MY BIG CHANCE

My son and I watched the Super Bowl this year long distance.  We live 20 miles apart and when not together we watch games and text some banter back and forth.  

His sports knowledge is uncanny - he knows the stats, details and even the mascots of most college and pro teams, in most sports – as for me I know what  game is on and that’s about the most detail I want to get into.  Usually I will make an observation that is 189 degrees off the mark according to him and the TV commentators.

Watching another boring Bowl we chatted mainly about trivialities along with the announcers who were digging deep into their files trying to keep the audience interest going…and I drift off to my own sporting days…

My kid friends devoured the daily sports page with an intensity that I saved for a good book.  They knew Willie May’s lifetime batting average in the minors no less.  I knew of Willie.  David, my close pal, could spout the entire lineup of his beloved LA Dodgers team.  My favorite team was the one currently on our new 21 inch Motorola. 

I don't think I had a "normal" boy-kid mind.

Never did get into sports news – mostly spending hours absorbing and discussing our boy's games played by men seemed so irrelevant to me.  

There were so many obscure facts reported during a game: “Third baseman Willy Jones has played in the rain at least 234 times in his career,” Byrum Somm reports during a Phillies game – ho hum.  Wilt the Stilt’s shoe size is 17 double wide.   Eagles great lineman Joe Bednarik’s number of consecutive tackles were...just like Joe's hard hits, the stats were forever coming – and forever boring, to me that is.  

I had many more significant subjects to think about – like why didn’t folks recognize that Clark Kent was never around when Superman nabbed another villain.  Or that most of the songs on the radio made no sense.

But don't get me wrong, I played most sports offered in school – I just care about how I played them not how other people played.

Baseball!  The best game ever for me.  Like no other game it had a mystical appeal - the true and first "mind game" long before the term was coined.

Football? A game for the beast living in most of us and I played because I was big and expected to do so.

I was pretty good in all sports except tennis? It took much too long. And I was a really lousy basketball player – mainly because as a chub I hated running. I took Satchel Page advice, one should only run when it's absolutely necessary.

In many games played I had only one "defining moment" in basketball.  That one sport's moment when  all the planets aligned - the moment when chance puts one in the coveted, oft desired position to win a game!

I played for the Bacon Junior High School Red team. 

We had four teams playing after school – the Red, Blue, Green and Purple teams.  Our clever team names were derived from the color of the  t-shirts we were loaned at sign-up.  Most guys traded for their favorite number - if one had a favorite, as for me I took what was tossed to me and let the barter go to the real sports fans.  

And we had cheerleaders with clever cheers too like: “Go Red Go”!

At the end of our 6 game season Mr. Scargle, gym teacher and coach of all the Jr. High teams - boys and girls picked an All-Star team to represent Bacon in a tournament - one game against the Millville High School Freshman at the Mecca of hometown sports, Millville High. 

To my great surprise I was picked.  
I think mainly because I was taller than every kid in the school.  

Little did we all know that the actual purpose of this annual contest was to give the high school coaches a look at next year’s crop of potential players.  If we had of known this our nerves would have been shot along with our skills – playing the bigger kids was tension enough.

At our first and only practice together Coach tossed us our all All-star game shirts – Brown and Yellow, our fairly dull school colors.  These were “real” basketball uniform shirts, not just colored t-shirts.  We were all impressed with this step up.

We quickly pulled them over our heads – mine reeked of ancient sweat.  I immediately wondered how many games it had weathered without being washed.  

I guess the school didn’t want them to wear out.

The night of the big game I took my usual place for basketball – the bench.  And frankly hoped I wouldn’t get in the game and embarrass myself with a dumb pass or air ball. 

Jump Ball! And the contest began.   And to my surprise at the half it was very close – the freshman only led us by 5 points.  So far I had sat doing my pretend play-by-play radio announcing and was very pleased that I had been overlooked when coach sent in fresh blood.  

The second half was fast, furious and rough – a brand of ball we juniors highers had never played before.

After we had played three 8 minute quarters the score was 25-29 in the Freshmen's favor.  We were close and had not been embarrassed – but I tended to think that the frosh were taking it easy on us and confident that they could put us away in the 4^th when they needed to turn up their play.

The last quarter quickly ran it course and with just a minute to go to everyone’s surprize – especially our opponents the score was tied.  

Then it happened.  

Our best player was tumbled on a lay up and twisted his ankle.  He hobbled to the bench.  Coach scanned the three bench warmers pondering just who to send in for the last minute - that couldn't do too much damage.  

I tried to be invisible, trying not to make eye-contact. Then a drama unfolded.  Coach bellowed, “Iszard get in the game.”  I intelligently reacted – “Huh?”  Unstuck my butt from the bench and entered the fray – it was hard to believe I was in the game – I told myself, "Cal, run up and down a couple of times and don’t mess up".

The clock ticked.   The Frosh were quickly fouled and  made only one shot and led by one.  

I sprinted to my place to the right of the basket.  (In my day there was no 3-second rules. We could stand anywhere we wanted)  I hoped my teammates would not notice me.  15 seconds were left on the clock as we brought the ball down the court. The Frosh played a full court press for the first time.

And then it happened.  David passed me the ball! 
I look at it as if it were a foreign object.  

Fate had put me ina  position to win this game and I didn’t even have to dribble – just turn and make an easy shot.  I had read about these great moments  – the game slowed down in my head.  The noise of the crowd faded.  I moved in slow motion with total concentration on my target - the orange rimmed basket grew into a gigantic target.  A frosh dove toward me – but I put the shot up before he could foul me. The crowd was silent. The flight of the ball took forever to the backboard and bounced to the basket.  This could be the first time the Junior High won the All-Star game - ever.

The ball rolled on the rim.  Then around the rim a second time as both teams and a gym full of parents held their collective breath.  It started to traverse a third time.  It seemed to refuse to drop in the net.   

And then it stopped. It died and sank to the floor not through the basket.  The air horn blasted and the game was over – we had lost it by one point.

And in that few seconds I had lost my moment of fame.  Lost because fate had the ball fall to the right instead of left.  I lost being carried around the court by my team members.  I lost getting my picture in the daily paper holding the tarnished trophy.  The standings would be recorded for posterity - High School 23 straight wins to Bacon's zero.  Another stat for the ages.

Looking back this was truly a great lesson.  

In a brief roll of a ball I saw that in "real life" there were very few story-book endings accompanied by the roar of the crowd and a triumphant music track.

And that the coveted stats of sports - many times were just a listing of how blind chance had made some heroes and others losers for a sport eternity.  

I never played an organized basketball game again.  Chance made my decision to stick to baseball.