Medcalf: Life Time’s plans to close Minneapolis, Edina courts deserve pushback

When Life Time announced this week that it will close the court in its downtown Minneapolis location and replace it with training space, I could empathize with the backlash.

“Basketball is more than just a recreational option at this location — it is a vital part of the club’s identity and a key reason many of us became (and remain) Life Time members,” Jared Hanks wrote in a letter to Life Time general manager Brian Opatz as part of a petition to keep the court. “On any given day, you will find parents training their children, organized 5-on-5 competitive runs, and members of all ages using the court to stay active, build relationships, and find community in the heart of downtown.”

When I first moved to Minneapolis to intern at the Star Tribune, I lived near Elliot Park. With few contacts in the city at the time, I would go to the park after work and on the weekends to play basketball with a diverse collection of folks.

As a 20-something new to the city, the court at Elliot Park was also an important source of community for me. The people I played ball with didn’t become my best friends, but they represented organic connection. I needed that — as so many men do.

That became a constant theme in my life. In every new community, I found a gym and a group of hoopers I would see at courts around the Twin Cities, mostly on the weekends. That Saturday morning small talk between games was vital, especially as work, kids, my own personal ambitions and relationships evolved. The basketball court offered peace. For two hours, we could breathe again.

Of course, those games had their imperfections. Sometimes, adrenaline would rise and pushing and shoving would commence. During one game, a young man who’d been furious about a foul call and had prepared to fight an opposing player stormed off the court. I grabbed him and told him that I thought he’d made a mistake in his approach. He’d lost his cool. It happens.

But he also realized he was surrounded by people who cared about him and knew that life was bigger than a foul call in a pickup basketball game. The conflict-resolution lessons I received on a basketball court as a kid influenced my upbringing, and the social component, even as I got older, was still important, too.

That petition to preserve the Life Time court in Minneapolis — there is a similar situation in Edina — acknowledges the court as a platform that allows people to meet and convene and bond. Those people will struggle to find an alternative once the court is removed, the petition says.

Since the pandemic, there are fewer accessible community spaces. As I age, I worry about the effect this will have on men of all ages. Though a basketball court may seem like a small addition to a neighborhood, it’s also an opportunity to build relationships.

When I played basketball, I didn’t know where all of my teammates worked, where they were from, who they’d voted for or the amount of cash in their bank accounts. It never mattered once we said, “Check ball.” We had to assemble and work together toward one goal. And we had to be there for one another in real time. That’s relevant because men, studies show, do not always choose to accept any form of support.

According to a Pew Research Center study, men are significantly less likely than women to reach out to a friend — 38% vs. 54%, respectively — for emotional support. We all need more community spaces and opportunities for random encounters with folks we might not normally engage in our daily lives. A generation of men — who are more likely to lean on their spouses and partners for support than their friends, other relatives or mental health professionals — is losing those opportunities for those organic moments, and becoming more vulnerable to isolation as a result.

And that’s why a basketball court — one that is important to people of all backgrounds, ages and genders — at a gym in Minneapolis has warranted a passionate response from those who see it as more than just a chance to play a sport.

I don’t play basketball the way I once did. A few months ago, I took a work trip to Charlotte, N.C., and played for the first time in years. Most of the people on the court were younger than I am. That’s the norm now — at 41, I’m now “Unc” in those situations.

During the first game, a lanky young guy went up for a shot and I leaped into the air — yes, I was just a few inches off the ground, but it felt good — to contest his shot. When I didn’t see the ball go toward the rim, I figured I’d blocked it. Instead, he’d pump-faked on the shot and scored, embarrassing me along the way. He gave me a pat on the back as I told him that I, too, once had young knees, which is definitely something that an “Unc” would say.

Once the games ended — I managed to play one — we all took a picture together.

Just a few hours earlier, we’d never met.