What it was---was basketball

 

It could be any day of any season in the neighborhood. The neighbors had heard the sounds before, coming from the DeBruhl house. I wonder what they must have thought as they looked out their windows. Christi, age six, probably was running from house to house anyway, gathering her own group of neighborhood friends, bringing them to the front yard as she told them that we were all at it again. Our patio was huge and was surrounded by the proverbial  white picket fence. Only four people lived in this dream house, but the patio was full of teenage boys’ voices, along with Jim’s and Kevin’s. There were both black and white boys, totally involved in this event. Words like “Mine!” “No!” “Foul!” “out of bounds!” “Where’s the ball?” “Kevin go get the ball!” “Jump!” “Sorry!” “Move!” “Too short!” “You missed!”  “Time out!” could be heard clearly, probably for half a mile down the road.

Kevin was nine. One day he came running in the house crying. “Their arms and legs are all over the place,” he complained. “There is no way I can ever win! I don’t know if I am going to play anymore. They can go get their own stupid ball!” Then the door slammed as he retreated to the safe walls of his room, only for a little while. Somehow the challenge just could not keep from beckoning to him. Soon he would be out the back door once more, jumping into the middle of the group, trying to duck under the tall legs that seemed to be like octopus’ arms to a child.

Above the voices and the sound of a ball being batted around, was the sound of music coming from high in the air. Sometimes the sound would seem to be muffled as a loud noise banged into it with a vengeance.

Many days I might be found inside preparing a picnic for everybody, often with Sharon, who was married to James, who belonged to one of those voices outside. Other days I would light the grill and the smell would mix with the sounds coming from the patio.

 

What it was, was what we all referred to as “blind basketball.” All the boys were blind except Kevin, and then there was Jim and a few other boys with very limited vision. The goal was in front of the picket fence and often the ball would go out of bounds into the neighbor’s yard, sometimes rolling into tall weeds where only Kevin could find it. Jim had hooked a small radio onto the goal, just in back of the basket so the boys could hear where to throw the ball. When a blind boy got to shoot a basket because of a foul, he would often walk up, touch the rim, step back a few steps and most times almost lay the ball in for the point. To everybody, it was just as real a game as though the teams were the Wolfpack and the Tar Heels.

Today there is a new form of our original clumsy little improvised basketball in the back yard. It is now called “goal ball” and is played in real gyms with real teams and no make-shift radio speaker for the prompting. Of course Kevin grew up, and was able to beat all those big boys who played blind basket ball on our patio. Yet, even today, if by chance Jim or I happen to meet any of those boys. “Remember me? We played basketball in your yard,” they remind us, even though whatever the season …   it was thirty years ago. 

 

TBT

One day many years ago I was watching Oprah Winfrey on TV. If I remember correctly, she was visiting Durham, NC and filmed her program from there. I surely do hope she does not see this and take me to task over it, but I do remember that the program was about weight. During the program she, or someone on the show, made a remark about how blind people can be overweight easily because they cannot see how they look. At the time I wanted to talk with her about that remark. However, of course I never tried, probably because I knew my comments would never reach her... and because at the time, this blind person was overweight.

It is amazing to me how soon in life food seems to have a viable part of all we do. As a small child, I just knew that food was something you ate three times a day. Once I attended the NC School for the Blind in 1950, I learned it was something you did three times a day... like it or not. I was so small that my bottom lip fit right underneath the plate on the little table. We were supposed to eat everything on the plate. If I raked the food off the plate with my fork it would land right in my mouth. Once there, I would chew it up if I liked it, or if not, would swallow it whole, pushing it down without tasting it with a big swallow of milk. Of course all of us, when we were children heard the story of all the hungry children in the world who had nothing to eat. All of us probably like me, said at least one time, “Please send them this.”

Okay, before everybody in America and beyond starts bombarding me with books, supplements, drinks, newest diet fads, programs, sports equipment, apps, advice and then some, let me just say that this is only a fun blog, and at this time I am doing well with changing my life style and realizing its necessity, and the fact that it is not just a change for today, but for always. Please just send me your sincere prayers that I will remember. I just want to share a few dieting adventures.

