I love basketball.
I practiced before pickup games. I played in the rain. I watched my
favorite players on television to learn moves and take them to the
court. Why? Debates have raged in the the field of behavioral sciences
in recent years over how an adult human being grows to be who he or she
is. Why is Bill Gates who he is? What fueled Jim Jones' suicidal powers
of persuasion? Is it genetics? Environment? Why, after all the busted
lips, bruises, torn shirts, cuts, scrapes and scratches do I, even now,
keep going back to my dusty backyard basketball court of dreams?
Genetics? I think not. At my best I could scrape the bottom of the rim
with the whisk of a fingernail. I for years wore rope burns on the ends
of my fingers trying. The classic white guy that couldn't jump. Brick?
Look up the word in the b'ball dictionary and there's a picture of me
beside it. The root of the love for the game I was so genetically
unprepared to play? Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my
childhood.
Bicycles and bullfrogs, tree swings and swimming holes. All fond
memories from my typical suburban American adolescence. The mottled
shadow cast on the homemade backboard by the spotlight shining through
the oak tree in our backyard. The late night games when my Dad was Shaquille O'Neal to a five year old and his infant hoop dreams. I've
wondered in recent years what motivated my father to build that first
goal and backboard. Was it to stop the botanical crucifixion of the
dogwood I nailed that first barrel-lid ring to? Or the vision of his son
shooting from the limbs of that tree? Or was he living his own private
b'ball fantasy out through his son? Regardless of the reasons, the die
was cast. Whether it was the thrill of shooting from my Dad's
outstretched arms or the obsession with getting a shot past them, I got
the fever and I got it bad. I counted down to game winning last shots. I
practiced Pete Maravich style moves. I broke an ankle on a dirt court
drive to the basket. (My little brother years later on the same court in
a Jordan-esce running slam-dunk attempt...........with a folding chair
assist, broke an arm!) I'll always regret never having played organized
basketball in any form. Tough to break that southern football thing,
even then. But with the foundation of those backyard dreams and the
visions of Magic, Larry, Pete, and Wilt I took my game to the streets. I
built the first neighborhood goal and lived for quitting time and the
afternoon game. I ate cold food when I didn't heed the call to supper.
(When you have seventeen in an game of 21, well, a player has
priorities!) I roamed the streets of Birmingham searching for new
competition literally risking life and limb. I actually remember holding
animosity towards a close friend and playing partner who after getting
married couldn't heed my every call to play. Why? I'll fall back on that
time-honored psychologist's excuse, it's all my Dad's fault. He did it
to me. He never "let" me win. He always made me earn it. The first time
I heard the phrase 'no blood, no foul', it came from his mouth. He
pushed me down. He picked me up. He made me want to be like Mike before
there was................Mike.
Having raised two daughters I now look back and have some small
understanding of the influence we have over our children. For good or
bad they're watching everything we do. Every word, every deed. I know
now, without the extracurriculars my parents afforded me, just having
Mom and Dad there through my childhood made me the luckiest kid on our
block. My Dad didn't have to teach me to ride a bicycle, take me
fishing, endure my Little League baseball, teach me to play chess (he
never let me beat him at that, either) or play basketball with me. But
I'm sure glad he did. Thanks Dad, I love you.
