong given that he, like most of the world, was learning that many children had died in America’s latest example of gun insanity.
What was surprising, though, was the visibility of Kerr’s scarcely contained rage and frustration. His lips quivered and his voice broke as he condemned the US senators who refused to vote on gun control. Kerr’s father, a college professor, was the victim of gun violence while serving as president of the American University in Beirut in 1982, a tragedy which had a profound effect on the family. But there was something vital and upset about Kerr’s demeanour on Wednesday that suggested he was speaking as a parent and a citizen as much as from personal experience.
“Since we left shootaround, 14 children [as was known then] were killed 400 miles from here. And a teacher. And in the last 10 days we have had elderly black people killed in a supermarket in Buffalo; we have had Asian church-goers killed in southern California. And now we have children murdered at school.
“When are we going to do something? I am so tired of getting up here and offering condolences to the devastated families out there. I am sorry. I’m tired of the moments of silence. Enough! There are 50 senators right now refusing to vote on HR8, which is a background check rule which the house passed two years ago, and it has been sitting there. And the reason they will not vote on it is to hold on to power.”
He named-checked Mitch McConnell, the Republican leader of the senate. He spoke for just 2½ minutes, calling the collective senators “pathetic” before walking out. Within an hour his message was dominating all social media platforms. That night, of course, a moments silence was held before the game. And the following night, when the Boston Celtics played the Miami Heat, a similar moment of respect was honoured. And afterwards the Heat announcer invited the crowd – and the watching audience of millions – to phone state senators to push for the support of “common-sense gun laws”. A phone number was announced in the auditorium. Applause started rippling through the arena before the announcement had concluded.
It was a startling departure from the normal pre-game ceremonies. And it provoked a swift series of twitter responses from Marco Rubio, the Floridian senator who was among the Republican presidential would-be’s whose ambitions were melted by Trump’s performance in 2016. He criticised the NBA for remaining silent on China’s human rights abuses while “politicising a horrific tragedy”. He called the Miami Heat organisation out for its adverts urging black and Hispanic voters to get “vote registered” in the wake of voting reforms designed to make mail-ballot voting more complicated.
Michael Jordan is often held up as an example of the rigorously apolitical stance of the NBA in the 1980s. Since then players and coaches have combined to form a consistently bold and urgent voice for political and social reform. It is sometimes forgotten that in the 1980s Jordan was smashing through all kinds of social and cultural and economic barriers for black athletes: that he was dealing with becoming the abiding cultural figure of the age, on a par with Ali or Marilyn Monroe or John F Kennedy in personifying his era of splendour.
During the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests across America, Jordan, now the owner of the Charlotte Hornets, lobbied other owners to give players license to express their frustrations through protest during fraught weeks when the play-offs and the seasons seemed on the verge of being cancelled. “Right now, listening is better than talking.” The play-offs resumed, characterised by highly visible slogans on playing gear and a blizzard of resentment from critics – including Trump – who noted that the NBA viewing numbers were tanking.
But Rubio’s flash-response demonstrated that politicians are becoming worried and heedful of the impact of the loudening political conscience of the NBA. And as Rubio ranks highly on the list of politicians who have received donations from the National Rifles Association ($3.3m), he had no real option but to function as their mouthpiece.
It seems clear that the NBA is going to continue as a loudening political voice. It helps that the league is populated with naturally gifted orators like Kerr and Jaylen Brown and Greg Popovich. The extent to which their words and actions change anything is hard to quantify. But it must be better than nothing.
Meanwhile, the NBA finals will begin next week. Kerr will be on the sideline, coaching Steph Curry and company. And deep in the reserves of his mind there must be a small part of him thinking that this is exactly what shouldn’t happen: the glitz and awe of elite sport entertainment, serving as a gorgeous mass distraction as the latest massacre of youngsters immediately begins to recede from the rolling news headlines and national life goes on.
Meanwhile, a Thursday story in the Washington Post noted that the HR 8 background check bill “probably won’t pass, even after Uvalde”.
