Here’s the thing, I’ve never been much of a hooper. It's more of a ploy to break my sedentary routine. So, when the clock on my laptop strikes 1 PM and the weather outside decides to cut us some slack, I put on my running shoes, grab my worn-out, now stripeless Spalding basketball, and head to the public courts at the Volkspark, just a short walk from my apartment. I try to keep my game dignified, not to embarrass myself in front of the other lone ballers or passersby. No risky dribbles between my legs, no tragic attempts to dunk or even lay up; to tell you the truth, I don’t even know if I can still jump high enough to touch the rim with my fingertips. I occasionally chuck a few 20-footers, but otherwise, my game is plain and simple — straight-out-of-the-seventies European basketball.
The other day, I endured the usual series of meetings, with people appearing and vanishing like ghosts on my computer screen, leaving behind only the digital echoes of their voices. After the last one, I got an email from our HR manager, Lucie. I closed the laptop without replying, put on my running shoes, and headed to the court. The unusually warm weather for early May had caught most park-goers off guard. Some had rolled up their sleeves, while others had turned their windbreakers into makeshift picnic blankets, transforming lunch breaks into impromptu picnics. The group of retirees, who typically sat on the exposed benches near the basketball courts in a semicircle to play cards and drink beer, had retreated under the trees to escape the sun's glare. People walked their dogs, rode their bikes, or lay on the grass with books. An old, shirtless bearded man sat on a bench with his arms spread wide, listening to a small portable radio playing new-age music, as if he was ready to embrace something the rest of us weren’t privy to. At the court facing one of the main arterial roads, a group of young people in large unbuttoned baseball shirts or bare-chested played a pick-up game. They showed off solid ball-handling skills while missing most of their shots. A speaker connected to a phone on the bench blared late '90s to early 2000s hip hop. I decided to walk further to the other court, the one more secluded by the greenery of the park.
I took a few shots, expecting to miss as my muscle memory adjusted. Then, as I began hitting a few and moved further away from the hoop to increase the difficulty, my mind wandered to the email from HR. It dawned on me how Berlin, after years of being just a passerby, had finally ensnared me. These moments on the court of Volkspark felt like a surrender to the city, a quiet acceptance of its intricacies and idiosyncrasies. With each shot, there was a subtle shift — a realization that I had quietly resigned myself to a place that had subtly shaped me more profoundly than I had previously been willing to admit. The ambiance amplified this realization, blending with the echoes of my personal journey and that of the park's inhabitants and the city at large. It created a harmonious yet chaotic and eerie backdrop to my contemplation, as if every sound, every breeze carried a fragment of Berlin's collective story — something I had always kept at arm's length or engaged with only fleetingly, but here I was, fully immersed.
A few minutes passed, and I managed not to let that distract me. I was finally on a hot streak, hitting something like five buckets in a row. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two people in the distance walking in my direction, one holding an elongated object, but I stayed focused. As I took my next shots, my mind drifted back to the email. The duo drew nearer — a man and a woman, both in their early to mid-thirties — and I felt the spell shatter as my shots went awry. Their intent was unmistakable as they maintained unyielding eye contact, closing in on the court's edge where I stood. There they remained — the man clutching a small recorder, the woman wielding a pop filter.
“Hello,” said the woman.
“Hi,” I replied after missing my last shot and now held the basketball against my belly.
“We couldn't help but notice you were throwing some fine shots,” said the man in English with a German accent. He had skipped the awkward question about whether I spoke German and decided — just by looking at me — that German wasn’t my most fluent language. He was almost completely bald and smiled warmly.
I shrugged off his pleasantries and smiled awkwardly.
“We are working on a project called ‘Sounds of Berlin’ and are recording everything that represents the spirit of summertime Berlin,” said the woman with a blonde ponytail. “We would love to record you playing basketball.”
“What about those guys?” I pointed at the bare-chested young men at the other court.
“We need something calmer, less chaotic, and their music is too loud,” the woman replied, “you are just what we need.” She smiled.
“You’re not shooting any footage, are you?” I asked.
“No, no,” the man waved his free hand to reassure me, “you just keep doing what you were doing before we disturbed you, and if you could throw some more of those fine shots, that would be great.”
“Alright,” I said, “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”
“No worries,” said the woman, “we’re in no rush.”
I let the ball land on the ground, dribbled it a couple of times, and went for a mid-range shot. A miss. The ball landed on the right side of the hoop. I rushed to catch it and attempted another mid-range without dribbling it first. Another miss. I made a few more attempts from closer, but the basketball either hit the board and fell to the ground or just bounced off the rim.
“I know how it feels, buddy,” said the man with the voice recorder.
I gave a few more tries, unsuccessfully.
“Sorry,” I smiled bitterly, “it’s just not happening.”
“No worries at all,” said the man. “You know what? I’m gonna turn this thing off to let you regain your momentum, then I’ll switch it on again.”
I bounced the basketball a few times and then threw it at the hoop. It hit the bull’s-eye. A second, third, and fourth followed. I was on a streak again.
