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About a man who once could fly—but today, no one looks up anymore
This is my first piece for Brew Hoop, and I couldn’t imagine a better way to start. When I wrote my very first post about the Milwaukee Bucks back in 2002 on a small Polish basketball forum, it was about Desmond Mason. That moment, and that name, sparked something that’s stayed with me ever since. Two decades later, I’m proud and genuinely moved to begin this new chapter with the same story that started it all.
A quiet trade that changed everything
It was February 2003—a month that was supposed to be like any other, but for me, it turned out like a small earthquake in my private landscape of sports obsessions. I don’t remember it because of the weather or university exams, but because of one sentence that appeared on basketball websites, like a whisper thrown into the air:
Ray Allen leaves Milwaukee.
I vaguely remember that the evening was quiet, suspended between late winter and very early spring, the air thick from dust and radiators, the darkness slowly dripping down the window frames. I was sitting in a tiny room, no ventilation, a creaky bed that squeaked at every movement, and the internet—slow as a snake crawling reluctantly through a telephone cable. It was still dial-up back then—the kind that screeched like a wounded bird before showing you anything. And it blocked the phone line if you tried to go from 128kb/s to 256kb/s.
And there, between clicks, noise, delay, forum refreshes and Gadu-Gadu chats (Polish equivalent of MSN), a sentence appeared—one I still have burned under my eyelids:
Desmond Mason was traded to the Milwaukee Bucks.
One sentence. One name. And suddenly, everything I knew—Jordan, Shaq, Kobe, Iverson—faded. Like someone turned off the lights in a big arena and left only one, dim candle. And I had to learn to see differently by that flame.
A weird shot that shouldn’t work
It didn’t take long before I fell in love with his game. Just a few more games in Sonics colors. A few shots that looked like the ball didn’t want to listen to him, didn’t want to fly, didn’t care about physics. He shot from the hip—strangely, asymmetrically, like he didn’t know how the mechanism should end.
Free throws? In his career, only 63%. In the worst season in Milwaukee, barely over 54%. Three-pointers? Better to stay silent: 8 of 53 in 2001–2002 in Seattle (15%), 6 of 44 in Milwaukee in 2003–04 (14%).
But then came the moment. That one moment in a game, when he suddenly accelerated, beat one defender, sometimes two, and flew. Just flew. Not like a man but like something between an animal and a dream. Like his tendons weren’t made of muscle, but music. And suddenly, everything that looked clumsy before, made sense. Because he wasn’t here to be perfect. He was here to remind us, even for just a second, that basketball could be poetry.
The world didn’t know him. And didn’t want to.
Desmond Mason was never in the center. He had no shoe line, no clothes brand, no magazine covers. He appeared in
SLAM probably by mistake or pity, between a Reebok ad and a top small forwards ranking. He didn’t have a signature move or a haircut kids would copy on playgrounds. He walked through the NBA like wind through empty halls; present, but unmeasurable.
Still, in 2001, under all the lights and camera flashes, he won the NBA Slam Dunk Contest as a rookie, representing the Seattle SuperSonics. He flew like someone who didn’t yet know the weight of his body, who didn’t agree with gravity’s rules. His dunks were wild, raw, instinctive; not polished, but real. Like each one was a prayer thrown up toward the ceiling.
He returned a year later to defend his title; he didn’t win, but didn’t have to. His dunks had something rare in them: honesty. Not for the cameras but for himself. For that one clean second of silence midair.
Off the court, he was the same. He didn’t like to talk. He had no Twitter, no blog, no backstage videos or selfies from planes. No behind-the-scenes, no “A Day in the Life,” no website. No biography. Nothing that would allow him to be archived.
But if you saw him once, he stayed with you.
That was his greatest magic: he could leave no trace, but still live in your memory like a scar—dull, old, known—one you touch every time pain reminds you that you once felt something real.
A pegasus who forgot about his wings
Desmond was like a mythical horse with wings, but he didn’t know he could fly. His game was full of potential, but he didn’t need to prove anything. He didn’t chase highlights. He didn’t care for
Top 10 Plays. He just played. Sometimes his dunks made it into compilations. But they quickly disappeared under flashier ones. Sometimes a commentator was amazed. But the next day, nobody remembered his name. And that’s why he was beautiful: because he was like a dream you dream only once, and never again.
