Unwritten rules have governed rec center basketball since the hardwood was first laid down. If there is a floor, two hoops, a ball and 10 men nearby, a pickup game of basketball will happen, and everyone will already know how to play.

“We playing to 15?”

“Yeah.”

“Ones and twos?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Ball in!”

That particular back-and-forth has been spoken more at the ARC than any sort of hello. Who needs an introduction when, instead, you can miss a layup and knock down a jumper, in that order? No one is good and everyone is accepted. It’s comfortable.

Pickup basketball is a safe haven in the same way all sports are sanctuaries at their core. Remove the money and the fame, and it’s just a handful of people running around with competitive juices flowing. It’s fun to win, but more so, it’s just fun that winning matters at all.

I used to think differently, that playing the game and losing was like chewing a best cut steak then spitting it out. You needed that swallow — that win — to make the enjoyment substantial. This was from ages 0-18, when parents and guardians organized it all and any game from hockey to lacrosse to little league was on the menu of choices. When you graduate high school, that menu goes away.

The only option becomes basketball, which remains available day, night, rain, shine, old, young and everywhere in between. It’s a ball and a hoop and easy enough; the goal is to put the ball in the hoop. You can play with a crumpled piece of paper and a waste basket. It’s more or less the same game we learned as infants playing with building blocks — put the round block in the round hole.

Is its simplicity the explanation for its constancy? A pickup game in New York is likely identical to a pickup game in California, regardless of religion, ethnicity or class. I hope it’s the same for Italy, Spain, the rest of Europe and the rest of the world. I wouldn’t doubt it. 

Philosopher John Locke wrote that man was born as a blank slate, a “tabula rasa,” but he was wrong because we knew the rules of pickup basketball from conception. I’m shocked that “shoot for ball” isn’t every baby’s first sentence.

Simplicity is certainly at the heart of the popularity. Every night, I can expect to be asked to play 5-on-5 at the ARC. I’ve never once been asked to head out to the baseball field for a game of 9-on-9. I’d love organized hardball, but I get organized roundball, so I won’t complain.

Evident by the ARC’s repeat customers, I’m not alone in this sentiment. There is always a familiar face you’ll see the second you walk on the floor. There is the guy with the hat, the guy with the hair and the guy with that shirt. You’ll see “hey, it’s that guy” guy and “oh, remember that guy?” guy. You’ll play with the guy who only shoots from behind the arc. You’ll play against the guy who screams profanity because God forbid he miss a jumpshot.

If the campus is a barrel, then the students are the monkeys, linking on to each other five at a time to head to the ARC or CRCE. When no one is playing, what do the monkeys do? They sit around and check their phones, watch TV and nap.

It’s when we’re linked, each trying to make our layups and play halfway respectable defense, that the barrel is its happiest. Activity is great, but competition is better. And in the never-ending winter, the ARC is Mecca.

That’s where I’ll be, trying to my damndest to make some layups.

Jack is a senior in LAS. He can be reached at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @JCassidy10.