When Dikembe Mutombo dies of brain cancer at the age of 58, I watch old footage of that time the Denver Nuggets upset the Seattle Supersonics in 1994 and Mutombo wagged his finger over and over again at players who tried to dunk on him. He blocked all their shots, like he always did, his full body in the air, palm out, the ball slamming down. He fell to the ground at the buzzer in game seven, grinning from ear to ear, holding the ball above him and then pulling it down close to him, sealed tight in a hug, his whole being trembling, so in love with basketball in the middle of the parquet floor.
When Dikembe Mutombo dies of brain cancer at the age of 58, I can’t stop crying, and I wish I knew why, besides the fact that he was always a favorite of mine, that I was falling in love with basketball at that time, that I grew up in the middle school gymnasium where my dad coached seventh grade basketball, where we ate Lemonheads and Now and Laters, pulled off the paper wrappers, sat on the bleachers with my mother beside me and my dad on the court, and our voices echoed in the high ceiling halls of 14 years old. How the windows had duct tape on them and it looked to me, because I was just a girl, the way a church might feel with its stained glass, its alabaster windows, bare bone crucifixes that cast their sunlight on the free throw line – blessed are the jump balls, the Cinderella teams, the half court steals. Blessed are the hail Mary threes at the end of the game. And back home, we would watch Pacer games together in the living room, staying up until the wee hours for the playoffs to watch Reggie Miller beat the Knicks in game seven, Spike Lee on the sidelines with his arms in the air and my mother would shout out her cheers when Reggie hit those threes. We all did. We were a family glued to the screen like you could be in the nineties – every basket, every pass in slow motion – and it felt like, no matter where life led, we had this one thing in common: the entire state did, Indiana like a beacon of basketball, hoops on garage doors all the way to Chicago.
When Dikembe Mutombo dies of brain cancer at the age of 58, I find out on Instagram, afternoon doom scrolling past Taylor Swift and Buzzfeed recipes and kittens dressed in costume, curled up, and then there he is, the whole team, player after player paying their respects and there I am a girl again in the cheap seats at Market Square Arena in downtown Indianapolis, watching another Pacer game – my 17-year-old self yelling wildly, cheering, hurrah after hurrah, thinking that this, the nosebleeds and the sticky floor and the fast pace of the players up and down the court, the blue and gold, the dribbles and passes and bank shots – this is the life, those are my superheroes, and the popcorn, and the smell of beer, and that full memory back with me once again because I had forgotten the fingertips on plastic seats, the fans screaming, all the noise, the squeak of tennis shoes, basket after basket, the way the clock counts down – one game ends, and then another, and another.
When Dikembe Mutombo dies of brain cancer at the age of 58 I remember the year my mother died – she was 58 too – and I didn’t know it then, but how young that feels now, how it is a forever young, how you never grow old when you die of cancer at 58, how everything is captured like a photograph, picture perfect, sprawled in the middle of the basketball court, or up late at night with the glint of the television light in your eyes so you can gather round, and maybe your mother makes popcorn, or maybe you eat snacks together, or maybe the lights are off so you can see the screen reflecting in the window, a blue glow, a halo light. How mom would hoot and holler with each basket, smile that big glowing smile she had, her eyes crinkled and bright. How we learned that language, not knowing we could carry it with us. Not knowing that actually this is the one thing left. That years later, when Dikembe Mutombo dies of brain cancer it will be an unspoken truth that pulls us together even tighter like no time has passed at all. Like Dikembe Mutombo is still winning game seven and we are all there watching, the sound of the crowd booming off the big screen, our eyes transfixed on his massive frame, his full-faced joy, his moment – let him have it! Don’t you dare take it away. Because how could he have known what was to come? How could any of us have known, really? You can forgive us for not knowing, in that moment, that there was something more than basketball. Or maybe basketball was the something more. Because there it was for us to see, on display — my mother leaning forward at the edge of her seat and Dikembe Mutombo, brown eyes glowing, heart still beating, arms out: so fiercely alive – forever and ever, all those years ago.
JACQUELINE GOYETTE is a writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. She is a Best Microfictions and Best of the Net nominee, and her work was selected for Best Small Fictions 2025. Her writing can be found in both print and online journals, including JMWW, trampset, Phoebe Journal, The Forge Literary Journal, Stanchion, and Gone Lawn. She now lives in Macerata, Italy with her husband Antonello and her cat Cardamom.
