CONTINUED FROM NOV. 7
At Derek Schuster’s games, players ranged in age from 11 to 60. For youngsters tagging along with their fathers, older brothers, uncles, cousins, or a neighbor, Derek allotted time for them to engage in half-court games. These preliminary contests were akin to the minor leagues, as many of these youths, once they grew older and stronger, were “called up” to the full-court battles.
Sometimes the transformation was startling: One summer a 12-year-old might barely be able to reach the basket with a two-hand set shot, and the next year he’d be knocking down off-balance jumpers from the deep corner. Watching this maturation was rewarding, but it also made you feel the passage of time, the onset of age, especially when the “kid who couldn’t guard you” became the “kid you can’t guard.”
And as LeBron and Bronny James are set this season to become the first father-and-son tandem in history to play together on the same N.B.A. team (the Lakers), this type of generational pairing, like that of Bill and Michael Rudin, was common at Derek’s.
Perhaps another key to the game’s longevity was the setting. The estate was situated between Water Mill and Bridgehampton — the Mecox Bay neighborhood, as it is known in real estate circles. The centralized location, equidistant to Southampton, Sag Harbor, and East Hampton, could be accessed by back roads, valuable during the heavily trafficked summer months.
Then there was the court itself. It ran east to west, parallel to a long gravel driveway rimmed by privet hedge wider than Charles Barkley and taller than Victor Wembanyama on stilts. It was a classic “Hamptons” look, but the hedge kept out the wind gusts from the nearby ocean, while keeping in the noise of men engaged in non-lethal combat: the arguing (and cursing) that might arise after an unwelcome pick, an elbow to the head, a phantom foul, or other misdeed on the court.
About Steve Nash, I’m sad and not sad that I missed him that morning. My father’s health was starting to fail, and he wanted to go fishing, so I chose to be with him. But I’m told by those who were there that the experience was amazing. I heard Nash was quiet on the court, moving in silence while others huffed and puffed, grunted and groaned, and flailed to steal the rock. Moving at seeming half speed, he was a glider plane, a Tesla among monster trucks. Smooth and easy. And humble, considering he was the league’s reigning M.V.P.
But Nash hadn’t planned to hoop. He had come that morning with Vito Schnabel (who also brought with him a Greek shipping heir, Stavros Niarchos II). Nash arrived in sandals. But after chatting with the guys, and maybe swayed by that majestic hedge, he borrowed a pair of ratty kicks from Derek and took to the court. His team dominated but not in the way you might expect. Nash hardly took a shot, setting others up with such accurate and well-timed passes that they could not miss if they tried. Everything he did appeared nonchalant, effortless, understated, but he was in complete control.
Nash’s team won every contest that day, but each time by only 1 point. It indicated he was a gentleman — but the sort of gentleman who couldn’t bring himself to be on the losing squad.
Later, he exhibited the same character when taking time to answer questions about the N.B.A., his favorite teams, favorite players, and other topics. As with his court demeanor, he wasn’t in a rush. He was genial, easygoing, nice. And when it was finally time to leave, he gave back the sneaks, but not before autographing them. They now sit in Derek’s office.
At the end of this summer, the Sunday before Labor Day, there was a last run at Derek’s. He had sold his house, and this was a farewell to the game. Despite the rainy weather, there was a good turnout. And when the clouds stopped spitting, a few games were played, and a few final curses were swallowed up by the hedge. Afterward, Derek brought out a cake adorned with “49 Years” to honor the occasion. The cake was sweet, and so was the moment.
Along with the cake, those there for that final run drank afterward from a cooler of imported waters and talked about the garden hose we used to drink from, as kids who were too small to play ran about the endless yard and played on the swing set or treehouse or the adjacent tennis court. We waxed nostalgic, reciting the litany of injuries and broken bones we incurred or inflicted, the D-1 or international pro players, or the many outstanding female players, who dominated, the older players who, hobbled by age or malady, came just to spectate, and the many ballers who had left the game and left the world, some tragically.
We reminisced about the lifelong friendships that began with the game and spread organically to friends of friends, other runs throughout the tristate area, lavish Hamptons dinners, golf games, shared love of music, theater, food, and writing workshops.
In a way, it feels like I’m writing a eulogy. Which is okay, as it is a loss, a profound one, the ending of Derek’s run. But as it was in missing Nash, I’m sad, and I’m not so sad. Because whenever needed I can call up a memory from the game, see myself using a back pick set by a hedge fund manager to free up space from a defender who mows lawns for a living, and instead of challenging the long arm of a philanthropist at the basket, dishing off to a fitness trainer for a mid-range bank shot.
That’s what was best about the experience when I think back. We were all different in every way: skills, jobs, income, height, weight, religion, ethnicity, age — everything. But when playing, we were the same. No one cared where you came from or where you were going. The only thing was where you were. On that wonderful court with a great group of guys.
We were, and remain, a true band of ballers. R.I.P., Derek’s game.
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John McCaffrey, a regular Star contributor, lives in Wainscott.
