The basketball is loose, near the sideline. I sprint for it and get there first.
Oh, man. Here I am, charging on a fast break down the basketball court at Littlefield High School.
Littlefield is a grade 7th through 12th school, but the total student body population is only about 600. I am in 8th grade, playing a game of pickup basketball with my brother and some friends.
I have watched several high school basketball games on this court, and the players are larger than life to me in the green and gold (yellow) uniforms and “Hornets” insignia. One guy on the team, Tim, can jump so high that when he takes a jump shot, it looks like he is shooting down on the goal.
This is also the floor where I sit in the bleachers and watch the pretty Littlefield cheerleaders. I am in love with one of the cheerleaders, a red head named Amy. She has never paid attention to me, though. The cheerleaders do their routines during the timeouts, and then jog back over to the first row of bleachers when the game begins again. After their routines, one cheerleader does a slow split as the others jog off. It is a sight forever etched in my brain, her smiling at the crowd as she slides to the floor with her tan legs. She holds the pose for a moment, and then gets up to join the other girls.
I run past the exact spot on the floor where she performs those incredible splits, going as fast as I can while bouncing a basketball.
The gym also has a stage for plays and school presentations. Coach T sits on the stage in a metal folding chair, watching our pickup game. Coach T is an all-around good coach for any sport. I want to impress him because he is the high school baseball coach, and that is the team I would like to join more than any other.
I do not know if anyone is behind me, catching up to steal the ball, but I don’t dare look. The basket is only a few more feet ahead.
The white bordered square on the glass backboard looms ahead of me. When shooting the ball, I have been taught that you should concentrate on the back of the rim- unless you want to bank the shot in. If you want to bank it off the glass, then make sure the ball hits in the middle of that square, and it will go in.
I cannot dunk a basketball, so this is going to be a lay-up off the glass.
Hit the square, I think to myself. Hit the square.
I am under the goal, now, still running about as hard as I can go. I put the ball up with two hands, like a chest pass, and it hits the center of the glass square perfectly.
Instead of going into the hoop, though, the ball launches backward and lands well behind the three point line. It bounces clear back to half court.
Everyone sort of freezes in stunned silence. Coach T has his arms crossed on his chest, and keeps a stoic expression. My friend, Ron, is the first to burst out in laughter. He puts his hands on his knees and doubles over.
My brother, a very good basketball player, just stares at me. We are both at an awkward age where we do not say much to each other in public, in front of other people. But once we are home, he lets me have it.
Years later, even in the present, he still talks about that play.
“We were all just shocked,” he says. “I couldn’t believe that you were that uncoordinated. I mean, the ball bounced back to half court. Didn’t you know how to make a lay-up?”
“I hit the square!” I answer defensively. “I was always told that if you hit the square, the ball will go in!”
After that disastrous attempt at a lay-up, I work on my technique a little more and learn that if I go up with one hand and pull the ball back from the backboard just before I release, then it takes away the momentum of my sprint and softens the bounce against the square. The ball should go in.
Luckily, no girls were around to watch that spectacle of athleticism.
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