Backyard Basketball (It's Hard to Dribble When It's Cold Outside)

This is a chapter from my forthcoming book: The Curious Path I Couldn't Resist. It's several stories about escaping from a crowded home and playing basketball alone in the backyard. The thoughts I had about my experience shooting baskets were from well over fifty years ago. Those who enjoy this "roundball" game may like the "more in-depth" prose later in the article.

For almost half the year, roughly from November to March, the backyard concrete court often seemed damp and needed to be shoveled. A properly inflated ball would allow just five minutes of dribbling before it needed another heat infusion. Many well-informed individuals are familiar with Wisconsin winters, especially the severe ones of the late 1960s and early 1970s.

At my home in Racine, near the court, we had an attached covered back porch with a wood-burning stove, so that's where I went to warm the round ball. I sometimes used two basketballs, so I always had one warm enough to dribble. Sometimes, even with just one basketball, I'd give up dribbling and take shots to improve my accuracy. Shooting baskets without dribbling is like having a hamburger or hot dog without any condiments. They complement each other. You could still shoot and retrieve the ball if it were cold and flat, but dribbling would be absent. That felt funny and incongruous; shooting without dribbling first hindered my flow during practice. 

After seeing how well certain players could maneuver the basketball simply by dribbling effectively, I emphasized the value of dribbling. Many kids practiced jump shots or layups repeatedly, but couldn't control the basketball. That meant they couldn't move effectively towards the basket and often had the ball stolen due to careless dribbling. Being a good dribbler enables a player to get into a good shooting position or find a spot that helps their teammate get an easy shot. Ineffective dribbling created situations where the ball could be easily stolen or the team's offense stifled.   

Snow Removal First 

I typically was the only one in a house of ten who felt energized by shooting baskets in the backyard. I often wanted one of my three brothers to play with me, but they were rarely interested. Therefore, I’d play alone and imagine being a star basketball player in front of thousands of spectators.

Due to the season, my first responsibility was shoveling snow when it fell. My dad designated me as the snow removal crew at the time (crew of one), especially in high school. He wisely knew I had energy to burn, so pushing the white stuff off the driveway was typically just a warm-up before I shot baskets.

The basketball hoop and backboard were attached to the top of the garage. I appreciated that my dad measured it precisely at ten feet to help prepare me for parochial school basketball and beyond. The garage door was manual and consisted of four horizontal rectangular panels. The second section from the top was glass, which meant that when I shot baskets, I'd lift the door to two sections above the bottom so the glass wasn't exposed. Regardless of this approach, I had to tell my dad sheepishly on occasion when a glass section had broken.

Once I went to college, the court became more of a parking lot than a basketball court. My younger brothers never took to the court the way I did. Coincidentally, my father had purchased a snowblower after I had left. Was this a coincidence? I never complained directly to him about shoveling snow, but while I was away, I had a sneaking suspicion that my younger brothers had lobbied my dad for that convenient tool.

Set Shots Were Too Old-fashioned for Someone Lookin' for Some Street Cred

After work, my dad would see me playing and sometimes join me for a few minutes of shooting. He was a good athlete, fast, and a great jumper (he went to state in the high jump in high school), so basketball came naturally to him. His forte was the set shot; his shot reminded me of Bob Cousy of the 60s Boston Celtics. His generation was rarely exposed to the jump shot; basketball was much less of a vertical game than it is today. Because of his set shot, I seldom won at playing horse. I was much less likely to match his set-shot accuracy while I attempted jump shots.

Because of my stubbornness, I never wanted to develop a set shot. I wanted to play the more modern game, so the jump shot was key to improving my game. From my pre-teen and teenage mentality, my appearance mattered more than my effectiveness. To put it another way, I wanted to add street cred to my game, so I focused on improving my jump shot. An objective observer might say I was masochistic. I focused solely on improving my jump shot when I could have also added a set shot to my repertoire. My jump shot improved marginally over hundreds of hours of practice. I needed a good coach to help my form but never had one. Anyway, was I thinking rationally, on the court, that looking good was more important than perhaps being effective, or winning shooting contests?  

Escape to the Backyard 

When I played in the backyard, it was an escape. I avoided the current noise and chaos in the house. Despite the cold, wind, and snow, this activity suited me better than the alternative. 

There were times the basketball would escape over the four-foot wooden fence into our neighbor's yard. I was tempted to climb the fence, but since it was old, wooden, and beyond my means to repair, I took the safe approach. I first checked whether the dog was in its backyard. The dog wasn't that aggressive, but I also knew some dogs are protective of their space. So, I'd tread lightly to avoid a confrontation. If their gate was locked, I was too shy to knock on their front door and disturb them. Instead, I would take the old, rusty garden rake from the garage to bring the ball close to my neighbor’s fence, which was the easy part. Once near the bottom of the fence, I'd use the rake to capture the basketball, inch by inch, with the teeth of the rake. Then I'd steadily raise the rake with the ball balanced on it from the bottom to the top of the fence until it reached my hands. This activity reminded me of the arcade claw machine, where you try to capture an object with a metal claw to bring it home safely.

