We Played Hoops in the Snow

That’s how much I love hoops

We would shovel the snow off the driveway in the winter and play basketball with gloves covering our hands and dribble and shoot in our black rubber boots and burly coats.

I hadn’t grown yet to six-foot-three, so the nine-year-old version of me relied on a quick first step to dribble past my eleven-year-old brother with a mop of hair toward the hoop.

I’d fake to the left like I saw my favorite NBA player Randy Smith for the Buffalo Braves do on tv, and then drive past my brother and kiss the ball off the backboard for another basket.

Swish! I took a 6–5 lead over my brother and his frustration was increasing due to the prospect of losing to his younger brother.

It was a classic sibling rivalry. The Lakers vs. Celtics. North Carolina vs. Duke. And my nine-year-old emotions could smell the big upset.

Little brother beats big brother, 7–5, and that’s what happened. Moments later, I stole the ball and sank the game-winning, driving lay-up.

That’s where my love of basketball started, and I credit my dad for influencing my love since he put the hoop in our driveway and drove us an hour away to Buffalo Braves games.

I took to the Braves as a six-year-old the way most kids take to superheroes. I can still remember the names of many of their players. Bob McAdoo, Randy Smith, Jim McMillian, Ernie DiDegrorio, John Shumate, Bird Averitt, Swen Nater, Adrian Dantley, Marvin Barnes, and chubby, bald veteran Don Adams.

Related posts:

I call upon those three. I call upon the fully formed, the wiser than all and the one whose growth spurt has jolted her into unexpected young adulthood. Delhi, Bombay and Guwahati (not quite in that…