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of bounds and when the light broke, the grounds crew — Dad — was summoned. The garage was out of bounds on one side, the street (about 45 feet away) was out on the other. The garden was the forbidden zone policed by Mom.
After my friends and I tore up the garden one afternoon, the court again shifted to the back yard, which by this time had become a regular sports complex: football, whiffleball, badminton and ice hockey when in season, archery before I sent an arrow through the awning, softball before I started breaking windows, soccer (see softball) and now, basketball.
It is on that dirt court that I easily conjure fond memories:
The triple overtime games of two-ontwo; the four-site tournament we rotated from one player’s house to the next; Tom fixing the egg-timer we used as our official, scoreboard clock, turning it back if his team was behind, moving it foward if his team was winning; bickering about who would pick up Mark who lived across town and was invariably without a ride; bickering over fouls, called or uncalled; bickering (we did a lot of that) about the score; the traditional Thanksgiving Eve night game complete with a sophisicated lighting system that just hours before was a collection of stray two-by-fours, an old flood light and a 50-foot extension cord; washing the basketball at halftime.
Washing the basketball at halftime, Virginia?
I was a peculiar child. Besides, the backyard court was dirt, which is how things get dirty. The court area used to be grass but no grass could ever survive the pounding we put to it.
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