I used to collect his traces all over the country
It was like a mania, or maybe hunger. One that won’t let you sleep. I collected everything that had any connection to Desmond Mason. Trading cards: basic, foil, autographed, with jersey swatches, with tiny pieces of parquet floor where he once played. I sent letters, emails, posted on forums, traded with strangers from across Poland, sometimes with people who didn’t even know who this Mason guy was but had one card with his name. And that was enough. Each item was like a map piece to a world that existed only for me. And when finally, after months of searching and some failed auctions, I won a bid on eBay for a Seattle SuperSonics jersey with MASON on the back—the white one, with that shiny fabric and number 24 —I felt like someone had opened heaven’s gate for me. I held it like a relic and wore only on special games. For a moment, I felt that if I really focused, I could hear the echo of those arenas. The sound of sneakers on hardwood, the net swish, the sigh of the crowd who, for just a second, looked only at him.
Today you ask me: “Dad, who is this?”
You pull a card out of an old box. You saw his face, his name, his number. You ask me a question and I go quiet for a moment, because how can I tell you, son, that he was someone the world forgot, but who left basketball eternity inside me? How to speak about someone who’s not in the history books, but whose presence was more real than anything else? How to say that sometimes, the greatest basetball beauty hides in those who never wanted to be seen?
Since I saw Mason play, I stopped looking at basketball through points and wins only. I started seeing the rhythm of running without the ball, how someone gets back on defense, a hand gesture after a teammate misses a shot. That sometimes, the greatest victory is to show no emotion. Later, I played differently: not to impress, but with intention. I listened to the game more than I tried to shape it. I didn’t try to imitate his flight, because I knew you couldn’t repeat that. I tried to understand what it means to be present, but not steal the spotlight. When I watched games, I looked differently; not at those who shine, but those who work in silence.
My basketball became quieter. More focused and definetely more mine. Desmond didn’t win anything. No championships, no conference titles, not even a playoff series people would remember. The only trophy he ever held was from the dunk contest: beautiful, but fleeting. No glory. No parades. No
Sports Illustrated cover saying “Champion.” Not even a farewell speech with fans on their feet and the arena turned into a cathedral. No “last dance.” No comeback story. No ceremony.
He just disappeared. From one day to the next. From season to season. From TV screens, newsfeeds, trading cards, forum signatures, and Google searches. Like he never really existed. Like he was just a dream this league once had: a dream no one dreams twice.
For me, he was everything I wanted in a basketball player at that time
When I was nineteen and everything still felt possible, Desmond Mason was my hero. Not because he won, but because he was different. Because every teenager needs someone to look up to—not as a god, but as a signpost: someone who shows that you can be quiet, modest, real, and who doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
In a world full of loud winners and camera flashes, I chose someone who could lose with dignity. Someone who had no glamour but had presence. Desmond was my idol, even though he never tried to be one. And that’s why he became one. Because to just
be—without decoration, without fireworks, without promises of greatness—is rare today.
And back then? It was like a sign. A signal from another world. A softer, more fragile one, where being true still mattered. And maybe that’s why his story doesn’t end in the arena, because Mason wasn’t just an artist
on the court, he was also one in the air.
He really painted, created. He poured images onto canvas the same way he once shot from midrange: intuitively, softly, with a feeling that didn’t match his athleticism. Art was inside him from the start. Not as a hobby, but as a voice. When his legs stopped bouncing the same way, he returned to what he maybe loved even more.
He switched sneakers for paintbrushes.
Arenas for galleries.
PER stats for the silence of a studio.
And that too was beautiful.
Because only someone who never needed applause can leave before the clapping starts.
And that’s why I tell you this
Because maybe one day, you too will meet someone like him. Someone who doesn’t shout their talent, who doesn’t push to the center, who walks by almost unnoticed, like a shadow. Perhaps you won’t see them right away. Maybe it will take days, months, before you understand what happened. But if one day you feel something inside go quiet, and become more real, that means you found it.
I learned that greatness doesn’t always arrive in brightness. Sometimes it comes as a whisper. Sometimes in a man nobody noticed but who stays with a random Polish teenager for his whole basketball life. Just like Desmond stayed with me.
And maybe, Son, one day you will tell someone about a player who never won anything, but left everything. Just like I’m sitting here now, telling you about him; not so you remember his name, but so that, in your own silence one day, you’ll also be able to hear something important.
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