“Fantastic, here we go again,” announced the man, aiming the recorder at the hoop. The woman appeared comforted too, now impatiently waiting with her pop filter for the next shots.
I dribbled the ball again, positioned myself exactly as I did on my previous successful shot, and let my muscle memory take over. A miss. The ball spun wildly around the rim before bouncing off.
“Why don’t you get closer to the hoop,” the man proposed, “make an easy shot and let our recorder capture the sound of the ball going through the basket? Then I promise we’ll leave you alone.”
I positioned myself right beneath the basket, cradled the ball in my palm, and caressed it with my fingertips, imparting a spin that seemed destined for success. The basketball sailed through the air and brushed the inner rim with delicate grace, promising to nestle into the heart of the basket. But then, to my dismay, it started a frenzied dance along the rim's edge. After several agonizing spins, it careened off the metal and thudded to the ground.
“Sorry folks,” I shrugged, “I’m just wasting your time. This isn’t happening.”
Their smiles darkened as if they were paying spectators who had just witnessed a buzzer-beater loss of their team at the Finals.
“It’s okay,” said the man disheartenedly, “we can still use the sound of your dribbles. Thanks for your time.”
As the man turned off the recorder and the woman disassembled the pop filter, I attempted another mid-range shot. The ball swished through the basket, brushing against the inside and creating a sound that mingled with the distant hum of traffic and the songs of birds in the high trees enclosing the court.
“Oh man,” the man shouted, “are you serious?” He looked at me as if I had just pulled a sick joke on him.
I spread my hands in a gesture of apology. They walked away, the man muttering and the woman waving at me with a smile.
I threw a few more shots before calling it a day. At 1:56 PM, I was back home in front of my computer with a turkey sandwich resting on a plate next to it. I opened the email from the HR manager again and stared at it for a moment. The subject was “Update on your Internal Application.”
Hi Tony,
I'm thrilled to inform you that your internal application for the Head of Content Marketing position has been successful. We are impressed with your dedication and the results you have delivered. This new role comes with the salary raise you requested. However, it also requires you to work at the office at least three times a week. We look forward to seeing you excel in this new position.
Best regards,
Lucie
I clicked on the Reply button and typed:
Hey Lucie,
Thank you for the offer and the recognition. However, after careful consideration, I have decided to withdraw my internal application for the Head of Content Marketing position.
Best regards,
Tony
I hit send — a faint echo of the ball bouncing off the rim, another missed opportunity or perhaps just a reminder of the journey from initial self-glorification to the acceptance of one's true nature, the sound of Berlin.
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Here’s the thing, I’ve never been much of a hooper. It's more of a ploy to break my sedentary routine. So, when the clock on my laptop strikes 1 PM and the weather outside decides to cut us some slack, I put on my running shoes, grab my worn-out, now stripeless Spalding basketball, and head to the public courts at the Volkspark, just a short walk from my apartment. I try to keep my game dignified, not to embarrass myself in front of the other lone ballers or passersby. No risky dribbles between my legs, no tragic attempts to dunk or even lay up; to tell you the truth, I don’t even know if I can still jump high enough to touch the rim with my fingertips. I occasionally chuck a few 20-footers, but otherwise, my game is plain and simple — straight-out-of-the-seventies European basketball.
The other day, I endured the usual series of meetings, with people appearing and vanishing like ghosts on my computer screen, leaving behind only the digital echoes of their voices. After the last one, I got an email from our HR manager, Lucie. I closed the laptop without replying, put on my running shoes, and headed to the court. The unusually warm weather for early May had caught most park-goers off guard. Some had rolled up their sleeves, while others had turned their windbreakers into makeshift picnic blankets, transforming lunch breaks into impromptu picnics. The group of retirees, who typically sat on the exposed benches near the basketball courts in a semicircle to play cards and drink beer, had retreated under the trees to escape the sun's glare. People walked their dogs, rode their bikes, or lay on the grass with books. An old, shirtless bearded man sat on a bench with his arms spread wide, listening to a small portable radio playing new-age music, as if he was ready to embrace something the rest of us weren’t privy to. At the court facing one of the main arterial roads, a group of young people in large unbuttoned baseball shirts or bare-chested played a pick-up game. They showed off solid ball-handling skills while missing most of their shots. A speaker connected to a phone on the bench blared late '90s to early 2000s hip hop. I decided to walk further to the other court, the one more secluded by the greenery of the park.
I took a few shots, expecting to miss as my muscle memory adjusted. Then, as I began hitting a few and moved further away from the hoop to increase the difficulty, my mind wandered to the email from HR. It dawned on me how Berlin, after years of being just a passerby, had finally ensnared me. These moments on the court of Volkspark felt like a surrender to the city, a quiet acceptance of its intricacies and idiosyncrasies. With each shot, there was a subtle shift — a realization that I had quietly resigned myself to a place that had subtly shaped me more profoundly than I had previously been willing to admit. The ambiance amplified this realization, blending with the echoes of my personal journey and that of the park's inhabitants and the city at large. It created a harmonious yet chaotic and eerie backdrop to my contemplation, as if every sound, every breeze carried a fragment of Berlin's collective story — something I had always kept at arm's length or engaged with only fleetingly, but here I was, fully immersed.
