Take It to the Hoop!

Written and sent as an e-mail 1/10/02

The final seconds were ticking off another regular NFL season. The dreaded post-partum, end of season blues was creeping about waiting to jump me. It was a beautiful Sunday, sunny and soft with highs in the 70s. I needed to do something. So I went out and bought a basketball.

I bought a nice rock. It’s a Spaulding emblazoned with NBA markings including the Jerry West caricature of an angular White guy driving toward the hoop and the signature of David Stern. My ball is branded as “official indoor/outdoor,” whatever that means, and is composed of Zi/O composite leather. It has the look of a warn, dark leather ball that has been used exclusively in the warm, gentle climate of a hardwood gym.

My ball and I went immediate over to the local schoolyard for a quick test. The court was empty. The school yard park had scattered groups who, like me, were out to enjoy the day. There was a guy trying to teach his girlfriend how to ride her bike, without success. A family, or two, threw Frisbees to themselves and to their dogs. A couple people played tennis on the adjacent court.

I dribbled onto the court and took what I remembered to be a jump shot. Just beyond the free-throw line, I took a quick dribble, gathered the ball at my chin, and did my best to elevate my legs and arms to release the ball in a gentle arc. Immediately upon release a chorus of cracks rose from my arms, shoulders, and back. The ball fell hopelessly short of the rim.

My last true jump shot was decades ago, as in three decades ago. Still, I was shocked at what seemed to me to be sudden erosion of my skills. This, of course, was wistful thinking on my part. Undeterred, I worked out a few kinks and eventually found my range, which was distressingly close to the basket.

I shot around a bit longer and then headed home to see if Lori was interested in sharing the rest of this wonderful day out on the court. She was and we did. Lori, a former Osceola, Nebraska Bulldog, has a nice set shot, but, like me, her range has shortened over time. After loosening a bit, I found a little more range and then found something nostalgic and something new.

I played BBall through the JV level in high school. My career in the underbelly of high school sport was lengthened when four classmates were elevated to the varsity as sophomores. With four open spots on the JV, I comfortably made the squad. I had a nice jumper with decent range. I excelled at the free-throw line, which fueled a momentary brush with notoriety.

We were playing Grand Rapids South on the Friday that began holiday break. GRS had uniforms emblazoned with the Stars and Bars, and they called themselves the Rebels, when in fact they were big, blond Dutchman. The crowd for the game was thick and festive.

GRS was no match for the mighty, mighty Trojans. We swept the JV and Varsity game with relative ease. I played most of the 3rd and 4th quarters. By the mid-fourth quarter, we had scored in the low-mid sixties, which was a lot points then.

The game wore on, the benches were emptied, and the crowd continued to grow. The level of play reflected the inexperience of the contestants. The large crowd made it worse. I was fouled on a made shot after an offensive rebound. I stepped to the line and made the free throw.

Next time up the court, the overeager kid who was guarding me fouled me as I was reversing the ball at the top of the key. He was overanxious and a little intimidated by the crowd. I stepped to the free throw line for the front half of a one-and-one. Our score held firm at 68.

Back then, the number 69, especially among the high school crowd, was emblematic of something naughty and rebellious. Perhaps an adventurous few had assumed the position, but, for most it was the stuff of foreign films and fantasy. By historic accident, we were the class of 1969, and we took the stewardship of our number seriously. We were delighted to have our graduation year double as something roguish.

The student section of the ELHS gym was packed and somehow Baskett, Blair, maybe Overholt, and I am not sure who else wedged their way into the front row adjacent to the free throw line. My buddies weren’t more than 15 yards from where I stood to shoot the free throws. I would guess, in fact I would bet, that the boys had a Schlitz, or two, on their way to the game. They were calling my name and stomping their feet as I went through my preshot routine while the rest of crowd grew still. All was quiet as I finished my dribbles and brought the ball to my chest and readied for my shot. Then, Seadog, in his best, croaking Vance Hamilton voice bellowed, “C’Mon Sam.”

Inside I smiled, but I remained steadfast. I readied the ball and in one smooth motion let it fly. Nothing but net. The score read 69. The crowd went wild, especially my dear friends in the front row. I stole a glance their way and saw them pointing at me, yelling my name, stomping their feet, and punching each other in the arm.

The ref retrieved the ball and shoved a bounce pass directly back to me for the back end of the one-and-one. I went through the same preshot routine and Seadog provided the same encouragement. Shot two was as true as the first. The fan reaction was less riotous and a smattering of boos fell from the crowd when my second free changed the scoreboard to 70. The boys in front row continued their support.

Back to the yesterday and the schoolyard. Watched any Cousy-era Celtic stuff on ESPN Classic? This was an era when the two-handed set shot began to evolve toward today’s one-handed floating jumper. Then, jumpers were more like hoppers, in which contestants took a small jump and released the ball with both arms

I tried one of these shots yesterday, and I made it. And it felt good. My jump shot has devolved into a ‘50s era two-handed hop shot. I know that some of you must have shot around with your dad. They shot the same way. I found that I could double my range. I made a shitload of free throws. I found my game. Now I need to work on going to my right, and, as always, work hard on my quicks.

Cheers