Space Jam…
Space Jam has an immutably important place in my life. It is a film that sparks not only feelings of nostalgia, but of those tremors that exist within the breadth of our soul, tremors reserved only for memories that most define us as human beings, as vessels of emotional memory. It marks the transition of my immigration from South Africa to the United States. I was very young then, and knew barely any English, however it was with the graces of Space Jam that I came to know the language.
And not only did it teach me language, but of hope, and of strength.
I can still find the Space Jam notebook amongst my things where I had scribbled down such iconic phrases as “Coming through!” and “Whoa!” While this was all simple, easy, and slightly moronic, even for a seven year old, I still find it magical that Space Jam evolved along with me, as my perspective and my world-view altered.
The first time I saw the film, I could not understand a word of it, but I admired the characters, the virility of its physical comedy, the punch of its soundtrack.
The true spirit of America ingratiated into its every pore, leaking out in beautiful visuals that spoke of freedom all struck me and stayed within my very soul. The sweat beading on the fresh, bald, and succulent skull of Michael Jordan is still appealing to this day. The concentration, desperation, and sheer expression of utterly empowered will drawn across his handsome and American face as his arm stretched outwards, and outwards, in a glorious salute to the grandness of a new life. My new life, in a new country. The arm coming down, releasing the ball, passing through the net, the falling faces of his oppressors as this insurmountable task is accomplished. 78-77. The promise of success, the realization of any dream that could be imagined.
These visuals, as abstract as they were, as surreal as it was to see the two-dimensional mingling with the three-dimensional, had a place in my heart.
And then I grew to understand the language. I could make out words, phrases, beautiful poetry, assertions of hope, inner-strength, and the glory of Basketball.
I can still remember now, thinking back, recalling the snippets of beauty.
The Warner Brothers logo, those beautiful strains of dream-like, yet attainable aspiration, enter your ears.
“I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky.”
“I think about it every night and day, spread my wings and fly away.”
And then…
“Michael? What are you doing out here son, it’s after midnight.”
“I can’t sleep pops.”
“Well, neither can we with all that noise you’re makin’. C’mon, let’s go inside.”
“Just one more shot?”
“Hmm, alright. Just one.”
“Yeah…”
“That’s good, shoot it again. Getting pretty good son. Go ahead, shoot till you miss.”
“You think if I get good enough I can go to college.”
“Hey, if you get good enough, you can do anything you want to Michael.”
“I want to play at North Carolina.”
“Now that’s a real fine school, real fine school. You can get a first class education there.”
“I wanna play on a championship team. Then I wanna play on the NBA!”
“Alright, slow down son. Think you oughta get some sleep first?”
“Then once I’ve done all that, I wanna play baseball, just like you Dad.”
“Baseball, now that’s a sport, and when you’re finished with that, I suppose you’re gonna fly, huh?”
Little Jordan runs. He runs, the camera slows, he runs, he jumps, he reaches towards the hoop with the basketball and…
JAM! JAM! JAM! JAM!
COME ON AND SLAM! AND WELCOME TO THE JAM!
Could you understand the joy? Could you?
I don’t think so.
Space Jam
Fuck. Yeah.