A few minutes passed, and I managed not to let that distract me. I was finally on a hot streak, hitting something like five buckets in a row. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two people in the distance walking in my direction, one holding an elongated object, but I stayed focused. As I took my next shots, my mind drifted back to the email. The duo drew nearer — a man and a woman, both in their early to mid-thirties — and I felt the spell shatter as my shots went awry. Their intent was unmistakable as they maintained unyielding eye contact, closing in on the court's edge where I stood. There they remained — the man clutching a small recorder, the woman wielding a pop filter.
“Hello,” said the woman.
“Hi,” I replied after missing my last shot and now held the basketball against my belly.
“We couldn't help but notice you were throwing some fine shots,” said the man in English with a German accent. He had skipped the awkward question about whether I spoke German and decided — just by looking at me — that German wasn’t my most fluent language. He was almost completely bald and smiled warmly.
I shrugged off his pleasantries and smiled awkwardly.
“We are working on a project called ‘Sounds of Berlin’ and are recording everything that represents the spirit of summertime Berlin,” said the woman with a blonde ponytail. “We would love to record you playing basketball.”
“What about those guys?” I pointed at the bare-chested young men at the other court.
“We need something calmer, less chaotic, and their music is too loud,” the woman replied, “you are just what we need.” She smiled.
“You’re not shooting any footage, are you?” I asked.
“No, no,” the man waved his free hand to reassure me, “you just keep doing what you were doing before we disturbed you, and if you could throw some more of those fine shots, that would be great.”
“Alright,” I said, “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”
“No worries,” said the woman, “we’re in no rush.”
I let the ball land on the ground, dribbled it a couple of times, and went for a mid-range shot. A miss. The ball landed on the right side of the hoop. I rushed to catch it and attempted another mid-range without dribbling it first. Another miss. I made a few more attempts from closer, but the basketball either hit the board and fell to the ground or just bounced off the rim.
“I know how it feels, buddy,” said the man with the voice recorder.
I gave a few more tries, unsuccessfully.
“Sorry,” I smiled bitterly, “it’s just not happening.”
“No worries at all,” said the man. “You know what? I’m gonna turn this thing off to let you regain your momentum, then I’ll switch it on again.”
I bounced the basketball a few times and then threw it at the hoop. It hit the bull’s-eye. A second, third, and fourth followed. I was on a streak again.
“Fantastic, here we go again,” announced the man, aiming the recorder at the hoop. The woman appeared comforted too, now impatiently waiting with her pop filter for the next shots.
I dribbled the ball again, positioned myself exactly as I did on my previous successful shot, and let my muscle memory take over. A miss. The ball spun wildly around the rim before bouncing off.
“Why don’t you get closer to the hoop,” the man proposed, “make an easy shot and let our recorder capture the sound of the ball going through the basket? Then I promise we’ll leave you alone.”
I positioned myself right beneath the basket, cradled the ball in my palm, and caressed it with my fingertips, imparting a spin that seemed destined for success. The basketball sailed through the air and brushed the inner rim with delicate grace, promising to nestle into the heart of the basket. But then, to my dismay, it started a frenzied dance along the rim's edge. After several agonizing spins, it careened off the metal and thudded to the ground.
“Sorry folks,” I shrugged, “I’m just wasting your time. This isn’t happening.”
Their smiles darkened as if they were paying spectators who had just witnessed a buzzer-beater loss of their team at the Finals.
“It’s okay,” said the man disheartenedly, “we can still use the sound of your dribbles. Thanks for your time.”
As the man turned off the recorder and the woman disassembled the pop filter, I attempted another mid-range shot. The ball swished through the basket, brushing against the inside and creating a sound that mingled with the distant hum of traffic and the songs of birds in the high trees enclosing the court.
“Oh man,” the man shouted, “are you serious?” He looked at me as if I had just pulled a sick joke on him.
I spread my hands in a gesture of apology. They walked away, the man muttering and the woman waving at me with a smile.
I threw a few more shots before calling it a day. At 1:56 PM, I was back home in front of my computer with a turkey sandwich resting on a plate next to it. I opened the email from the HR manager again and stared at it for a moment. The subject was “Update on your Internal Application.”
Hi Tony,
I'm thrilled to inform you that your internal application for the Head of Content Marketing position has been successful. We are impressed with your dedication and the results you have delivered. This new role comes with the salary raise you requested. However, it also requires you to work at the office at least three times a week. We look forward to seeing you excel in this new position.
Best regards,
Lucie
I clicked on the Reply button and typed:
Hey Lucie,
Thank you for the offer and the recognition. However, after careful consideration, I have decided to withdraw my internal application for the Head of Content Marketing position.
Best regards,
Tony
I hit send — a faint echo of the ball bouncing off the rim, another missed opportunity or perhaps just a reminder of the journey from initial self-glorification to the acceptance of one's true nature, the sound of Berlin.
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