Quickly, name all of the great white point guards of the last 20
years. Steve Nash and John Stockton, you surely know. Dedicated fans
remember Mark Price. Certified NBA nuts still rant about the occasional
greatness of Scott Skiles. And then there’s Luke Ridnour, the local
product, who was supposed to be a great point guard but has only been
physically fragile, defensively challenged, and a poor shooter. And
yet, whenever Ridnour enters a game for the Sonics, many folks still
chant his name, “Luuuuuuuuuuuuuuke!”
I think white fans love white point guards, even the disappointing
ones, because of tribalism. The small white guys in the stands identify
with the small white guys on the court. Makes sense to me. If a Native
American ever makes it to the NBA, he will become one of my favorite
players, even if he’s terrible.
But I truly love NBA basketball because of its otherness, not the
otherness of race, but the otherness of athletic ability. During a
recent game, Luke Ridnour threw a bounce pass into the key that was
gorgeous and extraterrestrial. And for just a few seconds, I loved Luke
and chanted his name along with the other fans. 