There
are two recreation centers in Spartanburg proper. My last town had
none, but I knew in a city this size there had to be a pick-up
basketball game at one of them.
So, I set out in all of my 42-year old glory, not having played in more
than 18-months, sure to quell the boredom I felt with one more shot at
hoops stardom. Old Champion basketball shorts with an obvious paint
stain on the left leg, a Nike training shirt
I got for free a few years back at a photo shoot for Dick’s Sporting
Goods, and a pair of Nike Air Dual-D running shoes were the look I had
to resort to. At my age it was more about the game than the look. And
neither were very promising on this afternoon.
God had given me a decent talent for the game back in the day. I
wondered if there was any glory left to be found, even in an old
industrial town like this one.
The first gym was packed with cars. I figured I had hit the right spot,
so I ambled in hoping to see some decent talent on the court to revive
my game. I was instantly bemused by the sight of an all-Hispanic girls
basketball league at this location. I actually
watched for a few moments as a 5’4” speedster drained shot after shot
for her team. She’s someone to keep an eye out for, I thought. “A que
hora del final juegos?” I asked the lady next to me. She told me they
played until the gym closed. We talked for a few
moments about how interesting it was for her to see a white man speak
her language. I told her my story of Los Angeles, living in “el barrio,”
and how much I needed to practice the second language that I love. She
smiled and wished me, “buena suerte!” I thanked
her and made my way to the door.
I spoke with an older gentleman who was manning the desk and he told me
to go to the gym on Saxon Street. With a smirk he let me know I’d
probably find a little better competition there, too. I thanked him for
both tips and set out to see if there was really
a game to be found.
I pulled into the parking lot and saw what I was looking for. Several
guys were milling around the door waiting to be let in. They were
jovial, talking about a friend who was missed while awaiting trial and
another who had blown his knee out. I sat in the car,
taking it all in, glad to see four or five guys around my height of
6’7”. I was the only white guy there, which suited me fine. I remember
well the days of 14th and Jackson in Winston-Salem where I was always
most welcome. I made a lot of friends that way,
and miss them still. These were the guys I wanted to hoop with. My boys
Flagge Stanfield, Andy Snow, Joe Thomas, and Darrel Schnoes know what
it’s like. The best runs in town back in the day. If you had a game, and
could back it up on the court, you’d be welcome.
And respected. I figured I’d give it a shot. I felt good, track shoes
and all. One more shot at hoops glory.
Another older gentleman arrived and stepped out of his pick-up truck
with keys in hand. I figured it was time to go in. As I approached the
door one tall lanky guy in long dreads gave me a nod. Another shorter
athletic guy greeted me. “What’s up, Big Country?”
I nodded back, now beginning to feel a bit nervous about my game. I
signed in after waiting at the back of the line of twenty guys and
stepped onto the court. Some guys stretched. Others began to shoot and
make lay ups. The taller guys dunked and yelled. All
of them were half my age, maybe a little older. I would have to work to
show I still had a little game left.
After about a minute of watching them shoot around a rebound fell out to
me. I picked up the ball and dribbled around my back and through my
legs a few times, thankful I didn’t bounce it off my feet. At this point
I was five feet behind the three-point line.
I decided to let it ride.
Swish.
“Uh, oh! Big Country can shoot!”
I proceeded to drain three more in a row before finally missing. I then dunked one with one hand.
“Dang!”
It must have looked easy to them, but it took everything I had to get up there, unlike days gone by.
Two guys were selected as Captains to choose teams. The shorter of the
two looked at me with his first pick and said, “I got Big Country. Dude
look like he played some semi-pro or something.” A moment later the
teams were set. I was the only player over 6’2”
on my team. I guess they figured I could handle it down low. The guy
guarding me was 6’5” and there was a 6’6” guy, too, but he was an
outside player and pretty thin. One of my teammates alerted me that my
guy loved to bang down low and played pretty rough.
It was like a symphony to my ears. I was thrilled.
We traded baskets the first 3-4 possessions. I had yet to shoot in the
game but was posting vigorously and enjoying the shoving match with my
friend down low. He was not nearly as tough as advertised and soon let
up as he surely recognized I had a good 100
pounds on him. He was quick, though, and I struggled to stay with him.
It was a decent match, I suppose. We probably broke even when it was all
said and done.
My first possession I spun, drove to the hole, and was fouled hard. I
got the message. Our point guard stated he was coming right back to me,
but he passed it to his buddy on the wing for a 3-pointer. Swish. The
next trip down he found me. Catch. Spin. Ball
fake. Hammer it through his arms. And one. I proceed to score the next
five baskets in a close game. Playing to 14 I knew it was going to be
close and soon found it was tied at 12. I again was given the ball at
the free throw line. I turned, spun into the
lane, and went up hard.
Snap.
That was it. That was the moment. My lower back felt like someone had
stabbed me with a sharp dagger. The arm that raked across mine had
mimicked my picking up what seemed like a half ton pickup truck. It was a
"no blood, no foul" type of contest, so I didn’t
call it. The other team raced down the court, put up a three, and it
was over, just like that. We sat there dejected. I could barely stand up
straight, but I didn’t want to show it. “Good game, big man,” was the
reply I received from both teams and a few on
the sidelines. I had played well, and earned respect. I got a few hugs,
a few handshakes, and a few requests to “stick around for one more.”
But I knew I was done. I was looking at a few days of pain and rest.
“Ol' man gotta jet,” I said. They laughed with
me and told me to come back during the week. They play every night. I
told them I’d do my best and left feeling good about the game, but bad
about my short comeback. I knew it was time to forget all of this
foolishness and hang the shoes up for good. Even
if they were track shoes.
The doctor this morning said about as much. “Go hiking with your boys,”
he recommended. “It’s far safer for a man your age. Get a bicycle, too.
One that fits your long legs so your knees don’t ache.” He is 74-years
old, and far wiser than his younger peers.
A Cortisone shot and a couple of muscle relaxers later I can actually
stand up half way straight again, but surely have a few more days to get
right. And I’m going to take his advice. There’s adventure to be found,
and I think it’s with my children. And there’s
glory to be found, but that rests with God, not me.
