Like a fierce gladiator going to battle, I wrap the flexible neoprene fabric around my right knee and stretch it till it's comfortably in place. I reach into a bag and pull out two ankle braces, lace them up and slip on my tennis shoes which contain arch supports. An elbow strap for compression completes my five minutes of prep and I rise to my feet.
I shut my locker, grab the ball and walk out of the room, which is still stinking from the exertion of sweaty bodies and wet towels. A blast of fresh air coming from the hallway brings my mind and body into focus, preparing me for the next 90 minutes of exercise.
I continue to my left, leaving the mass of young players and part a full length curtain that hides another court populated by a very different collection of players. A group of five men stand around -- their bodies decidedly bent with age, their hair gray and receding, and their demeanor much more relaxed and accommodating.
Upon my arrival, one of the men slaps his hands and asks for the basketball. "Hey, Ward," I smile and pass him the ball. "How's the foot?"
With a shrug of his shoulders, he answers "Not good. I'm looking forward to getting off my feet for a few days and give it some rest." Like all of these guys, Ward Jones has been playing noon ball for years. Despite the plantar fasciitis, it hasn't kept him from playing three times a week at Viterbo University with other professors, students and alumni.
These basketball junkies, at one time grade school, high school, or college players, can't get enough of the game of basketball. I am no different.
As the husband of a Viterbo University alumni graduate, I started coming to the school's gym to play racquetball. It was free and (unlike the YMCA) courts were available. At the end of my lunch hour, I started talking to this small group of men who shared the locker room and quickly discovered that my passion for basketball was shared by others. While my days of hitting a small blue ball continued for many years, the object of my affection quickly changed from the racquetball court to the basketball court.
And for nearly 21 years, noon basketball has become my escape from old age, where magically I'm a young boy again.
* * * * *
There is nothing better than basketball.
Well, next to my wife and two sons, there's nothing better than basketball. And even that has been called into question at times, when basketball interferes with vacation and weekend trips.
Where does this obsession come from?
My earliest recollection of playing basketball goes back to fifth grade at First Lutheran grade school in La Crosse. As I was a tall kid for my class, it didn't take long for our basketball coach, Jerry Grunholz, to track me down and ask me if I'd ever played basketball. As my coach was to learn, playing basketball was one thing, being good at it was another. My first game in fifth grade was against the Pioneers of Lewiston, Minnesota. I came off the bench in the first quarter and was so nervous that the first two balls passed my way slipped right through my trembling hands. Somehow, my capacity to catch and dribble had been replaced by an inability to catch a bouncing ball. Two blocks of slippery ice had more trraction than my hands.
Acknowledging his mistake, Coach Grunholz had me back on the bench for the remainder of the game.
Despite my sloppy beginnings, I stuck with it. There was something different about basketball than football, track, swimming and baseball. I was a good athlete (not fast, but athletic) and my height made it easier to play basketball than other sports. By the time I reached eighth grade, our "A"team of Bill Juen, Randy Mitten, Tom Grams and Steve Jenkins had beaten the likes of the Mount Calvary Hawks, the Lewiston Pioneers, and the Nodine Patriots. I can't say we ever had a good team, but I do remember the excitement of practice and scrimmages, and the thrill of running on court to a full gym of parents and siblings cheering us on.
I don't know where it came from, but I always had a love for sports -- the Green Bay Packers won the 1967 NFL Championship game against the Dallas Cowboys in what later became known as the Ice Bowl, and I was in front of our television watching it. As for basketball, I remember watching Notre Dame end UCLA's 88 game winning streak in 1974. The Fighting Irish beat Bill Walton and UCLA by a score of 71-70. It represented the first time UCLA had lost a game in more than three years.
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Yeah, sports was in my blood. Whereas my older brother and dad would go hunting or fishing, I would spend my time in our driveway shooting hoops, or watching it on television. I can remember somedays when I would be so excited from watching a game on television, that I would shovel part of our driveway and shoot a few baskets just to get it out of my system.
What began with the First Lutheran Wildcats continued into middle school where I played center for the Longfellow Trojans. Coming from a small parochial school like First Lutheran meant my competition was upgraded by the likes of Aquinas, Tomah, Sparta, Logan and Lincoln middle schools. But the game was the same despite the fact that I was no longer one of the tallest player on the court.
