I’m experimenting with narrating these as a podcast. Listen here or find “Notes for All the Ancestors” on your podcast platform of choice. These posts about living Restorative values are free! Drop your email to get these to your inbox. Happy NBA Finals Day! A few weeks back, Future Ancestor #1 asked to borrow my phone and it sent me into a full existential spiral. But this wasn’t a battle about screen time. It was about what his follow-up question unlocked in me. I was watching Cavs-Knicks game 4 when my 4-year-old came up asking to use my phone. We’re a pretty minimal screen time family (watching live sports being an exception), so I told him no, but asked why he wanted it. “I wanna play a song.” “What song?” “Basketball.” Both versions of the song have been in rotation for my kids for a long time. My personal 2002 song of the summer thanks to Lil’ Bow Wow and the “Like Mike” movie soundtrack and of course Kurtis Blow’s original from 1984. So as FA1 was preparing to do his best “Wemby” impersonation, I started to ask him, “Which version, old one or the new one?” But the words got stuck in my throat as I came to the horrifying realization that every parent experiences: The “new” Basketball song came out before Victor Wembanyama was alive. Bow Wow isn’t lil’ anymore (he’s almost 40). Which means I’m now about the age my dad was when he was explaining Kurtis Blow to me in the “well you know where this ACTUALLY comes from” way that elders do. But now here I am as the parent intentionally passing down the game I love. Not just the game itself, but the culture, the mythology, the references and the joy. My boys already have their favorite players to emulate. Of course his airness Michael Jeffery Jordan. But also Tyrese Maxey because he plays with such joyful energy. Giannis Antetokounmpo because of his athleticism and intensity. Victor Wembanyama because of all the otherworldly things he does on the court. Dylan Harper, Jordan Clarkson, Jalen Green, and Jared McCain because we love to see them repping one of our ancestral homelands (Philippines). On the women’s side, “the Point Gawd” Chelsea Gray and the future GOAT A’ja Wilson. None more special than the rest, Each one carries a different story or connection for us. So I sat on the couch, half watching the Cavs build a temporary lead, half watching my kid shoot around while joyfully yell-singing, “They’re playing basketballlllll”. And I couldn’t shake the thought: When I say I’m passing down the love of the game, what exactly am I passing down? Am I passing down culture, community, and joy? Or am I passing down bread and circuses wrapped in my memories of yesteryear? Because basketball is not one thing. It is joy, movement, artistry, rhythm, community memory, neighborhood identity, intergenerational connection, Black creativity, storytelling, improvisation, beauty, and relationship. It’s parents and kids. Friends at the park. Staying up past bedtime to watch history. Like other sports, it is also one of the few places many boys and men are socially permitted to express emotion, admiration, vulnerability, and belonging together. It is also a multi-billion dollar entertainment machine built on the extraordinary performance of mostly Black bodies. A machine where average families are priced out of the culture they helped create, where people’s taxes fund billionaire owners’ vanity projects that accelerate gentrification in the very communities teams claim to represent. That same machine reaches children early. It sells aspiration to the masses while only materially rewarding a minuscule few. Youth sports become a pay-to-play pipeline of trainers, tournaments, rankings, NIL fantasies, and adults living their dreams through their kids. It often convinces young boys that athletic greatness is their clearest pathway to dignity, wealth, or admiration. I don’t think the answer is to reject basketball. The game gave me too much for that. It gave me memories with my family, positive ways to build confidence, skills, and community. An appreciation for history, struggle, and discipline. Becoming a parent has made me realize that passing something down is different from simply loving it. You start asking what parts are worth preserving. What parts deserve questioning. And whether your children can inherit the joy without inheriting all the baggage. The Knicks had taken back the lead on the way to clinching the series as FA1 ran up to the hoop for another dunk, and I couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t thinking about capitalism or representation or exploitation. He was just vibing, singing, trying to see how many shots he could make before dinner time. 🫶🏽✌🏽✊🏽, David Ryan Barcega Castro-Harris Thanks for reading Notes For All The Ancestors! This post is public so feel free to share it. If you read this all the way through, thank you! I’m glad you’re here. 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