NFL Football is back – but do I really care? The Bears looked terrible on Thursday night against the Packers. Looking to my collection of gridiron misfits, the Colts are rarely seen on TV in this area. We regularly get to watch the Seahawks that have failed to gain personal favoritism (right now they’re down by 3). Indiana University football blew out Eastern Illinois 52-0 in an apparent grade school match-up. Any hopes for Hoosier glory will quickly deflate when the bully Buckeyes come to town for the BIG opener – next on the schedule. At least, my alma mater has already won a couple of games, unlike the Bears or Colts (right now they’re down by seven). It would be a rare pleasure to be able to brag about any of my teams. Why didn’t I choose Clemson over Crimson?
The fading Cubs have been equally impotent in an critical match-up with the Brewers, allowing the Cardinal division lead to grow. The White Sox aren’t even worth bringing up, as I already start to look ahead to next year. I’m envious of those who have become obnoxious fans – blessed with teams that rarely lose. In all sports, I’ve somehow endeared myself to the misfits. The Cubs proved once again yesterday that they can’t score runs in critical situations, and generously give them up freely in the late stages of games. Closer Kimbrel continues to disappoint with injuries and Javy Baez sadly has a hairline fracture in his thumb. Joe Maddon continues to juggle the lineup, but they still can’t win on the road – except at Citi Field. I’m afraid to even watch in the last two innings, and wish they had more games against the Mets!
I know that in Bloomington, Indiana next Saturday Buckeye fans will flood the stands. This will allow I.U. media relations to show-off a packed stadium of solid red. Unfortunately, it will be Buckeye red, as smart Hoosiers will re-coop their season ticket investment and head to the bars. After all, you can’t get a seat in Columbus. As always, there will be a few Hoosier faithful that perhaps will still hold hope for an upset, until reality sets in. This has not happened since 1988 – 31 years ago. The Buckeyes lead the series of 92 games that date back to 1901. Overall, it’s 75-12-5 in favor of Ohio State. Do you believe in miracles? You have to if you support the misfits that I follow! At least, I’m not a Browns fan!
Most would say that I’m simply a patchwork of leather stitched together to play a silly game -that I have no mind, heart, or feelings. But, that’s simply not true if you know anything at all about the game of basketball. I know right away if someone is special. The way they confidently hold me is the first sign of greatness. Before they ever get on the court, I know they’ve practiced long and hard. I’ve been bounced around, banged off the backboard, tossed back and forth, and experienced the rewarding tickle of the net. If I had a head, it would ache after hours of free throws, H-O-R-S-E, and fantasies of hitting last second shots. I’m rarely handled by anything but sweaty hands. We’re out there day and night with the aid of a spotlight and refine our dribbling skills when the weather is bad by weaving between chairs.
When his dad bought me at the store all those years ago, I wished that I had a father like that. I didn’t understand the birds and bees, only the basket and the ball, so I adopted him as my own. Our dad had played the game when he was young, after all he lived in Indiana. He selected me, the very best, when he could have settled for a cheaper rubber brand. He then took precious time out from his farming responsibilities to build a backboard and attach it to the barn. Eventually, he added a blacktop surface, but in the beginning it was only dirt that turned muddy in the rain. We were still out there everyday, it didn’t matter, and would shovel it off when it snowed. It got to the point where I rarely hit the rim, and eventually he could jump straight up and simply drop me through the net.
I’m lucky to be a Hoosier, where I’m the game of traditional choice. Otherwise, I might be gathering dust in the corner of a garage, or discarded in the trash. I’ve seen my lonely deflated friends, but in this unique, one-class basketball I’m constantly in action. My job is to ultimately find the opening in the rim that is slightly larger than I am. Otherwise, I careen pointlessly away without reward. On the drive down the court, others are trying to take me away, so it takes special dribbling skills to maintain possession. It’s only when I’m in his big, strong hands that I feel secure. As others touch me, I can only hope that he steals it away.
During the course of time, my surface got worn and discolored. At first, he would scrub me like a baby before we went into his room to listen to a game on the transistor radio. I wish I could be bright orange again, but then again I would have missed all that time together. Right now, he sees me as perfect, “properly broken-in” as he calls it. As he grows in size, I’m slowly turning brown. Unfortunately, some of my peers have been replaced with newer models, so I only have a limited time to enjoy his greatness. We’ve been through a lot together, like close friends. I’m always at his side, a natural attachment to his lean, tall frame.
When I was brand new, just out of the box covered in wrapping paper, it was hard to breathe, but worth it when I saw his smiling face, missing a few teeth, the very first time. I remember he kept me close when he slept, with dreams of what we could do together. Most of the time, it was just the two of us practicing from sunrise to sunset. What else was there to do in a small town? We would look forward to the time when his friends would come over and I could be the center of attention. They would all fight over me, even though I tried to be loyal. After a while, I would grow anxious for them to go home, so I could have him all to myself. But, if I hadn’t seen the others play, I wouldn’t have really known how much better he was than everyone else. He and I were an inseparable team that others envied. He especially reveled in taking the ball away from his opponent, an art he developed like no one else. To be honest, I know he was jealous that I was in someone else’s hands. Soon, the college recruiters were knocking at our door, and I somehow knew that our time together was growing short.
During our many years together, his room filled with trophies, and sadly I joined them on the shelf. I was surrounded by posters of the game’s greatest stars and a pennant for the Bainbridge Pointers. He went far away to school and much to my surprise added a Kentucky Wildcats banner. Hoosier neighbors and fans were disappointed, but he was getting the best of coaching. It also set the stage for an NBA Championship with the Portland Trailblazers. I often wished I had legs of my own so I could practice while he was gone, and was forced to wait patiently for him to return home so we could play again. It was joyously clear I was still his favorite toy when we finally got back together. He would spin me on his finger then weave me between his legs and behind his back. We’d talk like we used to do everyday and I would try to behave as he lofted me towards the basket. He would stand as far back as possible and count down 3…2…1 then free me from his hands, hoping to jump for joy as he watched me swish through the tattered net.
