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The clipping this text was read from
The clipping this text was read from

Hoops

important to be fast and a good jumper.

The tree was dying, a woodpecker practice ground. It probably would have crashed under the weight of my next free throw. But to lose it suddenly is similar to losing a pet; it never comes at an opportune time.

It is a notation in time.

For nearly as long as I can remember, I would wrap up in a sweat shirt or a hockey jersey, lie about having completed my homework, slap the old roundball and play some hoops.

I was Clyde Frazier from the top of the key, Bill Bradley from the comer, Willis Reed along the baseline and at the comer of the lane. I was New York Knicks’ fan.

Also, I was unbeatable on my home court. Wherever that was.

It started on the swing set in the back yard when my father strung a goal about six feet off the ground, which was of proportionate height, seeing how I was only three feet off the ground.

When the swing set rusted and blew away like dust, the court shifted to the frv nt yard, using the driveway as a baseline and the slate walkway as the three-second lane. The pole light was out

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