An NBA night on Twitter

Five years ago, Twitter was a concept just barely launched. Three years ago, though powerful, it lacked the magnitude necessary to bring forth the changes in the world that it so obviously promised.

In the 36 months since, Twitter has not only evolved to encompass men and women the world over – from celebrities in free fall to politicians on the campaign trail – it has emerged as a primary news source for an entire planet, no longer just the tech-savvy.

Twitters promoters push the idea that the website is a tool that can provide a real time portrait of the world as it happens. These Champions of Twitter are not wholly wrong: At the very least, the global microblogging service has evolved into a legitimate accessory for watching live sports.

Nowadays fans can live vicariously through people at the game, they can hear their favorite bloggers’ latest witticisms delivered from anonymous mothers’ basements, and most critically, they can share emotions in real time. The latter, arguably, is the whole point of this thing we call “sports”. It’s the reason we spend billions of dollars on the industry.

In the past three years the sports universe has been one of the most willing to embrace the many miraculous uses of Twitter, this comes as no surprise. To be a committed sports fan is to be a fan of irrational arguments based on limited evidence (i.e., Derek Jeter is good at defense). If Twitter is a window into the Internet, then Twitter for sports is a window into an infinite episode of Around the Horn.

In this context, it seemed like the most basic of theories that a properly tricked out Twitter feed would allow an enterprising gonzo sportsblogger to know exactly what was happening in every NBA game happening in a given moment without seeing a minute of actual basketball.

I would attempt to see the NBA through the eyes of its people.

I kept a diary of my experience on a Sunday evening in March, the 27th to be exact. On the slate were a number of NBA match ups ranging both in significance and intrigue.

This is my story of discovery, isolation and Mike Rylander.

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Pregame:

I spend the hour before first tipoff “preparing”, by following as many NBA authorities on Twitter as I possibly can. The NBA blogosphere is comprised of a network of writers who spend just as much time responding to each other’s work as they do watching basketball games. Twitter has become the natural extension of this extended running dialogue. Logging onto Twitter during the day has become like wandering into the giant virtual sports bar in the sky, where the regulars are slyly ribbing each other while sharing nuggets of sports information they’ve unearthed elsewhere on the internet. The warm flippancy of @jeskeets and the dry fatalism of @freedarko have long added spice to my daily basketball ennui.

As I take my Twitter usage from Casual to Hardcore, I will plant myself firmly in the middle of this chaotic conversation, following every writer who makes their Twitter handle available from each SB Nation and TrueHoop individual team site, which is as close to covering all my bases as I can think of in the moment. I also add to my roster of nationally focused writers, dipping deep into ESPN and SI‘s bottomless barrel of content. I am attempting to, in essence, gorge myself on those who profess to follow the NBA more passionately than your average fan. I’m placing my trust in these basketball comrades.

I’m hoping that when actual games start, the virtual sportsbar will transform into a command center, and like air traffic controllers during a storm, my basketball leaders will remain calm in the face of intense pressure as they update each other on details mere mortals might’ve missed. I will sit, zen-like, in the midst of this frenzied din of technical chatter and discern minute fluctuations in game play. I’m confident that my image of air traffic controllers, shaped by years of action movies and Air Force Recruitment videos, will prove accurate.

First Quarter (game on):

The first NBA games tip-off as Kentucky and North Carolina are still dueling in the Elite Eight. It’s a methodological mistake that I chastise myself for, knowing that basketball wise-men are inherently drawn to Hype and its irresistible shiny-ness. Most of the conversation in my expanded network is focused on Kemba Walker’s choice of shoe (if I have to explain it to you, you won’t think it’s funny). I brace myself for an evening of divided attention, waiting for the promise of made jump shots and executed back screens to lure the flock back to the professionals.

My first taste of success come from Spurs blogger @PoundingTheRock, who excitedly tweets that Tiago Splitter has started the game with a made “and-1,” giving the Spurs an early 3-0 lead. I’m grateful to @PoundingTheRock. Until this point, I was afraid that this experiment would bear no fruit.

Soon after, @PoundingTheRock follows up, dropping 140 characters worth of sweet instant analysis on the Spurs interior size advantage. I can only imagine the fierce banging of bodies happening in the paint, but I take heart knowing that I have a vigilant watcher to keep me informed.

