Backyard Basketball (It's Hard to Dribble When it's Cold Outside)

I've enclosed an article about playing basketball in my backyard as a kid. This will be one chapter in my forthcoming memoir about my early years.

Backyard Basketball

For almost half the year, roughly between November and March, the backyard concrete court often seemed damp and required shoveling. A properly inflated ball would allow just five minutes of dribbling before it needed another heat infusion. Many well-informed individuals are familiar with Wisconsin winters, mainly those severe winters of the late 1960s and early 1970s.

At my home in Racine, near the court, we had an attached covered back porch with a wood-burning stove, so that's where I went to add warmth to the round ball. I sometimes used two basketballs, so I always had one warm enough to dribble. Sometimes, with just one basketball, I'd give up dribbling and shoot the ball to improve my accuracy. Shooting baskets without dribbling is like having a hamburger without any condiments. They complement each other. You could still shoot and retrieve if the ball were cold and flat, but dribbling was absent. That felt funny and incongruent; shooting without first dribbling hindered my flow during practice. 

After seeing how well certain players could maneuver the basketball just by being an effective dribbler, I mentioned the value of dribbling. Many kids practiced jump shots or layups repeatedly, but couldn't control the basketball. That meant they couldn't effectively move towards the basket and often had the ball stolen with their careless dribbling. Being a good dribbler enables a player to get to a good position before shooting or getting to a spot to help their teammate get an easy shot. Ineffective dribbling created a situation where the ball could be easily stolen or stifled the team's offensive action.  

Snow Removal First 

I typically was the only one in a house of ten who felt energized by shooting baskets in the backyard. I often wanted one of my three brothers to play with me, but they were rarely interested. Therefore, I’d play alone and imagine being a star basketball player in front of thousands of spectators.

Due to the season, my first responsibility was shoveling snow when it fell. My dad designated me as the snow removal crew at the time (crew of one), especially in high school. He wisely knew I had energy to burn, so pushing the white stuff off the driveway was typically just a warm-up before I shot baskets. Sometimes, I thought shoveling, which preceded basketball, helped improve my jump shot and movement; at least, that's what I imagined. 

The basketball hoop and backboard were attached to the top of the garage. I appreciated that my dad measured it precisely at 10 feet (more than 3 meters) to help prepare for parochial school basketball and beyond. The garage door was manual and consisted of four horizontal rectangular panels. The second section from the top was glass, which meant that when I shot baskets, I'd lift the door to two sections above the bottom so that the glass was no longer exposed. Regardless of this approach, I had to tell my dad sheepishly on occasion when a glass section had broken.

Once I went to college, the court became more of a parking lot than a basketball court. My younger brothers never took to the court the way I did. Coincidentally, my father had purchased a snow blower once I had left. Was this a coincidence? I never complained directly to him about shoveling snow, but being away, I wondered if some lobbying did occur, which prompted him to buy a convenient tool.

Set Shots were too Old-fashioned for Someone Lookin' for Some Street Cred

Returning from work, my dad would see me playing and sometimes join me in shooting a few minutes of basketball. He was a good athlete, fast, and a great jumper (he went to state in the high jump in high school), so basketball came naturally to him. His forte was the set shot; his shot reminded me of Bob Cousy of the '60s Boston Celtics. His generation was rarely exposed to the jump shot; basketball was much less of a vertical game than it is today. Because of his set shot, I seldom won at playing horse (a basketball shooting game). I was much less likely to match his set-shot accuracy while I attempted jump shots while playing horse.

I was perhaps a bit stubborn then, but I never wanted to develop a set shot. I wanted to play the more modern game, meaning the jump shot was a key to improving my game. From my pre-teen and teenage mentality, my appearance was more important than my effectiveness. To put it another way, I wanted to add street cred to my game, so I focused on improving my jump shot. (Even though I regularly didn't play in the street.) An objective observer might say I was masochistic, focusing merely on improving my jump shot when the set shot might also be something I could add to my repertoire. I used “masochistic” because my jump shot marginally enhanced over hundreds of hours of practice.

Escape to the Backyard 

When I played in the backyard, it was an escape. I avoided the arguing, bickering, and teasing that often occurred, especially among my seven siblings. With a small house of about 1,100 square feet (102 square meters), despite the cold and wind, this activity fitted me well when considering the alternative. 

Sometimes, the basketball escaped over the 4-foot wooden fence into our neighbor's yard. Sometimes, I was tempted to climb the fence, but since it was wooden and old and not something I could afford to repair, I took the safe approach. The fence posed problems, and I realized I needed to take better shots to reduce the number of reckless ones. I first surveyed whether the dog was in their backyard or if it had gone into the other yard. The dog wasn't that aggressive, but I also knew some dogs are protective of their space. Therefore, I'd typically tread carefully to avoid that confrontation. If their gate was ever locked, I was too shy to knock on their front door and disturb them. If this were the case, I would use an old rusty garden rake from the garage to bring the ball close to my neighbor’s fence, which was the easy part. Once near the bottom of their fence, I'd carefully use this garden rake to capture the basketball, inch by inch, by the teeth of the rake. After I'd captured it with the opposite side of the garden rake, I carefully raised the rake from the bottom to the top of the fence until I had possession of the basketball. This activity reminded me of that arcade game, attempting to catch an object with a metal object to bring it home securely.

