Damn

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Damn.

That's the basketball home at my mother's house. It's a hoop that we hammered with shots.

I was lethal from about 18' away on the right side, of course.

I had no left hand whatsoever.

Damn.

All those games of two-on-two.

And one-on-one.

The shooting contests, made more interesting when we involved beer.

How many shots could we hit in a row?

My brother was on one mower on Saturday. I was on the other. We whipped around the yard and as I looked up I watched John scream on by.

It could have been a scene from 30 years ago.

Except I looked back at the worn hoop.

Damn.

We'd shot hoops one Saturday afternoon, drinking beer all the way. There were four of us there that day and we were splitting a case of beer. We had to get another case fairly quickly.

That afternoon delayed my friend Chris' wedding by a year.

"I'd do it again," Chris told me recently. "That was a great day."

I'm old enough to know that the memories can't hurt a thing.

My boys now wear out the hoop in our driveway. I know that years from now if I look at that hoop I'm gonna' feel pain too.

Just Damn.

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