SNY.tv: Online Home of All Things Sports

Sensory deprivation: Close your eyes and the chairs fade away, and all that remains is basketball in a pure, fundamental form. Remembering the impressive dexterity and physicality of the athletes involved, you begin to wonder if the limitations placed on them are simply constructions of your conscious mind. Open your eyes: the wheelchairs.

The New York City Sports Commission began the annual Mayor's Cup Wheelchair Basketball Tournament in 2001. They saw a niche to be filled, customers going unserved, and they acted to fix the problem. Governance, one could say, at its finest. This year's tournament was held between Oct. 10-12.

"It all started when we realized that there was nothing of this sort in this region," said Jeff Mohl, who organized the 2008 tournament. "There were some teams" in the area, "but no one was able to get the space, no one was able to afford the space. No one was doing anything for them."

The tournament originally had to scramble for floor space, but four years ago it found a home at Manhattan College, this year putting each of the three courts in the Draddy Gymnasium -- and two at a nearby high school -- to simultaneous use.

"We've been limited before this because of space," said Mohl. "There are very few venues in New York City, in the five boroughs, that have this space, that have three gyms. The Manhattan athletic director has been very kind, and he donates this gym to us, so we're very fortunate with that, and we've been able to grow the tournament because of the space that we have."

The tournament has grown from a local affair to an international event, drawing teams from as far away as Ghana and California. The sport itself draws roots from wounded World War II veterans who returned home confined to wheelchairs. With time on their hands and pent-up energy at their disposal, they began to adopt the hobbies and pastimes they had before their injuries. They picked up competitive basketball, and the National Wheelchair Basketball Association was born in 1950.

NWBA teams receive grants from NBA teams that cover travel, equipment and practice costs. The LA Fast Breakin' Lakers receive their grant from the real LA Lakers, through a non-profit named Ability First. The grant allows the Lakers to play in tournaments like the Mayor's Cup, though team captain Mike Garafola laments that funding isn't more universal.

"I don't know if as many teams are able to do what we do," said Garafola. "We're trying to get all the NBA teams to get to the same level because it doesn't help if just one team is able to travel all over the country. That means teams can't go to the West Coast, that's a big problem. Our goal is to have every team have the same amount, have the same resources."

Most wheelchair basketball players find out about the sport through word of mouth. Some played basketball before they were injured, others picked up the sport once they were in the wheelchair.

Jess Markt, who was injured at age 19, played basketball before he was in a wheelchair but said it took a "while before I got into wheelchair basketball after I got injured -- a few years. But once I did, it was just totally addictive." Today, Markt plays for the New York Rollin' Knicks, a club that receives funding from the regular Knicks.

"It's everything that I always dreamed of since I lost my leg," said Markt's Knicks teammate Faizool Ali. "I was a basketball player beforehand; that world was really cut off for me. It means everything to have something to work for and to build towards athletically."

Ultimately, it's about moving past the wheelchair. The competitive drive and need to prove oneself don't die when a person is injured. In fact, wheelchair-bound athletes often find themselves intensely driven to regain what they lost.

Yusuke Makino, a player on the Knicks, plays basketball, softball, football and participates in marathons. He'll be rolling in the New York Marathon in November.

"Everybody who comes out and plays, for the most part, they're highly motivated people that are ambitious," said Markt. "They want to get back into competing and doing the same kind of stuff they did before they were injured.

"Just like any basketball or any competitive environment, guys get fired up. Two guys go for the ball and they slam into each other."

Indeed, to the untrained eye wheelchair basketball looks intensely physical. Markt attributes that to simple physics.

"Guys are slamming into each other like crazy," he said. "It's easy to see why because the dimensions of the court are the same, but everybody's encased in these big metal chairs, so there's just not as much space to get around as there would be in a stand-up basketball game where each person takes up so much space. Now, in a chair, each person takes up more space. There's going to be a lot of colliding."

Still, inspirational as the idea of wheelchair basketball may be, perhaps Andy Warhol was right in saying that the longer one looks at something, the better chance it has of losing all meaning. Watch a wheelchair basketball game for long enough and the chairs sure do fade away. It's true that at first blush the athleticism of the players and the level of competition of the games is astonishing. But once the chairs -- and your preconceived notions -- disappear, the game can seem slow and cumbersome.

Maybe pickup games are the perfect analogue to wheelchair basketball -- more profound for the players than the viewers. But people aren't flocking to their local gym to watch a half-court game of three-on-three.

"It's not like you're going to flip on the TV and catch a wheelchair basketball tournament," said Markt. "It's tough to get the word out, especially for kids who aren't aware of this as an option for them. We try to get out in the community and find the kids out there, and bring them in."

To kids raised on the schizophrenia of SportsCenter replaying clips of Air Jordan and Vinsanity, King James and CP3, wheelchair basketball can seem dull and uninteresting. Theirs are triumphs of indomitable spirit over back-breaking odds, and they go unseen. It is a shame that tragedy seems prerequisite for admission into the world of wheelchair basketball.

"You can't help but be amazed at these athletes," said Mohl in front of barely populated risers.

A 10-point Knicks lead overcome. The score tied at 37 on a Nets free-throw. The Knicks glide down the court. The life drains from the clock. Touch-passing, no bounces. Six, seven passes. The chalkboard incarnate. The perfect shot. Brick. The rebound falls to the Knicks' center. Two seconds. A Hail Mary as his shot goes up. Buzzer. Glass. Rim. Swish. 39-37. A sparse crowd erupts.