We Want Fuzzy!

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It's certainly funny how your mind plays tricks on you. I took Sam to swim class today and waited for him in the school gymnasium. The basketball nets were down, the scoreboard was posted high above the front rim and the school's logo "Wildcats" was emblazoned on the floor.

As I walked through the center of the tip-off circle, I thought of playing high school basketball and all the fun I had. I remembered that we had a tip-off play where Chris would tap it to Joe while Al streaked to the basket and scored on a layup. It worked every time. 2-0 North Collins!

I thought of the bleachers filled with students and all the girls who we had crushes on watching us warm up. I was always afraid of raising my arms because I didn't have any armpit hair - I'd stand at the foul line and my coach would be screaming "Fuzzy -hands up!"

I didn't start a lot of games because I couldn't do anything but shoot the ball. Yet I became a fan favorite of sorts when I tossed in a three quarters length shot to end a first half. It was a straight, lucky heave, but my classmates never forgot it.

So, there I'd sit on the bench and watch as we played the first half and then it would begin. "We want Fuzzy!"

As I walked through the gym today and stood at the foul line, my mind tripped me back to those days almost thirty years ago. A small child and his father entered the gym and the kid just ran and ran and ran - from end of the gym to another. The father just laughed - "I wish I still had that energy," he said.

"Yeah, it goes away quickly," I said.

I wondering if he could hear the chant that was echoing inside my head.

"We want Fuzzy!"

"Get in there, before they lynch me," my coach said. "And get your hands up - I don't care if you haven't hit puberty yet. And shoot everytime you get the ball."

The last instruction was one he didn't really have to give me - they don't chant your name for passing the ball.

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