the summer eve, in short and sleeve,
Lay not your head upon a pillow,
Of grass beneath his drooping reach, or bitter lessons he will teach,
Of crossing Old Man Willow."
Old Man Willow verse, conceived by Tony Hooper for the neighborhood kids
~~~~~
Alex spun and put on his best move. "He drives the lane. No, he fakes and turns outside and goes up with the fifteen-foot jumper, and he...."
"Misses off the front of the rim," I finished. "You know, you may want to keep yourself within that ten- to twelve-foot range. Anything more is too far for you."
"But I've been practicing, Tony. I'm getting better."
"The problem is your strength. You struggle to get the basketball to the hoop from that distance, and you shoot right from the shoulder. Hoopster, anyone can block that shot."
The little guy's face was almost too much to bear. Only ten, he insisted on acting eighteen.
"Tell you what, Hoopster, why don't we get you started on a weight-lifting program? We need to build your upper body strength, perhaps your legs so you can get more air beneath you."
"No kidding? Dad thinks I'm still too young for that stuff."
"I'll speak to him and make sure he knows we won't get carried away—just some basic stuff. He'll be okay with it."
"Cool!"
We resumed our basketball contest, if you could call it that—the mismatch was severe. Nonetheless, I enjoyed shooting hoops with Alex, and I enjoyed coaching him even more. He handled the ball quite well, having learned to dribble with both hands.
He borrowed one of the shots from my own repertoire as he planted his right foot, spun first left and then right, and put up a fade-away jumper from twelve feet. Swish! His priceless ear-to-ear smile made me laugh. I couldn't tell which of us was more proud of his athletic development.
I'd sure miss him when I left for college.
Saturday morning meant no school, but I had to flip burgers and make sundaes at The Dairy Hut for a few hours, from four o'clock to eight o'clock. It didn't pay a heck of a lot but it was conveniently close. I could ride my bike if I wanted, and I made enough to keep my Bonnie on the road with a full gas tank.
With gas breaking forty cents per gallon, that was getting tougher. Dad provided the other necessities—shoes, clothes, food and medicine—but he insisted that if I had a car, I must maintain it myself, unless I was willing to leave it in the garage.
No chance! The Bonnie gave me freedom, the means by which I escaped the grind.
Dad rarely objected, or said much of anything, for that matter. Alex, on the other hand, preferred I pay more attention to him . I enjoyed spending time with the Hoopster, but all good things in moderation. I needed to get away and do my own thing occasionally. He could be a load, more work than fun, and the responsibility sometimes irritated me. He was innocent enough—only ten years old. The real source of my irritation, Dad, should have done more with Alex.
Still, when the Hoopster dragged me down, a simple escape offered the easiest way to refresh.
Diana served as my island, my paradise. It hardly mattered where we went or what we did, so long as I was with her. We hooked up with other friends to enjoy movies, restaurants, bowling, arcades, shooting darts or pool—simple activities. Some kids, cleverly turning a Star Wars phrase, claimed we'd gone over to the "Dork Side." Fine. We tried to stay away from the drug culture that seemed so prevalent.
My circle of friends— real friends—remained a relatively small one. I'd have been lost without Diana.
I left Alex to practice shooting on his own, which he could do for hours without pause, to shower and prepare for work.
***
I could relax and watch the Chicago Cubs game on TV for a couple hours before I had to leave. It sounded as though someone had beaten me to the punch.
"Bill Buckner lines a shot into the gap in right-center," Alex announced from the living room floor. "It rolls to the wall and he cruises into second with a
Lay not your head upon a pillow,
Of grass beneath his drooping reach, or bitter lessons he will teach,
Of crossing Old Man Willow."
Old Man Willow verse, conceived by Tony Hooper for the neighborhood kids
~~~~~
Alex spun and put on his best move. "He drives the lane. No, he fakes and turns outside and goes up with the fifteen-foot jumper, and he...."
"Misses off the front of the rim," I finished. "You know, you may want to keep yourself within that ten- to twelve-foot range. Anything more is too far for you."
"But I've been practicing, Tony. I'm getting better."
"The problem is your strength. You struggle to get the basketball to the hoop from that distance, and you shoot right from the shoulder. Hoopster, anyone can block that shot."
The little guy's face was almost too much to bear. Only ten, he insisted on acting eighteen.
"Tell you what, Hoopster, why don't we get you started on a weight-lifting program? We need to build your upper body strength, perhaps your legs so you can get more air beneath you."
"No kidding? Dad thinks I'm still too young for that stuff."
"I'll speak to him and make sure he knows we won't get carried away—just some basic stuff. He'll be okay with it."
"Cool!"
We resumed our basketball contest, if you could call it that—the mismatch was severe. Nonetheless, I enjoyed shooting hoops with Alex, and I enjoyed coaching him even more. He handled the ball quite well, having learned to dribble with both hands.
He borrowed one of the shots from my own repertoire as he planted his right foot, spun first left and then right, and put up a fade-away jumper from twelve feet. Swish! His priceless ear-to-ear smile made me laugh. I couldn't tell which of us was more proud of his athletic development.
I'd sure miss him when I left for college.
Saturday morning meant no school, but I had to flip burgers and make sundaes at The Dairy Hut for a few hours, from four o'clock to eight o'clock. It didn't pay a heck of a lot but it was conveniently close. I could ride my bike if I wanted, and I made enough to keep my Bonnie on the road with a full gas tank.
With gas breaking forty cents per gallon, that was getting tougher. Dad provided the other necessities—shoes, clothes, food and medicine—but he insisted that if I had a car, I must maintain it myself, unless I was willing to leave it in the garage.
No chance! The Bonnie gave me freedom, the means by which I escaped the grind.
Dad rarely objected, or said much of anything, for that matter. Alex, on the other hand, preferred I pay more attention to him . I enjoyed spending time with the Hoopster, but all good things in moderation. I needed to get away and do my own thing occasionally. He could be a load, more work than fun, and the responsibility sometimes irritated me. He was innocent enough—only ten years old. The real source of my irritation, Dad, should have done more with Alex.
Still, when the Hoopster dragged me down, a simple escape offered the easiest way to refresh.
Diana served as my island, my paradise. It hardly mattered where we went or what we did, so long as I was with her. We hooked up with other friends to enjoy movies, restaurants, bowling, arcades, shooting darts or pool—simple activities. Some kids, cleverly turning a Star Wars phrase, claimed we'd gone over to the "Dork Side." Fine. We tried to stay away from the drug culture that seemed so prevalent.
My circle of friends— real friends—remained a relatively small one. I'd have been lost without Diana.
I left Alex to practice shooting on his own, which he could do for hours without pause, to shower and prepare for work.
***
I could relax and watch the Chicago Cubs game on TV for a couple hours before I had to leave. It sounded as though someone had beaten me to the punch.
"Bill Buckner lines a shot into the gap in right-center," Alex announced from the living room floor. "It rolls to the wall and he cruises into second with a
Similar Books