Dealing with Mud

Once the snow melted, I had to deal with the mud. March and April were the mud months. My dad was proficient at landscaping the lawn, but because the backyard often served as a skating rink in the winter, which some of my siblings used frequently, we had more patches of mud than grass. While working on my jump shot, the basketball had a mind of its own, sometimes bouncing off the rim or backboard and landing on the grass. Once it hit the grass, it would often get stuck in the mud. What's worse, a muddy or flat basketball? I wore torn old clothes while shooting baskets, sometimes at my mom's request. Sometimes, I saw more mud than actual leather on the round ball. If I were lucky, I would find a small pile of the white stuff that had not yet melted to help clear away the mud. I'd have to be careful not to expose the ball to too much snow; otherwise, dribbling would be a struggle. Sometimes, I found no snow, so I’d rub the dirt off on my old, torn sweatshirt. When this happened, I’d find an empty hook in the garage, and the last thing I wanted was to be scolded for bringing a muddy sweatshirt into the house.

Basketball 101

A wise man I met through basketball mentioned that rebounding and passing could make you an asset on the hardwood. Said differently, it was not all about scoring and making incredible baskets. When you improve your passing, you make your team better. Some players become better passers than shooters. Because the game requires many skills to perform well, having good fundamentals makes you a more valuable player, especially if you are fortunate enough to have an astute coach who will put you in a position to use those skills effectively. Unfortunately, my basketball coaches over the years didn’t realize that fact.

Regarding rebounding, that wise man stressed that basketball was about desire and will. To secure the basketball after a missed shot, expect some physical play under the basket. Preventing your opponent from getting between you and the basket was critical, and anticipating where the ball would go after an errant shot also helped with rebounding. 

I didn’t think I was good enough to play high school basketball. There was too much competition at a school with over 2,300 students across three grades; besides, I was lacking confidence. So, I played intramural basketball. That competition was fiercer than when my friends and I played hoops in my backyard. Many intramural opponents disliked me when I learned to box out to secure rebounds. Some players were more substantial, taller, or better leapers, but certain fundamentals helped my game. I had experiences where more athletic players would curse at me on the court, thinking their skills should outperform my fundamentals. Through my challenging experiences, I realized that genuinely exceptional basketball players also use their mental skills and don’t rely solely on athleticism.

Double or Nothing Bet

One cold and windy December day, my older brother decided to head out to the court to shoot baskets. We played a little one-on-one and did silly things on the court when he suddenly had an idea. He proposed a shooting contest, and considering he was older, he chose to go first. The starting point was at the free-throw line, approximately fifteen feet (over four and one-half meters) from the basket. He bet me a dollar that he could make the shot, but his attempt was unsuccessful, so he upped the bet to two dollars. As part of the bet, he had to back up a few feet after every miss. He did not appear to have his "A" game and missed from about seventeen, nineteen, and then twenty-one feet. Double or nothing. He continued to miss, and at about twenty-five feet (over seven meters), the ball circled the rim twice before falling to the left. By this time the snow was falling, and the wind started swirling around the backyard.

Perhaps Mother Nature was on my side, giving me a competitive advantage. I also realized at this point that his arms were tiring. He was determined to succeed, undeterred by his sore arms and inclement weather. He then threw the basketball with his right arm, knowing that shooting one-handed at that distance would significantly reduce his accuracy, but he felt he had no other option. Still no basket. I was keeping track; at the time, he was owing me hundreds of dollars. He moved back to a distance of well over forty feet. I would tell him how much he owed me before he was ready to shoot, to put additional pressure on him. He continued to retreat, but being so far away from the circular orange object attached to the backboard, which was attached to the garage, he got to a point where he barely moved backward. I don’t think he had noticed that I had seen his sneakiness, but I didn't care, as I felt it wouldn't be his day. Still, my brother had no success as I started counting the money in my head, thinking about how to use this windfall. He was close to exhaustion, and his defeated demeanor showed, yet he continued, using only one hand. On his next attempt, he threw the ball again with only his right hand; it softly hit the backboard and dropped into the basket. We were now even, and I could see relief across his face. I was happy for him, but still sad that I’d lost the bet, even though I sensed I was so close to victory. As we walked off the court, he said, "I'll never do that again."

I never got a chance to shoot, but we were both tired and ready for supper. We went inside, and my mother wondered why we had played basketball in the snow and wind. My older brother just shrugged, knowing that my mom would disapprove of the negative mentoring he gave his younger brother. Not realizing things from his perspective, I blurted out, "It was double or nothing; he missed his first shot, so he owed me one dollar. He continued to miss as the stakes got increasingly tenuous. He was finally lucky enough to make a basket. Otherwise, he would have owed me over a thousand dollars." My mother gave my brother a look, as if he should know better than to bet, especially with his younger, more impressionable brother. Weirdly, I felt like I had won, even though no additional money appeared in my pocket.