Damn
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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