“Yo,” he asks excitedly, “SLAM came all the way up here?”

Mubanda and Haywood hang beside him, eager to get some things off their chest. There’s a lot to talk about....

Together, the three 20-year-old blacktop phenoms talk about life in Vancouver. They describe how streetball is emerging, how it’s rupturing the old-school conservatism that, as they put it, keeps the local hoops scene stuck in the Stone Age. Call it a quiet rebellion. Most local coaches and organized teams pay it no mind, but for a few years now, streetball’s influence has been trickling across the board into Canada. And unlike the departed Grizzles, it’s giving Vancouver a swagger it’s never had before. To most in Canada’s modest basketball community, streetball has caused a culture shock.

As Wenn tells it, “The coaches here want straight fundamentals. But how are you going to know what you can do on the court if the coaches always want you to do one thing? In the States, everyone tells you, keep playing ball. It’s a culture. But up here, not everyone feels the same way. It’s not as religious. They don’t know what they got here.”

Wenn sheds his hat and settles in. He’s been around – like Baltimore. The 6-1, 185-pound guard lived there for a few months, trying to get into high school, but a snag in his attempt for US citizenship derailed his shot at playing Stateside. Now he’s back in Vancouver, and the contrast is stark. He has seen the other side, where And 1 has accentuated the outdoor game. He’s seen how streetball has been embraced, and how it’s entrenched in every American city.
In Vancouver, it’s different. Coming up has been a struggle, on the court and off. The system never accepted him, and it’s been having a difficult time digesting Canada’s And 1 version as well. Wenn, Mubanda and Haywood will tell you they respect the game as much as anyone. They starred in high school and could’ve played college ball. But their style was snubbed, they say, by traditional coaches who favored, as another local streetballer said later that day, “a bunch of Fred Hoibergs.”

To the three, the game shouldn’t start and stop with fundamentals. Whether it’s played under a roof or under the stars, at Rucker Park or near Dolphin Park, the game needs flair and style. Personality. And so the three have broken away from the “fundamental” game and helped put streetball on the Canadian map. They are three of the most heralded players in the city. They have the prerequisite crossover, handles, speed, athleticism and the flair to make defenders look downright stupid.

“Goosebumps,” Wenn says. “That’s my name. That’s what I’m able to do – give them goosebumps. I got my name in grade 10. I came out to play in Hoop-It-Up. Out here, Hoop-It-Up is like Rucker. You get big crowds. I’m not trying to be cocky, but our games were like movies. We’d come out there, and we’d do shit Vancouver didn’t know they had. They didn’t know they had talent like this.”

Despite all the forces working against it – traditional coaches, inclement weather, relatively sparse talent – the city’s streetball scene has defied the odds and taken root. They’re only 20 years old, and yet they’re already old heads. Goosebumps. King Handles. David Dazzle. Johnny Blaze. Delight. Banana. There’s Fingaz, a cat-quick, left-handed guard who has six fingers on his shooting hand. And there’s Disaster, who busted out a couple of years ago as a 15-year-old – all 4-11, 115 pounds of him – with ridiculous handles and quickness.

“Everyone has handles and creativity,” Wenn says. “That’s why we get together. Basketball is not just a part of our lives, but it’s a way to express ourselves. It’s an art.”

Haywood’s arguably the best rock-handler of the bunch. Aptly known as King Handles, the 6-2, 170-pound guard crossed paths with SLAM’s Bonsu Thompson in Ish 79. The 5-9 Mubanda, known as Dazzle, was born in Uganda and moved to Vancouver at an early age. Now he and his brother, Johnny Blaze, are two of the city’s best fast-twitched dribblers. You have to see it to believe it.

Which is where Jeremy Schaulin-Rioux and Kirk Thomas come in. A film student and gym rat, respectively, the pair spent the past few years shadowing Goosebumps, King Handles, Dazzle, Blaze and others, capturing their exploits on video and producing two tapes: The Notic and The Notic 2. When the first Notic video was released in 2001, Vancouver’s talent was no longer buried under the rubble left by the Grizzles. Word spread in multiple directions – Toronto, Montreal, Oakland, New York. A cult following emerged. Summer tournaments became carnivals. The first generation of players became legends in the making. Vancouver finally had a rep.

Since the first Notic release, Vancouver streetball has assumed a personality all its own. Sure, Van-City’s finest idolize the And 1 stars. They revere Bone Collector and Hot Sauce. They know about Hook Mitchell and the Goat. But the game’s far less carnal than in the States.

“There are good players here, but if you push ‘em like this, they cry,” Mubanda says gently jutting out his forearm. “It’s definitely not physical here.”

In Vancouver, streetball is more an outlet for expression than a validation of inner-city rank. The best players are guards, and much of the action is below the rim. Dribbling is the staple. The game is based on showmanship, artistry and creativity. Scoring – and, some would argue winning – are afterthoughts.

As Mubanda says, “Scoring doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t look good doing it.”

For now, the movement is still young. Still developing. It has promise, but for every Goosebumps, King Handles or Dazzle, there are dozens of so-called players who can’t hit a jumper to save their lives. All three realize it’s too early to predict streetball’s future in Vancouver. At this point, it can come and go just like the Grizzles. Just as Haywood.

As he parts ways with Goose and Dazzle, Haywood heads off to a court at Bonsor Rec Center, just across the street from the mall. On his way out, he stops by a videogame store to pick up NBA Streetball V3.

“I got this free,” he says as he walks out.

EA Sports hired the Notic players to model moves for the video game. When he plays for the Legends, he’s playing himself, Goose, Disaster, etc.

“Most of our moves are on that game,” Haywood says. “They brought all the And 1 guys up, and their moves are hardly in there. I just wish we could get more credit.”

