Damn. I once wrote that when I was a kid, I was convinced that the Harlem Globetrotters were comprised of players too talented for pro basketball. Supermen. Superheroes; their colorful uniforms a costume. No joke. I don’t think I was the only young person who considered the pre-Jordan, pre-Bird NBA to be boring B-league stuff compared to the feats performed effortlessly by the Globetrotters.
The team was a cultural phenomenon that seemed to peak in the 60s and 70s – complete with merchandising, a Saturday morning cartoon, I believe a comic book or two. A phenomenon for decades, but one that escapes anyone much younger than me. Sadly.
I was born in 1968, right as the Globetrotters began their long victory lap. They were the HARLEM Globetrotters, after all (though based in Chicago), and the team was an important part of both the Civil Rights movement and the subsequent rise of black empowerment.
They were not only touring kings of the sport, they were ambassadors of goodwill. Of happiness and fun. Of racial integration. And Curly Neal was the king of kings, the chief ambassador. The world would’ve been a better place if he had played, reigned forever.
Another vivid icon, another hero of my childhood is gone.
