I grew up on a suburban block with many hoops. Much basketball. Games dreamed up to be played with one to six guys, depending. Most hoops were mounted on garages. All our playing was done on the uneven cement or bumpy macadam of short, weed-split driveways. We made games up to suit the moment.  One on one, two on two, simple basketball, first to 21 wins. Fouls we agreed on by voice vote. Fights were outlawed. Lost tempers were required to take a hike and cool down before play resumed. Our skills were close and we all wanted to win. Win, shine and dazzle. From time to time we all had our moments. That’s the problem. Those brief, out of the blue moments when one of us could do no wrong. Gave us ideas, expectations, hints, we were certain, of future hardcourt glory.

 

     Might be for the win in a one-on-one. You have the ball, stop, spin, turn your back to the hoop, close your eyes and heft a two-hander over your head. It goes in. You are, just then, the king of the world. Skill? Chance? Dumb luck?  Who can say? Maybe it’s in the heat of a three- on-three. Close game, everyone red faced and winded, playing for all the marbles. You have the ball up over your head. Pass, dribble or shoot? Your choice. Split-second decision. You bounce it hard between two defenders. It goes up. Up and up. Hits the backboard, rolls round and round the rim, falls through. Freak shot for the record books. One of a kind, never to be repeated. Still, you glow. Suddenly, loudly singled out, celebrated. Then there are all the shots nobody sees. At night, solo, trying this and that. Amazing shots. Shots nobody would believe. But you know. You know it was you that made them. Maybe you’ll make them again, in a real game with your buddies there to see.

 

     When we got to junior high and tryouts for the basketball team were announced, we all showed up. Stars from up and down the block ready to shine. The Coach, a nasty, quick-tempered man, wore thick glasses and a sour expression. He was always yelling. Kept us off balance, afraid that everything we were doing would prompt another outburst. Another one-on-one dressing down for everyone to hear. He gave us nicknames. Fatso, Zit Face, Bird Legs, Chicken Shit, Dumb Nuts, Cry Baby. Early on in tryouts I got winded during sprints. Got a painful stitch in my left side, stopped, bent over double and asked if I could sit down. Bad move. All stopped with a sharp blast of his whistle. “Gather round” he shouted. “We have to take a rest because Momma’s Boy here, shit for wind is tired, can’t keep up, can’t quite cut the mustard. Momma’s Boy is history. Finished. Out of here. I don’t, do not coddle crybabies. Anybody can’t keep up, leave now. Leave with Momma’s Boy and don’t come back.”

 

     What happened a week later makes me smile still, decades later. Most of the guys from the block made the team. Three as starters, two as bench warmers. They huddled and met with Coach, gave him an ultimatum. Either I was on the team or they walked. This was not good. He needed them and he knew it. He came up with a weasel’s compromise. I would be on the team, but not as a player. I would be the Team Manager. My role was to keep track of the gear, uniforms, balls, towels, for practices and away games. I could scrimmage with the team during every practice. So, he told them, I’d get to play all the time, just not in a uniform. And, for a while, I had fun. Every Saturday morning we would scrimmage for hours. I sat out drills but played in the practice games. Goofed with my buddies.

 

     “You stunk it up tonight”  he said when the bus stopped in the junior high parking lot after another dismal away game. Friday night game we’d lost by over forty points. Parents were waiting in cars, lights on, wanting to get their kids and go. It was late and dark out but he kept us in our seats, shouting, ranting, singling each player out. Letting them know how horribly they’d played. What losers they were. Then, spent, he said Saturday practice would start at seven the next morning, not the usual ten. Collective groan. “Shut up” he sneered, “anybody doesn’t show is off the team.” After a brief pause, he laughed. “I know somebody who will be there on time. I know somebody who never misses a chance to play even though he’s no goddamn good. Am I right Momma’s Boy? Will you be here waiting when I unlock the door.” He laughed and laughed, looking right at me, then let us go.

 

     Insults, like bee stings, build up. Get toxic with time. Name calling was one thing, but this joke was another. It burned in my brain. Went round and round and round. Was I a simple math problem? Easy to figure out, sum up and dismiss?

 

     Revolt, rebellion must be a survival instinct. Gut impulse to free us from bad people and their poisonous ways. Walking home that night I explained my plan. I would not be there when the nasty bastard opened the gym door for Saturday practice. I would not come late. I wouldn’t come at all. If he asked where I was my buddies were to shrug and play dumb. Say that maybe I had something better to do, they didn’t know.

 

     Late the next week, after missing two practices and a home game, I strolled in during wind sprints, picked up a ball and started doing free throws. Coach started right in. “How come you weren’t here Saturday morning for scrimmage? You always come for Saturday scrimmage. I would have bet a million bucks on you showing up.”

 

     “Saturday” I said, slowly, like the question made no sense. “Was there a practice on Saturday? Sorry, Coach but I must have forgotten all about it.” Then, sinking a no-look free throw I walked off. Off the court and out the door. Like a late night, off-balance jumper from distance that nobody sees, we all have our moments.