Dealing with Mud

Once the snow melted, I had to deal with the mud. March and April were the mud months. My dad was proficient with landscaping the lawn, but because the backyard often served as a skating rink in the winter, and was regularly used by some of my siblings, we frequently had more patches of mud than grass. While working on my jump shot, the basketball had a mind of its own and sometimes bounced off the rim or backboard, landing on the grass. Once it hit the grass, it would often stick to the mud. What's worse, a muddy or flat basketball? I wore torn old clothes while shooting baskets, sometimes at my mom's request. Sometimes, I saw more mud than actual leather on the round ball. If I were lucky, I found a small pile of the white stuff that had not yet melted to help clear away the mud. I'd have to be careful not to expose the ball to too much snow; otherwise, dribbling would be a struggle. Sometimes, no snow could be found, so I’d rub the dirt off on my old, torn sweatshirt. When this occurred, I’d find an empty hook in the garage, and the last thing I wanted was to be scolded for bringing a muddy sweatshirt into the house.

Basketball 101

A wise man that I met through the game of basketball mentioned that the skill of rebounding and passing could help you be an asset on the hardwood court. Said differently, it was not all about scoring and making incredible baskets.  When you improve your passing, you are making your team better. Some players become better passers than shooters. Because the game requires many skills to perform well, having good fundamentals makes you a more valuable player, especially if you are fortunate enough to have an astute coach who will put you in a position to utilize those skills effectively. Unfortunately, my basketball coaches over the years didn’t realize that fact.

Regarding rebounding, that wise man stressed that basketball was about desire and will. If you want to secure the basketball after a missed shot, it is known that you’d experience some physical play under the basket. Preventing your opponent from getting between you and the basket was critical, and anticipating where the ball would go after an errant shot also helped rebounding. If you could anticipate reasonably, that would put you in a better position to stand your ground under the basket and secure the rebound.

I wasn't good enough to play high school basketball. There was too much competition with a school of over 2,300 students for three grades, so I played intramurals. That competition was fiercer than when my friends and I played hoops in my backyard. Many intramural opponents disliked me when I learned to box out my opponent to secure the rebound effectively. Some players were more substantial, taller, or better leapers, but certain fundamentals helped my game. I had experiences where more athletic players would curse at me on the court, thinking their skills should outperform my fundamentals. Through my challenging experiences, I realized that genuinely exceptional basketball players also utilize their mental skills and don’t rely solely on athleticism.

Double or Nothing Bet

One cold and windy December day, my older brother decided to head out to the court to shoot baskets. We played a little one-on-one and did silly things on the court when he suddenly had an idea. He proposed a shooting contest, and considering he was older, he chose to go first. The starting point was at the free throw line, approximately 15 feet (over 4.5 meters) from the basket. He bet me a dollar that he could make the shot, but his attempt was unsuccessful, so he upped the bet to two dollars. As part of the bet, he had to back up a few feet (approximately one-half meter) after every miss. He did not appear to have his "A" game and missed from about 17, 19, and then 21 feet. Double or nothing. He continued to miss, and at about 25 feet (over seven meters), the ball started to circle the rim twice before it fell to the left. At this point, the snow began to fall, and the wind started swirling around the backyard.

I thought Mother Nature was on my side, giving me a competitive advantage. I also realized at this point that his arms were starting to tire. He was determined to succeed, undeterred by his sore arms and inclement weather. He then threw the basketball with his right arm, knowing that shooting a basketball one-handed at that distance significantly reduced his accuracy, but he felt he had no other options. Still no basket. I was keeping track; at this point, it was hundreds of dollars. He moved back to a distance of well over 40 feet (over 12 meters). I would tell him how much he owed me before he was ready to shoot, to add additional pressure. He continued to retreat, but being so far away from the circular, orange object attached to the garage, he got to a point where he barely moved backward. I don’t think he had noticed that I had seen his sneakiness, but I didn't care, as I felt it wouldn't be his day. Still, my brother had no success as I started counting the money in my head, thinking about how to use this windfall. He was close to exhaustion, and his demeanor displayed a defeated posture, yet he continued to proceed, using only one hand. On his next shot, he threw the ball again with only his right hand, softly hitting the backboard and then dropping it into the basket. We were now even, and I could see relief across his face. I was happy for him, but still sad that I lost the bet, even though I sensed I was so close to victory. As we walked off the court, he said, "I'll never do that again."

I never got a chance to shoot, but we were both tired and ready for supper. We went inside, and my mother wondered why we had played basketball in the snow and wind. My older brother just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that my mom would disapprove of the negative mentoring he gave his younger brother. Not realizing things from his perspective, I blurted out, "It was double or nothing; he missed his first shot, so he owed me one dollar. He continued to miss as the stakes got increasingly tenuous. He was lucky to make a basket finally. Otherwise, he would have owed me over a thousand dollars." My mother gave my brother a look like he should know better than to bet, especially with his younger, more impressionable brother. Weirdly, I felt like I had won, even though no additional money appeared in my pocket.