BASKETBALL COURT: A DATE WITH HISTORY FROM THE DRIVEWAY

A basketball court is today’s proving ground for American youth.

Like other kids of a certain generation, though, baseball was my first proving ground. After I proved I wasn’t very good at it, something about a weak arm and slow legs, the basketball court replaced the diamond.

Instead of going to a lumpy field, I could walk out to the driveway where my dad nailed a plywood backboard to the roof.

I wondered if he hung the hoop for us kids, or himself. We found out after our first game of H-O-R-S-E. The guy showed us why he had basketball trophies from his high school days.

He had a one handed shot like Elgin Baylor, and he killed us in between Marlboroughs. That was my first date with basketball and cigarettes.

Big City Basketball Court

Years later while living in Brooklyn, guys at work said they had a pick-up team, and would I like to join?

I met two of the guys on a Saturday morning at 33rd and 4th and we walked to the school one of them went to. Except it didn’t look like a school, more like a warehouse.

He waved to the janitor as we walked up a dark stairway to a small gym with an uneven floor and bent basketball stanchions.

Two other guys from work were already there putting up hook shots. Not a good sign.

Our opponents were a bunch of skinny teenagers, a rag-tag bunch of superstars in the neighborhood.

They were so good that the two guards brought the ball up and shared a cigarette at the same time. It had a prison feel and some of the guys looked like they could do time.

No one else registered any surprise when they passed the ball inside, their guy goes up for a shot, and the guys from work tomahawked the hell out of him from two sides.

The young guys played defense by trying to push us into the empty stands, taking wild swings at the ball, and fouling every shot. But, no one called fouls.

It was an afternoon of hacking and pushing and no one minded. That was their game.

Abernethy Elementary, SE Portland

Further on down the road, a road that went from NYC to Portland, from single man to married man, followed by fatherhood, I found a basketball court in the neighborhood.

From my apartment, I’d stroller my boy down so he could watch his old man hoist a few shots. After one rebound came too close, I made sure he was safe.

Looking back, the safest place was probably under the basket.

Then one day I went the school court with a man I knew as a boy from my driveway court. He’s played college ball, so he’d be a good shooting partner.

He was competitive, I was competitive, what could go wrong?

He wore a bright green Oregon Duck hoodie that he took off to warm up. I took a good look at it.

“Maybe we ought to play some one-on-one for your sweatshirt,” I said.

I didn’t expect him to take me up on the bet. He knew my last game of organized basketball was ninth grade. No high school ball, no college ball, but I did have Brooklyn ball.

I’d trained for a marathon by playing basketball in a Scientology league my training partner belonged to. Those were my secret weapons and I was bringing the house for that sweatshirt.

It started nice and easy, but like Tina Turner singing Proud Mary, nothing stays nice and easy.

First it was the hand check, then the shoving, then the hard checks. We didn’t call fouls, which amped up the contact.

After the best of seven games to eleven that featured purple faces, torrential sweat, and fighting the urge to choke each other, I put on my new sweatshirt. It was a bitter game on both sides, but we honored sportsmanship, friendship, and cooled down.

Rest time lasted until another group started shooting. Four older kids, high school players, showed their skills on foot and out their mouths.

They saw two worn-out guys in their early thirties as funny. They laughed, we laughed, then we offered to play them three on three with one of their guys on our side.

Instead of beating each other up in the World Championship Rematch for the Ultimate Prize, we teamed up and pounded those kids until they gave up.

“We’ve never played like that,” one of them said.

“We play Man’s Game because we’re men. You guys just learned how it’s done,” I said. “You played against a college player. Ever do that? And you did good.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he said.

“The more you play, the more you learn,” Rob said. “Today you learned how to make room and make moves.”

“And get knocked down,” he said.

“And you learned to get up without whining and calling fouls on everything,” I added.

The kid looked at my bright green Oregon sweatshirt.

“Is that yours?” he said. “I like it, but I’ve never seen one like it.”

“You can’t buy it, you have to earn it,” I said.

“How can I earn one?” he asked.

“You need to climb the highest mountain, swim across the seven seas,” I said. “This is more than a sweatshirt son, it’s a trophy, a symbol. And with this Oregon hoodie I pledge to aim any kids I can to Eugene and the Ducks. Where are you guys going to college?”

“Maybe Oregon?” Rob said.

“Be an Oregon Man,” I said. I grabbed Rob’s hand and showed his ring.

“Wouldn’t one of these look good on all of you?” he said.

I don’t know if those guys went to Oregon, but I do know this looked good on me for decades.