Ten long minutes pass before my feed lights up with semi-relevant news. A Celtics blogger retweets that Delonte West’s favorite fast-food fried chicken is Popeye’s, not KFC, citing the quality of the biscuits. I’m sure that this type of irreverence forecasts future updates on Celtics basketball, and I am glad.

Aside from the constant work of @PoundingTheRock (gems like “RJ off to a great start, hitting all 3 of Spurs 3-pointers. He’s got 9pts. Parker with 3pts. 16-12, Spurs. 5:41 left in the 1st.”), I feel woefully under-informed. It’s not until the effervescent @johnkrolik bemoans the Cavaliers fast break defense that I’m sure that their game against the Hawks is even happening. As first quarters (I think) draw to a close, I’m no closer to understanding the basketball universe than I was on the night my girlfriend convinced me to watch Food Network with her instead of a Kings-Trail Blazers Tuesday game. (“But honey, I need to see how Marcus Thornton integrates into the offense!”)

Second Quarter (roughly):

UK-UNC is still raging, and so are jokes about NBA readiness.

Full disclosure I’m watching the game during my experiment, since I figure my journalistic integrity only extends to NBA games. And also, c’mon, it’s March MAAAADNESS.

Still, I was hoping there would be more stoic NBA writers maintaining their vigil.

Thankfully, my patience pays off. The first seismic event of the night happens in the Heat-Rockets game (it’s good to know that game is happening, by the way) as Erik Spoelstra subs in Mike Miller for Erick Dampier, which effectively moves LeBron James to the five spot. James is guarding and being guarded by Chuck Hayes. First one, then another writer retweets the initial blast. Pro-hype trumps college hype, and a smattering of national writers start indicating that they’re changing over to MIA-HOU to see the mythical sight of LeBron playing the post.

When James scores a bucket on Chuck Hayes off the low block. There is a collective cheer from those who are (ahem) witnessing Lebron’s basketball greatness.

Almost on cue, an inactive Dwight Howard chimes in on his Twitter account, announcing to the world that he is bored and would like to play an online game with some followers. Is it a coincidence that this happens right after James’ transcendent post play? Is Howard worried that James’ post game already looks better than his? I contemplate digging deeper into this online game Howard is promoting, but know this would be against my journalistic mission of spending an evening on the Internet.

I have only the most basic idea of what’s happening in the games going on right now (Mike Miller is playing badly, Kyle Lowry is playing well, and Al Horford is destroying the Cavs), except for the Spurs game, which @PoundingTheRock is keeping me intimately informed about: “Timeout on the floor. 3:37 left in the half. 43-47. Spurs shooting 44% FG, Manu with 0 points still.”

Third Quarter (or thereabouts):

This experience is starting to give me a sense of what life must’ve been like in World War II, trapped in occupied France with only a radio cobbled together from spare farm equipment to give the briefest snippets of information. @PoundingTheRock has become my Edward R. Murrow, a beacon guiding me to a home that I long to return to. Except, in this metaphor “home” is actually watching live basketball and my incarceration is my own stupidity.

Other than Spurs-Grizz, I’m still in what feels like a total communications blackout. The conversation is still on the UK-UNC game and UK’s victory. It feels like fascist propaganda, invasive broadcasts that tout the moral superiority of the college game. I’m sickened, but I’m trapped and there’s nothing I can do. I can only wait the storm out and hope cooler heads soon prevail.

Later (but still in the third quarter?):

It’s clear, @PoundingTheRock is destitute: “Spurs fans, and broadcast TV announcers aren’t saying much right now. We’re unsure of what to think. Tied at 81. No Manu, no Tim” I can hear the panic in his voice. An upstart Grizzlies team advancing on his territory. I silently pray to my computer screen that @PoundingTheRock will escape through the underground resistance, find his way to safety, and continue his valiant reporting in the face of enemy troops.

A small bird flitters into my concrete cell and whisper to me that Celtics-Timberwolves tipped sometime in the last hour, apparently, and the Celtics are blowing out the Timberwolves. I’m eternally grateful, but can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is happening to @PoundingTheRock right now.

The Fourth Quarter (I’m almost sure of it):

The Celtics-Timberwolves flow begins to increase as spectators are drawn to the carcass of the Timberwolves, picking at it like scavengers. The Celtics have played the best game of their season, or so says my network. Can I trust them anymore?

