By M. Scott Carter
The Moore American
June 18, 2008 01:05 pm
—
The thump of the basketball against the asphalt is steady, almost rhythmic.
Overhead, the sky is a rich, coffee-colored black; the first stars twinkle in this vast celestial cathedral.
A soft wind blows warm and, against the thump of the ball, the sounds of the night fill the air — tires whine against pavement, crickets chirp from an unseen chorus, and somewhere down the street a door shuts.
Near me, children laugh.
It’s well past 10:30 p.m. at my house, and the 9-year-old, Clayton, is working hard on his lay-ups. He’s shirtless and his thin, wiry frame is damp from sweat and rough with sand and dirt.
For Clayton, the night is too scary to take out the trash, but it’s perfect for basketball.
And Clay’s played hard today.
While most of the world paid homage to that most wonderful of household appliances — air-conditioning — Clayton and his cabal of third-grade basketball players were outside, mixing it up in the street.
They stop, just once in a while, for the ice water and something to eat.
I’ve watched them most of the day; running, juking and throwing — the type of intense, serious play that exhausts most mortal men.
But not Clayton.
If he’s vertical, he’s playing.
And if you’ve got a ball, he’s got the time.
During the summer there is nothing else; We move the vehicles to the end of the driveway, to create a kind of makeshift cement basketball court.
The neighborhood kids scurry in and out; our refrigerator is their refrigerator. And our food is their food.
Outside, the garage door, Clay’s new socks, and any new kid that dares to venture to our end of Davis Court must deal with Clay.
The garage door and the socks are a lost cause; once-in-a-while a new kid will hold his own.
But not often.
And for tennis shoes, being assigned Clay duty is a death sentence — within a few weeks even the toughest, neatest and most stain resistant sneakers fall apart after the heavy duty use they get from Clayton.
He plays hard.
And it shows.
For a 9-year-old kid, he’s got his share of scars — fingers, knees, toes and legs all show type of wear and tear. And tonight, with the score tied 12-12 Clay is even more focused.
I hear the rebounds, the fouls and the swish of the net. From my box seat on the porch I can count the points without even seeing the game — basketball with Clay is noisy.
Then, for a few seconds, the neighborhood is quiet.
I listen closely as the players huddle, discuss strategy and then, like a heart being restarted: “thump, thump, thump.”
Nearby on the curb my 13-year-old daughter Sara, and a gaggle of “I’ve just discovered makeup and kissing” girlfriends have gathered, each practicing a new skill — flirting.
A couple have already mastered this newfound skill; but for the rest of their group: well, their parents shouldn’t worry. In fact, they should consider, say, late-night basketball.
But like the boys, they are a dedicated lot: They fight mosquitos the size of small birds just to sit on the curb, watch the boys in the darkness and gab endlessly.
Underneath them, once again, the earth rolls on its belly.
And though we’re still days away from that event we call the beginning of summer, the crickets, the lightning bugs, the mosquitos and even Clay could care less.
Because right now, the wind is warm and soft, the girls are flirting and there’s a game to played.
And Oklahoma summers — the good ones — are all too brief.
Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.