Grip on Sports: Basketball memories can be buffeted by the winds, but never blown away completely

A GRIP ON SPORTS • We lost a valued member of our household over the weekend, one that served us well from nearly 25 years. It’s hard to let go.

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• Chapter One: Filling a Space.

In the summer of 1994, Kim and I decided it was time to landscape the yard. And there was one thing we had to have: A basketball court. Flowers and grass and lights were cool and all, but we weren’t raising a lawn here, we were raising two rambunctious and energetic boys. A basketball court was a must.

Tyler, who would turn 10 in the late summer, and Jack, 6, were beginning to play their mother’s best sport. They weren’t going to be lightning quick or exceptionally tall, so they needed to learn how to shoot. Well.

A large chunk of the backyard was designated for a court. Lucky for our pocketbook, our neighbor was a contractor. He had cement connections. That helped. The court we poured was nearly 50 feet wide and 25 feet deep. Big enough for a half court that had a 3-point line all round.

Such a magnificent court needed a hoop and backboard to match. It wasn’t easy back then, but we were able to find a square backboard made of plexiglass, part of a hoop that was state of the art. To make sure the support pole didn’t sway, we filled it halfway up with cement. Nothing was moving that baby.

On Oct. 1, we anchored the hoop in the concrete. Kim, Tyler, Jack and I scratched our names and the date around the hoop. It was part of our home.

• Chapter Two: The Prime Years.

Is there much better than the sound of a basketball hitting the concrete, banging off a backboard, swishing through a net? Yes there is. When those sounds happen late on summer nights.

The first few years of life, our backyard court received use from early mornings to late nights. We found a powerful light, rigged up an extension cord that could be wound up, and even if the sun gave out, the games could go on.

And did they.

The boys in the neighborhood would wander over and play. Oh sure, there may be a wiffle-ball game first. Or a cul-de-sac roller hockey battle. But there were always basketball games. Heck, for a few years our adult Hoopfest team even held “practices” on the court, though that was much more about the cooler sitting in the shade for the post-practice conversation than it was for the hoop.

The court seemed to always be in use. It got so I bought a few nylon nets, just to make sure I had one ready when the last one wore out. As our boys made their way through elementary and junior high school, the hoop was a friend, always ready to share time when needed. And never complaining when it wasn’t.

• Chapter Three: Fading Away.

Boys age. Interests change. Playing basketball wasn’t in the cards. But the hoop still stood sentry in the backyard, waiting silently to be called upon. Occasionally, it was. It became more of a social setting, as, in high school, visitors stood around, shooting hoops and talking about how they were going to change the world.

As the years went by, the boys developed new games for the court. One even included a soccer ball, the basketball rim and a weird way of scoring via headers and kicks. It was hard to understand, but it was the Sunday evening game of choice for years. So much so, we pulled out some plants near the court and replaced them with grass, conceding the soccer ball and the trampling feet had won.

A small tree west of the court, planted back in 1994, continued to grow. It became more than shade. It became a nuisance, if you wanted to shoot from the left wing.

As the boys grew and left town, the hoop began to wear. The court itself was transformed into more of a patio, with lawn furniture sitting under the shade of the tree. The hoop, used less and less, started to become a common home for yellow jackets, necessitating a once-a-year cleansing.

The key and 3-point line, painted on from a stencil back in the 1990s, faded. The red and blue paint was almost gone by the time first one son and then another moved home and moved out again.

• Chapter Four: The End Comes.

If there is one thing certain about poles and male dogs, it is they will become bosom buddies. Over the years, our Lab and Great Dane rarely passed by without saying hello, if you get my drift.

Once, twice I pulled out the brushes and the paint, cleaning and reworking the bottom of the pole, though as the years went by it seemed less and less important. After all, the neighborhood kids were no longer visiting, no one was hanging around the hoop chatting, the soccer-like games had faded away.

Our basket was just there, a reminder of the past, sure, but no longer of use.

Still, as much as we may have talked about someday taking it down, inertia and nostalgia combined to keep it upright.

Until Sunday.

Spring weather in the Inland Northwest contains many elements. Hail, rain, pollen. And wind. Gusty winds. Such was the case Sunday afternoon.

I was sitting in the living room, reading. The doors were open to better let the breezes flow through the house. It was holiday-weekend quiet in the neighborhood.

Until it wasn’t.

A crack was followed by a boom. Something outside had fallen.

A tree branch? I got up, looked out front. Nothing. Out the side. Nope. Out back. Crap.

A gust of wind had snapped the rusted out basketball hoop about 4 inches from the cement. The support, the backboard, the rim, all lay on the court at a weird angle.

The forensic report tells it all. The pole had snapped and the basket came down hard directly on the rim, bending it into the shape of a watermelon. But the concrete had only slowed it. The whole apparatus had bounced once, rolling enough to hit on the backboard and breaking the plexiglass into three pieces.

The supports were bent beyond repair. The concrete scuffed. The basket was dead.

• Chapter Five: The Aftermath.

Memorial Day is meant for remembering. For remembering people who sacrificed. But it became, at least for me, a day of work. And remembering. As I loosened the bolts Kim and I had tightened together 25 years – and two lifetimes – ago, I remembered the many times the hoop helped me connect with my boys.

Each ratchet click triggered another thought until not only were my arms tired but my mind as well. The games of horse. One-on-one. How to drop step. Perfecting a left-handed layup. Taking a charge. Setting a ball screen.

Basketball lessons in one way but not really. Time spent with your sons. That’s what the hoop meant. Laughter, tears, sadness, joy.

Life.

Twenty-five years of providing a venue for our family to bond. Gone in an instant.

One day this week I will gather up the remains and take it to the waste-to-energy plant. I will roll them out the back of the pickup into a pile of debris. An ignominious end to a faithful servant.

The memories will fade, slowly, just as the hoop’s purpose faded, until, one day, they are gone.

Except, maybe they won’t.

Yesterday, Tyler returned from a weekend at the lake. He knew what had happened. Late in the evening, he took an old friend into the back yard, a former member of the soccer-game crowd. They examined the damage, the remains.

They talked. They laughed. They remembered.

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WSU: Around the Pac-12, the rest of the NCAA baseball field was announced yesterday and the conference was again penalized for not having a tournament. UCLA may be the No. 1 seed and Arizona State earned a berth, but the one true bubble team, Arizona, didn’t make it. … Utah has added another football recruit for the fall. … Arizona is losing another basketball player.

Gonzaga: In the WCC, the only conference school in the NCAA baseball tournament, Loyola Marymount, has to get past UCLA to make it to Omaha.

Indians: Bill Buckner died yesterday. His death was a national story because he became a national story. But around here, he’s remembered for being part of the greatest minor league team ever. Johnathan Curley has a locally tinged obituary.

Mariners: Dan Vogelbach hit a ball into the upper deck. The M’s didn’t commit an error. And the pitching was solid. The M’s won, 6-2, to open a homestand. … Dee Gordon came back too soon. Now he’s paying the price. … Gene Warnick is back with the Out of Right Field recap.

Seahawks: The Hawks hope to have found another top-notch slot receiver.

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• My alma mater, UC Irvine, had a good baseball season. Only lost 15 times. Won as many weekend series as any team in the nation. Finished a game out in the Big West, one of the top baseball conferences in the country. And yet didn’t get an at-large berth in the NCAA tournament. I’m angry. And, being Italian, I will hold a grudge. Until later …