LOCAL ANGLES: PICKUP BASKETBALL PROVES ELOQUENT, HUMBLING

Serenity and simplicity joined hands on this holiday evening to form a union of unexpected eloquence. Humility, humor and simple pleasures were close behind.

The serenity manifested itself in a sprawling Chicago suburb with lush green lawns manicured to specifications that could have accommodated Nicklaus' needs.

This subdivision, easy to identify by a sprouting silo and a security checkpoint, was stocked with so many geese and well-fed birds, I was content to just watch from the screen porch that served as my vista, my quiet refuge. For a change, I would be the passive observer, interested only in rest and relaxation. Nature could be the aggressor.

Everything was working out fine.

Before long, however, something stirred from within. It was then that I realized I could only take so much of this. There was this basketball goal I remembered seeing as we pulled up to the long black driveway owned by friends and relatives of a friend.

The Kid must have made a mental note of the same thing because when I suggested we shoot a few hoops, he didn't have to be persuaded.

It had been a long time since I cradled a basketball on a blacktop. That became evident as we warmed up. Plunk. Plunk. Enough bricks to build another home. The Kid was giggling in the background, but I pretended not to hear him. Didn't The Kid ever hear of Father Time? How about white man's disease? The Kid seemed convinced this white man couldn't jump.

The Kid told me not to feel embarrassed. He said he hadn't played in some time. Not since he launched that half-court shot that went swish at Alma Schrader. Given the fact that he was only on the planet for 13 years, I figured I was working with a different handicap.

Oh well, who cared? It was just us. No audience. No pressure. We decided to start off with a game of P-I-G. Maybe I was trying to read too much into it, but I wondered why he chose pig. I mean, why not H-O-R-S-E?

There I was, slipping into the very thing I was trying to get away from, all this analytical thinking that goes with the job.

We both missed our first few shots. Then The Kid got impatient. "Okay, here's the shot," said The Kid. He was backing up so far, I thought perhaps he had seen too many of those Michael Jordan/Larry Bird commercials for McDonald's. You know: Over the house, through the trees, over the hills and on past grandma's house.

The Kid has the audacity to launch this Scud missile with one hand. It hit the backboard and flicked the net. The Kid was having some fun over this. But he could see the anguish carved into my face, so he pretended to feel lucky.

I hurled the multi-colored basketball at an object that looked like it had a net attached to it. The result wasn't just an air ball. It became a bush ball. I mean, the thing went beyond the goal and into these bushes that had thorns and other elements not worth investigating.

The Kid was unable to suppress his glee. "Well, it was close," said The Kid. Yeah, like California is close. Thorns, I was thinking. How appropriate. My side was beginning to ache.

The Kid was beginning to develop a case of overconfidence. He was giving me this in-your-face rhetoric. I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to throw me off my... Oh well, if I had a game, he would have been trying to throw me off that, too.

Enough of this, I said. I decided to shake The Kid's confidence. Okay, how about a layup, I said. But not just any layup. You've got to swing the basketball clockwise around your body before you make your ascent.

The Kid appeared delighted to be presented with a new challenge. "Cool," said The Kid. Yeah, I'll show you cool, I thought. Unfortunately, this turned into a the-mind-is-willing-but-the-body-isn't episode. I nearly cracked my head on the pole as I realized that any grace I thought I had left had vanished long ago.

This gave The Kid an idea. "Okay, on this shot you have to dribble between your legs, dribble for a complete circle and end up with a reverse layup," said The Kid. I tried, and once again I failed.

I suggested we move on to a more dignified game, like H-O-R-S-E. I actually hit a few shots. And my layup, simple as it was, fell through with relative ease. I drove toward the basket, made my ascent, let the ball roll off my hand and onto the black square and watched with quiet appreciation as it fell through the twine.

The Kid was impressed only with my improvement, not any athletic achievement. "Hey, not bad," said The Kid. "Care to play for, say, a buck a game?"

He caught me at a vulnerable moment. "Sure, you're on, Kid," I said, unable to contain my excitement. How could I back down now? "Actually I'm more of a money player," I advised. "Forget this P-I-G stuff. Lay some moolah on the line and I'm a pro's pro. By the way Kid, did you say you have some friends in Cincinnati? Would you define the word hustle?"

The Kid told me making an opponent laugh wasn't fair. He proceeded to conduct a clinic on blacktop hoops. From Scud missile territory, he swished a shot. He connected from the corner. He banked a shot with one hand behind his back. Try as I might, I just couldn't counter. I was busy retrieving the ball from the bushes.

We decided to play until one of us lost $5. Guess who paid up. It was one of the best investments I made over the holiday weekend, though.

For one brief moment I was able to travel back in time and recall how simple, how eloquent and how humbling the game of pickup basketball really was. And I had The Kid to thank.

As I was sitting on the screen porch later that weekend, I began thinking that I got to know The Kid better with a game of P-I-G and H-O-R-S-E than I ever did with any casual conversation.

"You know, if you keep practicing, I think you could beat me one day," said The Kid without the least hint of bravado.

"Thanks Kid," I said. "It was my pleasure".

~Bill Heitland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.