I tried my best to watch sportsballs tonight because Danhausen, but man.
Basketball science has moved on, and I appear to have been left at the bus stop of history.
This is not an "everything was better in the Chicago Bulls days" complaint. It is more that I no longer know how to read what I am seeing. The basketball I remember looked like chaos being mastered by individual human beings. Distinct bodies arrived with their own gravity and imposed themselves upon the game. You could watch the collision of wills happen. Older NBA players often looked denser and more visibly powerful through the torso, shoulders and legs. Not universally, obviously, but the visual grammar was different.
Now elite players often seem optimized for length, acceleration, switching, repeated sprints and surviving enormous minutes across a stretched floor. The result is those long, tensile bodies: absurd reach, very little excess mass, joints and tendons doing frightening amounts of work.
And then they begin to move at impossible speed, and the ye olde chaos seems to have been processed into precision science.
Every movement measured. Every angle calculated. Five men moving as components in a spatial algorithm, becoming pure intention moving through a vector field. It is beautiful, but human spontaneity gets compressed into an industrial rhythm. You can almost hear the system clicking through its decision tree faster faster faster, to outpace the opponent's algo.
The old game had systems too, of course. But the players still read to me as separate human forces colliding with one another. Now they can look like highly specialized instruments built for the current geometry of basketball.
And the commentators no longer help me translate it.
There is too much data. Too much explanation of what is efficient and optimal and historically significant.
Commentators are the ones who sell us the game. They tell us where the fear is, where the rage is, where somebody has decided that this possession belongs to them. They are supposed to turn movement into myth.
Instead I feel like I am listening to technicians describe the performance of a very expensive, very complex, very well oiled system.
I can tell that what I am watching is magnificent. I simply cannot parse its language anymore.
Anyway, Danhausen may continue uncursing the Knicks without me. It is 5 a.m., the basketball singularity has occurred, and I have been left behind outside its event horizon.