Hello, my name is Micah Wimmer and I am a writer whose work has appeared in a variety of publications such as Nieman Storyboard, Fansided, and RealGM, among others. My primary interests include the NBA, popular music, film, and literature.
Outside the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee on April 4, 1968, a 26-year-old minister named Jesse Jackson was leading a rehearsal of gospel songs by members of his Operation Breadbasket. Near the end of the rehearsal, one of its participants, Rev. Billy Kyles, left to go knock at Room 306.
On the afternoon of August 26, as NBA fans were waiting for Game 5 of the first round series between the Milwaukee Bucks and Orlando Magic to tip-off, those anticipating a game were greeted instead by uncertainty and inaction.
The NBA court is a finite space, measuring 94 feet by 50 feet, and much of what sets the best players apart is their ability to manipulate that space. They analyze what lies before and around them, then reshape it to fit their particular skill set, so they can get a clear shot or find a passing lane that sets up a teammate for one.
If you've watched any of the NBA games from the Orlando bubble, you've surely noticed the virtual fans surrounding the court. Here's what it's like to be one. Even when watching an intense NBA game from home, there's often something added by the crowd.
Since I first read Joan Didion's "Goodbye to All That," the final essay in her debut essay collection in the summer of 2012, I have never gone more than a few months without revisiting it.
In the closing minute of an inconsequential game between the Sacramento Kings and Los Angeles Clippers in March of 2001, something transcendent happened. Sean Rooks recovered a missed 3 by Vlade Divac and threw the ball almost the full length of the court where Lamar Odom, with his back to the basket, caught it at the free-throw line.