Most of us have done all kinds of diets, including starvation ones when we believed we had learned just how the hungry children must feel. I have done liquid diets which only gave me bad breath, chicken diets where you eat chicken every day and come to meetings where you make faces to keep wrinkles at bay. Those faces probably gave a whole new meaning to a chicken dance. There have been package food diets I sold at a yard sale. Once I even did a diet through my church which might have worked except I knew if I messed up God would forgive me. I do not know if Oprah is thin or heavy at this time since I cannot see her, but I know how heavy I was at the beginning of my journey to a new life style. This silly little poem was written maybe thirty years ago, but it could well have been written today. Hope you enjoy it with me.  

TEMPTATION

The devil appears to me wearing a coat designed by Hershey’s to …

Take the knowledge of taste right to my waist.

“Aha!” I laugh; “I know who you are,

and my God is bigger than a chocolate bar!”

So he sends out his workers.

They arrive with the heavenly taste and crackling crunch

Of a potato chip.

“Now, retaining fluid is nobody’s fault,”

they tell me from under their blankets of salt.

“I recognize you—every one!”

And I send them away—

And I think that I’ve won.

Then comes the weekend.

Oh no!  Right in the middle of my garden of Eden has

sprouted up a Pizza Hut!

“with mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage and lots of extra

cheeze—please!”

“Oh, God,” I complain;

“All Eve had to turn down was one little old dumb apple.

Why do you allow the enemy to tempt me with pizza?”

“Maybe they were BIG apples,” He gently says.

“Maybe they were Granny Smith’s or Red Delicious.”

“Well, God,” I protest, “I can turn down barrels full of all

kinds and sizes of apples.”

“Perhaps not,” He gently reminds me:  “Not if you thought

the recipe for pizza was inside one of them.”

A Saturday Morning

This poem may sound a bit cheesy, but it was fun to write as Vivi and I met up with all these things on our walk this morning.

A SATURDAY MORNING

Grass mowers,

Leaf blowers,

Weed hoers,

Seed sowers,

Garden growers,

Fertilizer throwers,

Curb trim roar-ers,

I don’t knowers,

Hardware store goers.

Not to Mention

Crowded stores,

Signs for wet floors

Cash no mores,

Which bathroom is yours,

Not like befores,

In and Out doors.

All negated by

Walking with ease,

Holding Vivi’s leads,

Knowing she sees

Every one of these.

We hear birds in the trees,

Smell the fall leaves,

Feel a cool breeze,

Sunshine to please

As the day proceeds,

Everything I need,

And there are no fees,

For God’s peace is free.

Throback Thursday from Journal

  November 9, 2004

I knew working was going to be a challenge, but I didn't realize the challenge is not the work, the challenge is working to find time to play around the work. Time has seemed to just ball itself up in a little ball and roll right on out my front door. Then, when I go to tell somebody all I've been doing it sounds like I've not been doing anything at all.

November 12, 2004

I have made a dent in my Christmas shopping at least. I have Mom's stocking done; that's my dint.

December 4, 2004

Yesterday something came up to start Taylor and me talking about God. I asked her if she believed in God and she said that she did. I asked her if she knew about Jesus and she said that she knew that Jesus is God also. So, I began the long process of trying to put the entire Bible in two minutes. She wanted to know who was in the world first and how far back did Mammaw's mama and her mama and her mama and all mamas go. So, I figured I'd start at the beginning and tell her that in the beginning was always God and the first man was Adam and then God made Eve. She said "And they were the first people?"  I told her they were and she got really excited and said "Then we are all in this world just one big family!"  I told her that was entirely correct, that we are generations and generations of one huge dysfunctional family. then as her Oodles cooked I was telling her about sin and Jesus and his dying and coming back to life, living with God now and would live in her heart. Her noodles were done and I knew I was losing her, yet it felt like something was pushing words right on out of me and landing in that bowl of noodles. She was more interested in eating than listening until I told her that if she would pray for Jesus to come into her heart then she could know He would always be there for her to pray to and would help her. Suddenly she became excited again.

“Will He help me do my homework?” she asked.