Haywood shrugs and heads for Bonsor. After all, playing video games isn’t the same as playing for real. Every day, he travels from court to court to play pick up. At Bonsor, there’s one full court inside, so you have to win to stay on. He was just there the day before, and he had a good run. He walks through the entrance, passes the front desk and veers left, past the stairwell leading down to the court, heading instead for a set of large windows to survey the scene below. He looks through the glass and shakes his head. The look on his face says it all. I got bumped by wheelchair rugby?

Haywood can’t believe it, but then, it’s like that all the time. Vancouver just doesn’t have the predictability or commitment. Sometimes you find a good run, other times you spend all day searching for one. Not surprisingly, that search has taken him far from Vancouver. The Notic tapes raised his visibility and opened doors outside the city. He has received calls to play in tournaments around North America and has jumped at the chance every time. Last year, he was invited to The Players Ball 2K4, put on by Oakland’s Young Players Association (YPA). Hot Sauce and Silk were there. So was Roberto the Young One, aka Exile. That tournament was Haywood’s defining moment.

“Roberto the Young One had the ball, and he and I played one-on-one,” Haywood recalls. “It was sick. We went hard. I pulled a move on him that he didn’t expect. It was the dirtiest move. He fell for it, and I scored. I rolled it off my chest, put it around my neck then put it through his legs really fast. It was so fast that he didn’t expect that. Then I laid it up right after. That showed a lot of people that I had game.”

Suddenly, King Handles was prime-time. Shortly after, Roberto called and recruited him to join YPA. Haywood accepted, and now he’s running with cats like Exile, Tha Show and 757. The days of being tied to Vancouver’s hit-or-miss scene are over. The city gave him a start, but it’s not enough. There isn’t enough talent, he says, not enough attention, not enough coaches or players who understand what it takes to make Vancouver legit. Four years after the L said goodbye, it’s happening again. If the Grizzles left, why can’t King Handles?

“In Vancouver, there aren’t enough people to play against,” he says. “Oakland, that scene is crazy. It’s more physical. It’s rough. It’s grimy. Everyone’s an athlete. Going there got my game better. They take it seriously, like it’s no joke.”

Looking back, Haywood recalls the days his older brother molded him on the court, teaching him the unwritten laws of the street game. No fouls. No crying. No weakness. Then his eyes narrow. He remembers the times when his high school coach tried to tone down his game, preaching two-handed chest passes instead of no-look dishes. He recalls AAU teams rejecting him because his game was too Americanized.

“They don’t want to see that,” he says.

Haywood is defiant, and it’s clear that if Vancouver isn’t careful, the city is going to lose another one of its prized assets and blow a second chance of fostering the game.

“Before, I thought about quitting,” he says. “But I’m not worrying about it anymore. I’m getting calls to play in tournaments. I’m touring Canada and the States. I’m getting my name out there. In the end, it’s all coming back to me. I may not be in school right now, but I’m playing basketball. And when you get home, you’ll be playing my video game.”

The only court in Vancouver with any sacred reputation is Dolphin Park. It’s located in a quiet neighborhood in Richmond, a western suburb near the airport. At first glance, it’s nothing special. There’s one court, and it’s a tad bigger than what you’ll find at an elementary school. The court is tucked away in one corner of the small park, next to a jungle gym.

But look closer, and you see its purity. The white lines are painted perfectly. The wood backboards have no chips. There are no cracks in the asphalt. No graffiti, no garbage. Dolphin Park is Vancouver’s link to the outside world. It’s where Steve Nash played as a high school star. Where Blue Edwards and Eric Murdock used to run during the Grizzles’ off season. And where Jamal Crawford upstaged everyone last summer in the park’s annual tournament.

Lee Craven, a 31-year-old gym rat with deep connections to Vancouver’s basketball scene, remembers that day well. Crawford had yet to sign with the Knicks and he drove up from his hometown of Seattle, just a few hours south, to play in the tournament. The crowd heckled him, urging him to prove he belonged. In one sequence, Crawford crossed his defender up, stepped back, shot a three from the right wing, turned his back to the rim and trotted back down the court to D up, waiting for the crowd to validate that the shot had gone in. As the ball swished through the net, the joint went nuts. On that day, Dolphin Park was on fire.

Months later, the court is doused in rain. Dusk is approaching, and the temperature is dropping fast. Craven stands at center court reminiscing about its history. Haywood is there, resigned to the fact that there will be no runs this day. Disaster is alongside him. Thomas, the Notic’s co-producer, and Kevin Gavin of hooplife.ca are there as well. Call it a meeting of the minds. They’ve given SLAM an all-day tour of the Vancouver streetball scene, and Dolphin Park is the final, fitting stop. Its lone court waits patiently for winter to end and summer to arrive. Hopefully Crawford will come back. Hopefully Nash will pay a visit too.

For Vancouver’s sake, hopefully Haywood will stick around as well. After all, much of the city’s streetball future is in the hands of Notic crew. It’s up to the small band of teens and 20-somethings to keep it going. But there are no guarantees. Patience is running thin. Haywood already has one foot out. He is taking his game south, with an eye on Europe in a couple years.

Goosebumps and Dazzle are hunting for any opportunity to play in the States. Even little Disaster, who at 17 has grown to be 5-5, is talking to junior colleges in Seattle.

“You don’t get seen out here,” Mubanda had said earlier in the day. “You play basketball all your life and not get seen. That’s frustrating.”

Once again, Vancouver is facing the potential for a basketball exodus. The Grizzles’ exit hurt, but the departure of homegrown talent will be more damaging in uprooting the city’s rep.

As the assorted players, documentarians and basketball junkies stand together on Vancouver’s most hallowed playground, one thing becomes apparent. You see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices. For all of its touted handles, this is a turnover the city’s basketball community cannot afford to commit.