Around the World

I was clickity clacking away on my keyboard, purging ideas out of me at a rapid pace, when my wife who was rummaging through boxes in the closet yells out, “Oh my God!” I got off my ergonomically correct chair and went to find out what caused that reaction from her.

“How old were you in this?” holding up a photo directly at me.

I grabbed the piece of nostalgia and studied it like a map.

“I think fourteen. This was eighth grade.”

“You were so skinny. What’s all that writing on the ball? Who took the picture?

“My dad took it. I won this ball in a shooting contest, after a big practice between all the basketball teams one day. Coach had everybody sign the ball after I won it.”

“Why do you look so dorky holding it?”

“Dorky? I look cool. I just beat a bunch of kids.”

“What’s going on with that haircut?”

“It was the eighties. No one had good hair back then."

I scanned the names scribbled all over the ball, which was difficult how many signatures were on it. One signature caught my attention – Andy Meikle. The biggest one.

I squatted next to my wife. She rested her head on my shoulder, and we gazed at the photo together.

“Look at that big smile. You look so happy,” she said.

“I was. Felt so good to win. Especially who I beat.”

“What was the contest?”

“It was called Around the World. We had to make shots at various spots on the court. If you missed, you were out.”

Then in a split second, my brain was back in that old gym, with rims that didn’t break away, a creaky floor and Coach Lindeman, a middle-aged, balding man, in shorts and a polo, giving us the rules. He was your cookie cutter gym teacher, but popular with us students.

“The winner of this competition will get this brand-new Spalding basketball,” Coach said, holding up the cardboard box with the ball in it. Few of the kids scoffed at the simple prize, but I didn’t have a basketball, so it was like a thousand-dollar prize to me.

“All right boys, who wants to go first at the free throw line?” Coached asked.

Took a second, but a fellow big man, Wade, raised his hand. He was an inch taller than me, and a little girthier. He walked to the line, dribbled, looked at the rim, and nailed it.

For the next hour, one teenage boy after another, would miss shots “around the world.” Yet, I was still in the mix vying for the prize. My jumper and well concealed competitive nature carried me to the final three shooters. I was a honey badger when it came to competition, especially in basketball. Fierce and relentless. I hated to lose more than I liked to win.

“Looks like the last three are Mike, Andy, and Steve. Next shots are baseline jumpers from each side. Who wants to go first?” Coach asked.

“I’ll go,” raising my hand. Coach bounced the ball towards me as I walked to the right baseline. I dribbled a few times, lifted high off the ground and SWISH. Nothing but net. Mike went to the same spot, dribbled, shot, then CLANG, off the rim. The last big man besides me was out.

“Ok, Andy. Your turn,” Coach said.

Andy was a guard and my teammate. We weren't close and rarely spoke to each other in school. We ran with different crowds and had different economic backgrounds, meaning his parents had money.

Andy dribbled confidently over to the same spot, aimed, and SWISH.

“Alright boys, it’s down to Steve and Andy. Time to shoot on the other side,” Coach stated. “Andy, you shoot first this time.”

“You ready, Calves?” Andy asked me.

He called me Calves, because he could not understand how someone with big calves like mine couldn’t jump. I did have big calves and could not jump worth a lick. But I could shoot, and when he asked me if I was ready, I was ready like a virgin teenage boy on prom night.

Andy grabbed the ball, took two dribbles, and dropped it through the net. He walked past me with a shit-eating grin, and said, “Don’t choke, Calves. Just kidding.”

I took the same spot, dribbled three times, aimed and dropped it through the net as well. I held my shot for a few seconds longer than needed for Andy’s amusement.

“Since both made the baseline shots, we’re going to the top of the key for the next one. If both make it, then it’s from half court,” Coach stated.

I started to feel a little pressure. My shooting percentage from top of the key was low during the season. Andy was at his best from the top.

“You know this is my shot,” Andy reminded me. “I’ll shoot first,” he told Coach. “Alright then. Shoot when you’re ready,” Coach answered.

It was hard to tell if the crowd was for me or for Andy. It felt like 50/50.

Andy took his normal two dribbles, aimed and let the ball fly. I watched the ball with eyes wide open and hands on my knees. The shot had a high arch, nice rotation, and floated straight towards the rim. The ball was on the downward slope, then CLANG, off the front of the rim and onto the floor. He missed! The smirk on Andy’s face was now a gaping mouth expression. He walked over to the sideline and got words of sympathy only eighth grade boys could give.

“Down to you, Steve. Make it and you are the winner. You ready?” Coach asked.

I put my hands out requesting the ball. He passed it to me walking to the same spot. I dribbled four times, looked at the rim, and let it go. It felt funny coming off my hands and drifted to the right. “Oh shit,” I thought, “I’m gonna miss.” I lean to my left to telepathically guide it back. Then the greatest moment in my teenage life, up to that moment, happened. The ball CLANGED on the right side of the rim, bounced four feet over it, and fell through the net. THE CROWD WENT WILD! Not really a crowd, but a bunch of teenage boys standing on the sideline.

“Nice shot,” Coach said to me. “Didn’t look good going up.”

“Sure didn’t,” I replied with relief.

Coach pulled the ball out, grabbed a marker, then handed both to Andy. “I want everyone to sign it. You can be the first one, Andy, since you were runner up,” he said.

Andy signed it, then passed it to the next guy.

“Good shot, Calves,” Andy said, then shook my hand.

The ball and marker finally made its way to me. I put my own John Hancock below the Spalding logo, then twirled it a few times to see all the signatures.

“Alright, everybody get the hell out of my gym! See ya at school tomorrow,” Coach yelled.

I put the ball back in its box before I joined everybody out in the hallway to leave.

Later I walked into my house and had the ball underneath my arm.

“Where in the hell didya get that?” my dad asked.

“I won it at practice. We had a shooting contest, and I was the last one to make a shot.”

“What’s the black ink all over it?”

“All the kids signed it.”

“Really? Let’s get a picture of you and the ball.”

“I don’t want to take a picture. It’s just a ball.”

Dad grabbed his camera and pointed it at me.

“Come on, hold it up. Be proud of what you won. I am.”

Reluctantly, I held the ball up as my proud father snapped the picture and froze time forever.

“Babe…Babe…hey.”

Just like that, I snapped out of my trip down memory lane and was back in the closet with my wife. I looked at her with a big smile.

“Where’d ya go?” she asked.

“You know my dad died a month later, after this photo was taken?”

“You never told me that. So, what happened to the ball?”

“I buried it with dad.”

“Still talk to any of the kids that signed it?”

“Just one. Andy Meikle. He Facebook friended me few years ago. Asked if I still had the ball after all these years. He admited he’s still pissed about losing that day, but glad it was to me.”

“That's a really nice story, Babe. Goes great with this cute photo of you."

My wife kissed me on the lips, grabbed my hand, then pulled me up and guided me to our bed. He shoots. He scores!