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.
It’s just another sunny day in the glorious world of retirement. For those still working for a living, it’s also Sunday. My wife is getting ready for a business trip to Los Angeles while I gladly stay home to watch the dogs. They see Sunday as FunDay, anticipating their weekend Schnauzerthons. My wife leads feisty Tally on a leash while I run with old lady Tinker pushing her stroller. As we make our way through the neighborhood park, we’ll occasionally exchange dogs in a carefully synchronized spin around the pond. There’s even a designated poop stop, having learned our lesson about giving Tinker a timely break. She is, after all, “The Poopingest Pup on The Planet,” and the fast buggy ride seems to relax her a bit too much. Just like a toddler, we now always carry Wet Wipes just in case. Once I complete my just over three-mile daily running goal, I let her out for the short walk home. Today was RunDay number 3.864, as “The Streak” continues.
Tinker was really gimpy today as she waddled along by herself. Her regular outings are very short any more and often she doesn’t even make it down the driveway before she poops. A few steps later she’ll relieve her bladder in the neighbor’s grass and immediately head home. It’s almost like clockwork. She’ll then wait in the shade of the garage until Tally finishes her business, and will bark if it takes too long. Last night, we had dinner guests and she was very impatient. The neighborhood was so peaceful and quiet except for her demanding bark. It was the most outspoken I’ve ever seen her, so she must have thought that with guests at the table, she’d get more food if she was loud enough. As we well know, input equals output, so extra baggies were needed today.
One of my favorite SunDay morning rituals is listening to Sunday Morning Brunch on KINK radio. Although it’s a subtle reminder that I used to work there, it was a mellow way to start today. It helped me get through a sluggish hangover from too much wine and too many barks last night. I won’t be outdone by the neighbors when I set out my glass bottles for recycling tomorrow. It will look like a job well done, after another of my wife’s successful dinner parties. It may be one of our last at this home once we put it on the market in a few weeks. Who knows where we will be living next? I’m sure the neighbors won’t miss “Old Lady Bark” or the brown spots in their yard.
I’ll be on my own for a couple of days, so baseball, beer and fried chicken with a friend is planned. Tinker will have no one to bark at but Tally, as she quietly dreams of the next Schnauzerthon. I just hope that the Cubs can get their sh*t together after blowing a couple of key games this past week. I’m sure my Cardinal friends are thrilled. They are only “my Cubs” when they’re winning and the Brewers are taking advantage of weak relief work with back-to-back-comebacks. It won’t be FunDay unless they can win in Milwaukee today. Also, the fried chicken won’t taste good unless they can beat the Cardinals. If not, you’ll get tired of hearing my bark!
