It's All a Matter of Perspective

When I was a kid I loved to play basketball. I played every day, all year. I played through wind, rain and snow. I played indoors if I had to.

I learned that my all-time favorite basketball player, Pete Maravich, carried a basketball with him everywhere he went when he was growing up. If his Mom sent him to the store for a loaf of bread he dribbled the basketball to the store and back. Maravich said he slept with the basketball.

My basketball was never far. My Mom concluded that my "filthy basketball" probably shouldn't sleep with me. But I always knew where that ball was.

Through a year I'd use the basketball so much I'd wear it out. A seam would begin to split and a bubble would begin to form from the inside bladder starting to sneak through the crack. Santa always seemed to know though, and a new basketball would be under the tree every December 25th.

Once Santa brought me an old ABA style red, white and blue ball. It was the coolest ever.

As long as it wasn't raining too hard, or wasn't too cold, or too windy, I'd spend a couple of hours (at least) each day playing ball. If the elements were too severe then I'd play inside, even if that meant a rolled-up sock and my clothes hamper.

I'd play out entire games, entire seasons, envisioning the interaction of other players and game situations.

Once it snowed a couple of inches overnight but cleared off the next day. I concluded that I could shovel my court and still get some basketball in today.

I shoveled the court meticulously, clearing the snow from the playing area. Now mind you, I didn't shovel the front walk, or the back porch, or any part of the functional driveway. But I did shovel my basketball court.

It was cold enough to wear one glove on the left hand but I kept the right hand bare to be able to feel the basketball roll off my fingers when I shot. When the ball flew off the shoveled court it would roll through snow and become an instant giant snow ball. I saved one corner of the shoveled court to knock the snow off the ball.

Now I noticed while I started playing that a few men had come out of the clubhouse and begun playing hole number 1 on the golf course. We lived on a hill right next to the course, and from our vantage point could see at least 50-percent of the course.

After a few hundred shots, my Dad came out with some trash. I said to him, "Hey Dad, look at these crazy people playing golf today."

He stopped for a moment and looked out at the golf course. He looked at me and said, "Well what do you think they're saying about you."