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comer near my house. Tom had gone to fetch Mark — again — and arrived shortly after the wreck. We were forced to delay the start of that game to call the police.
There are no films about the games played in the mud, where the object of the defense was to force the offense into the real muddy parts of the court. In those games, I washed the ball after every quarter.
There are probably written records of those games stashed away in somebody’s desk drawer, taken in that period of our lives when keeping such records was more important than learning to speak Spanish. Those records are no doubt stored near the 8th grade Engish papers we sometimes shared.
Of importance, however, are the memories of mostly good times teenage boys made for themselves on that dirt court, between the clothesline behind mv parents’ house.
Now, there will be no more.
Woodpeckers weakened the treeGloria finished it off.
The plywood backboard, long since rotted, was thrown in the garbage. The rim — minus two of those net hooks that broke off after some low-flying 18-foot jumpers — sits on an obscure shelf in the musty basement. Flakes of red paint, having chipped from the iron, are everywhere on that shelf.
The grass in the back is growing again, having been granted the chance to breathe.
pie basketball has leaked itself flat in the closet of my upstairs bedroom that overlooked the backyard sports facilities
About the only thing fresh and functional are the memories.
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