At First Lutheran we scrambled to find enough players to make a team. Not so at Longfellow where we had tryouts to determine who made the team. I remember the excitement of seeing my name listed on the team roster along with other boys from the prior year: Tom Juan, Bill Weber, Paul Mundinger, Matt Venghen, Randy Newton and Dan Michaels. Being the new kid in school, I felt I had to try harder to prove my value and to let them know I could be counted on.
One memorable game had our team on the brink of losing. Our better shooters had fouled out and I was one of the few remaining starters as the game wound down. My hook shot as time expired sent it into overtime, where our team eventually won after a number of my shots kept us in the lead. You hear about shooters being "in a zone" where everything goes in. This was one of those games. I'm not bragging when I say that I couldn't miss, -- believe me -- I had plenty of other games that brought me back to earth.
My memories of that game include running from the court, walking through a gauntlet of cheering students to our locker room. It was one of the first times I can remember where I felt like people knew who I was. Coming from First Lutheran in ninth grade, it was hard to make new friends. Most of my classmates had been together since grade school, so there was a familiarity that I was missing. I always felt like sports was one of the best ways to make new friends, not only with your teammates, but also with students in class. All of a sudden, everyone knows you and wants to talk about the game. I can understand why professional athletes have the egos they do. Add a couple million dollars to the mix and they think they can do anything.
The following year I tried out and made the high school basketball team at La Crosse Central. Once again, the competition was tougher, but tryouts went well and I was happy to make the team. When the season began, however, I discovered that band and basketball practiced at the same time. Not wanting to give up either, I surprised my coach (and my parents) by quitting the team and playing with my friends on Saturday mornings in a city high school league.
Initially it was hard giving up the competitive game I'd grown up loving, but I soon discovered that a game between friends was just as much fun. Playing in the pep band on Friday nights at Central and the Mary E. Sawyer Auditorium kept me close to the high school game -- even if it was from the bleachers.
Through the remaining years -- in college and after graduation -- I always found a way to track down a game of hoops, both in city leagues and at the Y. I continue to watch my Wisconsin Badgers fight it out in the Big Ten, and take days off around March Madness to watch the initial rounds of the tournament. A few of us from noon ball even travel to Madison to watch the boys state tournament.
As I said, there's nothing better than basketball.
* * * * *
As I spin to the left, I receive the pass with my right hand. After faking a move to the center of the lane, I drop to the baseline and finger roll the basketball off the back board and into the basket -- game point.
As a professor at Viterbo University, Rick is one of four teachers who are playing basketball today. The remaining group includes a pastor, a financial planner at Wells Fargo, a journalist for the La Crosse Tribune, an owner of a cleaning business, a CFO for a hospital and a number of retired businessmen.
As is typical for this group, each team consisted of a fairly balanced group of "seasoned" players mixed in with a few students. Our game has gotten worse with age. We are trying hard to convince ourselves that we can play with the younger guys next door, but reality has us on the losing side.
It has become a game of attrition for our group -- this has been an especially tough year for some of the players. Last summer we had one of the retired players suffer a heart attack while waiting to enter the game. As he lay there -- his heart stopped -- two of us (who luckily were trained in CPR) were pushing on his chest and performing mouth to mouth until the paramedics arrived. It was the first time I had ever seen something like that, and I'll never forget it. A few weeks later, another player didn't feel right and he went to see his doctor, who promptly put him into surgery to perform heart surgery.
It's a fine line between our love of basketball and our fear of injury.
Most of us have suffered broken noses, dislocated fingers, torn rotator cuff injuries and even scratched corneas. Some wrap their knees, elbows and ankles to keep playing, despite the pain. I think all of us keep Johnson & Johnson in business one way or the other.
But it's the enjoyment of the friendly competition, the thrill of hitting the winning shot and the camaraderie that keeps us coming back. Last month, one of the players came to play right after a colonoscopy. He asked the doctor to back off the anesthesia so he come join us. The funny thing is all of us understood why...
"Let's go!" shouts Tom Tiggelaar, looking at the clock on the wall. "We have time for one more game -- let's do it." As guys grab a last drink of water and gather under the basket, Ron Amel takes the ball at the top of the key and says, "You guys know we only remember the last game, right?"
Maybe for some, I think. But I remember them all, even the ones I lose.
