My Father Loved Basketball

My dad played high school basketball and while he stood only 5’9” tall, he even played a little college ball after the conclusion of WWII. When we were kids, he mounted a backboard and hoop at home so we could shoot hoops anytime we wanted. He was an elementary school principal and his students told me that he left his office sometimes to join the kids on the playground, and play a little b-ball if a game was in progress.

Unfortunately for us both, my growth spurt came fast and early, and I was lucky to be able to walk without falling over. I’m afraid dribbling a ball and running simultaneously was out of the question. I’m sure it must have been a little disappointing for him to have a son incapable of the game he loved, although he never stated as much. He did seem happy that I found a high school sport in swimming, where I couldn’t hurt myself or anybody else too badly.

Because I had friends on the basketball team, they encouraged me to try out for the final season of our high school years. They reasoned that even if I didn’t play much, I could earn another letter and we could have a good time on road trips. So I turned out for three weeks of conditioning; running endless drills up and down the court. At the end of the try-out period, Coach Wood, always a thoroughly considerate guy, invited me into his office. We sat on either side of his banged up wooden desk and he said: “Tomorrow I’m going to post the names of those who will be cut before the final roster is complete. I wondered if you might want to withdraw today and then I wouldn’t have to put your name on the cut list.” I don’t think I would be accused of being the dimmest bulb in the box, but it still took me a good 20 seconds. Then I realized he was offering me, a senior and a leader in our class, a graceful way to exit the tryouts without my name appearing on the cut list for all to see. I accepted his kind offer.

In the last months of my final year of high school, we stumbled onto a venue where Dad’s love of the game coincided with my limited talent for it. He was a Mason and I had joined a Masonic related organization for teenaged boys. In May, our chapter entered a six game basketball contest with other chapters in the region. Our ragtag band of boys could rustle up at least five players per game, (except one we had to forfeit). We played hard, and although probably the worst on the team, I played regularly. I don’t remember how many games we won or lost, but I remember the final 2 minutes of the final game. With Dad as our coach, we managed to keep up with the other team, a few points ahead, and then a few points behind. With the score tied and as the second hand on the clock swept toward the 12 for the last time, I found myself with the ball at the top of the key and my teammates said almost as one, SHOOT! I shot, and held my breath, and it whooshed through hoop and net without a bounce. Everyone was a little shocked, I more than most. I got lots of cheers and backslaps from my teammates for that shot. They hoisted me to their shoulders and carried me around the gym. (That last part about being on their shoulders is, I’m sure, a figment of sweet memory enhanced by imagination.)

One part of that day’s memories that I hold close and take out from time to time probably has to do with the fact that Dad’s been dead a few years now. And I miss him. As we prepared to get in our cars after that momentous game, my father put his hand on my shoulder and looked up at me. “Nice shot son”. Some words of appreciation come from the right person, at the right moment and last a lifetime.