On my 12th birthday in March 1966, Dad gave me a basketball. This was an odd present for two reasons: (1) Dad gifts to me reflected his interests and he hated basketball. (2) I was terrible at basketball. Right after Christmas 1965, I made up my mind I was going to change that.
I would learn to dribble the ball with my right hand, drive in both directions to the basket, and force myself to jump higher. My vertical leap was challenged. When Dad and I played catch he’d sometimes throw the ball a little over my head just so he could get a kick out of the short distance I put between the sidewalk and my chubby body with the dead legs. My left handed dribbling was something to watch. Each time I played a new rival I’d drive left, hit two to three baskets with a nasty hook until my opponent figured out the lack of right in my game and then I’d be blanketed for the rest of the match. I played basketball for a good sweat because it certainly wasn’t pleasurable.
Dad was sick of hearing how much I wanted a basketball from New Year’s through St. Paddy’s Day so he bought the ball to shut me up. On my birthday, Dad passed the ball to me over Mom’s head as she was doing the dishes. I named it Joe, after my round headed friend from 84th Street. I had to try it out at Carl Schurz Park. I thanked and kissed my parents, my brother, Rory, rolled his eyes and I ran down the four flights of stairs into the street.
A blast of wind headed west smacked my face on the 83rd Street stoop. I awkwardly dribbled the ball with one hand towards East End Avenue avoided the Drive near the water figuring a gale storm was whipping the river up. In the park, at the basketball court in the Hockey Field my left hand was numb and my arm was coiled like a cripple. I took my first shot from the top of the key, a doozy. It left my hand on a high arc and caught a stream of angry air that lifted and carried the ball over the left side of the back board. Losing altitude near the fence, it struck a spike, let out a death rattle, “whish,” and hung there disheartened. I walked over to the ball, gave it an up and down but didn’t bother to touch it. It was useless. Like the ball, deflated, I walked home.
Thomas Pryor has been featured on A Prairie Home Companion and This American Life, and his work has appeared in the New York Times. He curates City Stories: Stoops to Nuts, a storytelling show at the Cornelia Street Café on the second Tuesday of the month (next one April 10th). Check out his blog Yorkville: Stoops to Nuts.
