Summer Night in July

Summer Night in July

 

It is a very warm, humid July night in NJ. The children, five grand-kids, are in Grammy’s
condo wrecking havoc – loudly. I offer a fix. I will take them up to the play area for fun and games. Everyone thinks this is a good idea. So moments later I am marching up the road, pointing for the tennis court/basketball court. The five children, ages 4 through 9, precede me.

 

We start out with a baseball game.  First base is a puddle, second a flattened tennis ball can, and third, Johnny’s shirt. The basketball goal support is the backstop, with home plate in front. I never get up to bat in the baseball game but do my share of dashing about on my sore seventy year-old knees, chasing fly balls and grounders and then trying to tag the speeding  runners.  Trust me, it’s, surprisingly, an effort.

After numerous innings we, thankfully, switch to a basketball game. Here, it’s me against all. My thought is that I’ll show my jump shot skills but let them win. I enjoy a large height advantage, something like two feet, so I effectively control the game. Somehow I manage to lose by more than I plan, primarily because the long distance jump shots that I heave up in a futile attempt to inspire admiration are all inaccurate – arthritis in the wrist is my excuse - and so I surrender and lose 11 – 5 (or 22 – 10).  My left wrist aches.  Johnny, age 4, tells me I stink at basketball.*

Back at my own home at evening’s end I am in front of the TV watching a documentary about baseball in the 1950s.  There is a replay of the old Who’s on First? Abbot and Costello skit I actually laugh out loud. Moments later I literally cry watching Willie Mays and Roy Campanella and Kurt Flood talk about their beginnings in the days of severe racial prejudice.

 

* OK, couldn't let this pass: Fifty-plus years ago I was leading scorer and player-of-the-year in Orange County, NY Village League (tiny schools) high school basketball. 

 

So, "stink at basketball?" No way. Just saying.