HANDS OF BRICK a a three-story collection of the game of hoops.
Hockey and baseball have long been New England’s two favorite sports, since they offered outdoor entertainment to young boys in the seasons of good sledding and bad sledding. Our gods played in Fenway Park and the Boston Garden, but one night a radio announcer’s raspy voice introduced the world of basketball and Johnny Most sunk his hook deep.
“And Havlicek stole the ball.”
I loved the Celtics, but my lack of offense skill prevented my playing on the schoolyard, until I hit New York City to discover that defense was my forte. After that revelation I became a fixture in Tompkins Square Park. My teammates called me ‘The Brick’ for my horrid shooting and ferocious defense against taller player.
I played all the time and on the court forgot everything about the world other than playing ball.
When I was happy, I played basketball. When I was sad, I played basketball. When I was hung-over, I played basketball. When I was broken-hearted, I played basketball. When I was alone, I played basketball. It was a game for all occasions.
I still shoot at the DeKalb playground and the ball feels good in my hands, although its hitting the rim like a brick outnumbers my ‘all-net’ shots by an incalculable number.
Three stories about my basketball jones and the people with whom I played hoops.
They are my friends forever.
Same goes for the game.
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