Sunday, after dinner, I called my mother, in Indiana. She had watched Denver beat New Orleans, one hundred forty-one to one hundred thirty-five, after overtime. She wanted to talk about Jokic.
I went through the numbers with her, the way I would with my U10s. Thirty-five points, fifteen rebounds, ten assists. His one hundred ninety-ninth regular-season triple-double, two hundred twenty-two with the playoffs. Russell Westbrook has two hundred twenty-one in all, two hundred nine in the regular season. So Jokic goes past him on the total, and Westbrook keeps the official record, ten ahead.
She asked whether he was going to call him. I read her Jokic’s answer, per BasketNews: “No, no, no. If I break his normal, official record, then I’m going to text him.”
Let me tell you, it reminded me of 2000. I arrived in Charleroi with a bag and a one-year contract. Three months in, a friend from university asked whether I’d settled in. I said: not yet, I haven’t signed the second season. Here, when we win, we check first. I learned that before I could even say septante (Belgian for seventy).
My mother was quiet for a moment. Then she asked how long he would need for the ten he’s missing. I said I didn’t know, that nobody knew, that you have to play the games.
She said she, too, always waits until it’s official before calling the neighbours. For my wedding in Marcinelle, she waited for the photo.
She said: see?
It’s true, we checked: BasketNews.
