It was during a film class in my teens that I first watched Goodfellas. It was like nothing else I’d seen. Having studied the fundamentals of cinematography throughout the year, watching it was like a snapshot of what an exquisitely captured piece of art was supposed to be. Particular frames used to elevate the narrative arc, like Henry running out of the fire but the image illustrating a run towards it; optics and lighting that blur the audience's perception along with our protagonists; and needless to say, the infamous long shot that recrafted our understanding of film, tracking, and the possibilities that could be established in the visual telling of a story. 

Outside of the literal art of the film, the characterizations and plotline were encapsulating and often hypnotic. Henry Hill’s early innocence and blind ambition, Tommy Devito’s fiery wit and headstrong sensibilities, and Jimmy Conway’s cunning, brilliance, and utter ruthlessness. Not to mention the ingrained distrust and displeasure with law enforcement that parallel my own culture; I felt connected to the story, not realizing that that feeling was a mild reality. This glamourization shifted over time as the misogyny, racism, homophobia, violence, and slew of other ‘isms’ embedded in the film and culture became clear to me, but what Scorsese captured was still one of the most resonating sequences to behold. It wasn’t until nearly a decade later that I learned of my strange, but irrefutable, connection to these men and this lifestyle I’d fallen in enamoration with. 

I was catching up with my father while he was at an annual basketball tournament his team had frequented since my childhood. He was playing in the fifty and fifty-five division that year, quite a few of his teammates were, unnecessarily wearing themselves thin. While listening to his recent updates and strained inability to properly stretch his hamstring without my help, I heard a teammate jest with him, “No frowning, you have to smile for the cameras.” My father laughed and I inquired as to what camera was being referred to. He told me there was a documentary film crew following Jim, one of his teammates and buddies I’d come to know over the course of life, for a 30 for 30 they were producing. 

I sat up so fast I almost fumbled my phone, “30 for 30?”

In what was one of my favorite series, it still is. Curiosity spiked regarding Jim and the eventual documentary I would watch. I asked my father what, if anything, he knew about the episode. He told me there was only one thing he knew about Jim’s past that seemed like a point of interest for such a big feature. He wasn’t wrong. 

Playing for the Mob aired in 2014 and chronicled the illustrious ‘79 season point shaving scheme at Boston College. The case ultimately tied Jimmy Burke to a conviction, a task the Federal Bureau of Investigations had a time with for some years following his prior arrest. With the involvement of Henry Hill and various others, Jim had become intertwined in a scandal it wouldn’t be fair to call abnormal. Point shaving, specifically at the college level, is no unheard of phenomena, the ‘51 CCNY and ‘94 Arizona State documentaries sticking out in my mind. There are others, and likely countless more that simply haven’t been exposed. When you really think of it, it’s not a difficult sell, wads of cash fanned around the faces of neck deep in sweat teenagers, or close to teens, being told they could make money for winning at the sport they loved, within a couple of points. 

Then, that pigeonholed dialogue begins that anyone who’s played a sport has heard too many times; fair play and sportsmanship and camaraderie and trust and every other blanketed expectation of athletes, regardless of the level or point in their career. These aren’t bad principles to instill in anyone, of course, but can easily be doused when that dialogue widens its reach. Players are often vilified and disgraced by the organizations and fans that held them so high on their pillars, they almost didn’t seem human anymore. Almost. I watched the documentary in awe of the light I was seeing a baller I’d known for years in, not the spitty guard whose court awareness equated to ease and control on the floor, but a guard’s dangerous, irresponsible, and underthought fall from grace.

One of the few consistencies I’ve gathered from college basketball players and their careers is the lackluster experience a large majority share in. While their educations are being paid for, a momentous benefit, a lot of these athletes live far from cozy college lives. I remember my father telling me about his college career; the poverty, hunger, and inaccessibility to essential resources like shoes and other basketball gear outside of uniform specifics. My mother used to send him a few dollars every month after she graduated and he had one more year, just for the basics, I’m talking toothpaste and deodorant basics. These stories were mirrored in uncles, teammates, and others I knew that played at the same level, they had virtually the same stories. I can’t speak to the top tier division I schools or even the league shoe-ins, but the everyday college athlete wasn’t living in luxury, some of them were barely getting by. Watching a multi-million dollar industry you and a few handfuls of others were at the center of, literally profit off of your back, make bank and shell out hundreds of thousands to the staff and administration around you, when you couldn’t even afford a pizza some nights; it might be enough to consider the inconsiderable. 

While we can’t excuse these poor decisions that not all athletes choose to make, taking a closer look at the institutions and their output shed some light on a few realities. Division I NCAA men’s basketball was recently quoted at a rough billion dollar revenue point including regular season, playoff, and March Madness televised events. Those numbers have grown since my father’s and Jim’s day, but it’s enough to say, none of these players should have been begging for the essentials. When we begin preaching a rhetoric surrounding the responsibilities of these players, to their teams and the sport they play, we can’t forget to highlight the responsibilities of institutions to uphold the same candor and fair treatment to kids they demand it from. 

I don’t speak for every athlete, but know that the conditions and way of life many of these players lived by would have made a lot of them easy marks. My father for instance, and his affinity for horse races and pick 3s, I don’t imagine would have required that much tooth pulling to pocket a few extra bucks when he was going to bed hungry after away games because cheeseburgers hurt his stomach and that’s all they were offered. Or Jim, and whatever reality he faced when Henry approached him; the way the proposition was framed, like Jim having to dribble the ball out instead of taking another shot at the end of the game; the optics around the morality of clothing yourself when no one else would; or the longshot, tracking the years of sweat and exasperation you’d given to a organization that you might be beginning to understand cared more about profit margins than you. 

Still, I couldn’t believe the connection. Had my father known a bit more about my taste in movies, I imagine I would have known about Jim, Boston College, Henry Hill, and Jimmy Burke around the same time I watched the film on repeat. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted me to know though, maybe the same tarnished undertone plagued my father that did so many others and he wouldn’t have wanted to expose me to such an ugly reality, the opposite of sportsmanship and authenticity in the game he taught me to love. Or maybe he would’ve told me because he knew how it felt to fight for something your entire life, without enough pay off, without enough support, without enough food. 

We got off the phone and I pictured his rickety body making its way to the court, most of his teammates, still wearing their college numbers. I picture him and Jim touching hands before the game like they all always would, and not saying much to each other about the cameras and crew, because they understood, because they wondered. And I don’t think that makes any of them bad guys, not at all, they were goodfellas, and once some thirty years before, they also weren't too far off, from just being kids. 

MORGAN CHRISTIE’s work has appeared in Room, Aethlon, The Hawai'i Review, BLF Press, as well as others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poetry chapbook, Variations on a Lobster's Tale was the winner of the 2017 Alexander Posey Chapbook Prize (University of Central Oklahoma Press) and her second poetry chapbook Sterling was released by CW Books. Her first full-length short story manuscript These Bodies was published by Tolsun Books (2020), and was nominated for the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award in fiction. Her most recent poetry chapbook when they come was released by Black Sunflowers Press (2021) and is featured in the Forward Arts Foundation’s National Poetry Day exhibit.