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.