Vignette
My earliest childhood memories go back to approximately age 3. We lived in a small house with the back yard directly adjoining the school playground, which happened to be the very school in which my father was a teacher and coach.
We had a kind retired couple next door, and they may be responsible for my lifelong addiction to ice cream. They gave me some ice cream, and from then on I wanted to visit them every day, just for the chance at another bowl of that elixir from the gods. It was sort of messy, and I got it all over my face and clothes, but I did not care.
I enjoyed the playground, spending plenty of time on the swings and slide. My little sister, about 18 months younger, seemed to like climbing the stairs and sitting at the top of the slide, but then would become frightened. She would sit on the slide, wailing, until I retrieved our mother to rescue her. It seemed just a big bother to me.
My favorite playground activity was basketball. Now I was way too small to put a basketball through those regulation hoops. But I had a small orange toy basketball, which I tried valiantly to hoist through that unfathomably high hoop. Whether my memory is legitimate on this point can be debated, but I still believe that I was able to heave that little toy basketball through that hoop successfully at least once. That memory has me running excitedly into the house to tell my mother, "I made a basket!".
I don't think she believed me.
But my technique must have been interesting, if not humorous. I would fling the little orange ball underhanded with both hands up toward the basket, then quickly duck and cover my head with both hands. Because that little ball could hurt when it landed on top of my head.
The basketball thing might have taken root in a visit I still recall to one of my father's high school basketball practices. I was in awe of those high school players, who seemed so adept at dribbling and shooting. I so badly wanted to be able to do that.
One of the players caught my attention because of his unique jump shot. As I picture him in my head today, he would start with a conventional jump shot, but just as he released the ball, he would sort of kick up his feet behind him. For some reason, I found that to be a fascinating and memorable shooting technique. I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like it since.
Today I still enjoy basketball, and have recently been trying to dust off my game at the local gym. I'm hoping to be fit enough to start playing in a recreation league for older adults by next winter. So far, so good.
We had a kind retired couple next door, and they may be responsible for my lifelong addiction to ice cream. They gave me some ice cream, and from then on I wanted to visit them every day, just for the chance at another bowl of that elixir from the gods. It was sort of messy, and I got it all over my face and clothes, but I did not care.
I enjoyed the playground, spending plenty of time on the swings and slide. My little sister, about 18 months younger, seemed to like climbing the stairs and sitting at the top of the slide, but then would become frightened. She would sit on the slide, wailing, until I retrieved our mother to rescue her. It seemed just a big bother to me.
My favorite playground activity was basketball. Now I was way too small to put a basketball through those regulation hoops. But I had a small orange toy basketball, which I tried valiantly to hoist through that unfathomably high hoop. Whether my memory is legitimate on this point can be debated, but I still believe that I was able to heave that little toy basketball through that hoop successfully at least once. That memory has me running excitedly into the house to tell my mother, "I made a basket!".
I don't think she believed me.
But my technique must have been interesting, if not humorous. I would fling the little orange ball underhanded with both hands up toward the basket, then quickly duck and cover my head with both hands. Because that little ball could hurt when it landed on top of my head.
The basketball thing might have taken root in a visit I still recall to one of my father's high school basketball practices. I was in awe of those high school players, who seemed so adept at dribbling and shooting. I so badly wanted to be able to do that.
One of the players caught my attention because of his unique jump shot. As I picture him in my head today, he would start with a conventional jump shot, but just as he released the ball, he would sort of kick up his feet behind him. For some reason, I found that to be a fascinating and memorable shooting technique. I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like it since.
Today I still enjoy basketball, and have recently been trying to dust off my game at the local gym. I'm hoping to be fit enough to start playing in a recreation league for older adults by next winter. So far, so good.
posted by Dan S. at 3:29 PM
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