All of a sudden, my feed comes to life: @PoundingTheRock: “After a stolen tip on a jump ball that should have been ours, Coach Bud calls timeout. 94-91, Spurs.”

Things are getting insane. @PoundingTheRock sounds like he’s having a heart attack. I feel the pressure for me starting to build. There’s an honest to goodness really amazing game happening in the NBA right now and I barely know what’s going on. I feel cranky. I feel betrayed. I was supposed to be like Neo, seeing the world as lines of code and understanding everything that was happening.

I start reloading furiously, no longer capable of waiting for Twitter‘s own organic refresh. No updates from @PoundingTheRock. Is he okay? I fly through updates from other games. No time to process that Lebron, Wade, and Bosh all got 30 pts each. No time to follow the blowout happening in Minnesota. I need answers, and I need them NOW. Where the hell are my Twitter friends? Why are they not helping me? Why won’t they tell me what’s going on with them! F***, f***, f***!

Finally:

Clarity. Transcendence. Calm.

Five minutes ago, in flurry of desperation, unable to handle the suspense and furious at my brethren, I typed “Spurs” into the Twitter search bar.

I am now connected to everyone in the world who has typed the word “Spurs” in a tweet in the last minute. Twenty new tweets come in every 10 seconds. I scan them impassively, gleaning new information, bemused at those who are clearly speaking in isolation, unaware of the vast sea of information they are providing.

@GeishaTorres: “#Memphis 105 #Spurs 101 quedan 29 segundos que angustiaaaaa”

For the record, Geisha Torres is a New York-based Spanish language sports journalist, writing primarily for NBA.com. Thank you, Geisha, for your help. You are now a member of my Twitter feed.

I return to my cohort of Twitter friends, perhaps to introduce them to Geisha, but they seem uninterested in what I have to say. They’ve already moved on from the Spurs, if they ever cared. I scoff at their ignorance but maintain my silence and listen to their chattering.

The Celtics have blown their lead to the Timberwolves. Like Batman listening to the police scanner, I whisk myself to the scene of the crime, typing “Celtics” into the search bar. I am instantly connected.

@Glenda_G: Its a 3pt game now, and #Celtics was up by 25, Ok Den

The tweeter of the following lists herself as a mother, accountant, and radio personality in Hartford. Thank you @Glenda_G, for your words. With such a kind mother, I cannot wait to see how your child grows up. Perhaps at some other time, we could also discuss your radio career. For now, enjoy the game.

@CanisHoopus, the ostensible authority representing the Timberwolves nation, has been strangely silent. His only tweet is a reply specifically to someone named @MikeRylander. My curiosity is peaked. I take a moment away from the game, confident that I’ll be able to plug back in at a moments notice.

It appears that @MikeRylander is Mike Rylander, the Timberwolves’ In-Arena Game Host, or “The guy who runs the contests during halftime”. Google reveals he was once Cosmo’s sexiest bachelor in North Dakota. He’s also an actor, improviser, and writer. I am sucked into the world of Mike Rylander. He’s a Steve Carrell character, but sexier. He must be a folk hero to the Timberwolves fans, a symbol of optimism and energy in an otherwise dreary season. Also, he’s got unbelievable T-shirt throwing skills.

Mike Rylander must be at the game right now, witnessing the Timberwolves miraculous comeback, pumping up the crowd with free ice cream and scoreboard antics. He must be feeling so much emotion, so many different complex thoughts, fully alive. I want him to tell me, right now, how he feels. I want someone else to inform me of what he’s doing. I search for Mike Rylander-related tweets, but precious little comes up.

I feel foolish. I had hoped that trusting in my select group of authorities would be how I would get my information, that they would’ve felt some sort of responsibility to their loyal followers, knowing that Twitter was a massive information cloud that we were all are responsible for maintaining. But of course, like all worthy things on the Internet, it was the anonymous voices in the crowd that collectively painted a picture for me. I have learned a lesson, though my attention span is too short to focus on what it might be.

The game ends, the Celtics win, I follow every second of it like a hawk watching a mouse.

I return to my circle of Twitterfriends. I tell them about my discovery of Mike Rylander and my insight into the world of Minnesota fans, but no one is listening. How can they be so unreceptive to my obvious genius? How are they so insulated into their own preset conditions that they can’t open themselves as pure vessels of information as I have?

I say “to hell with it” and post his demo-reel on Facebook.

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