Hoop

I looked forward to pulling into our driveway, parking underneath that hoop, and knowing I was home.

by Richard Paige

For as long as I can remember we had a basketball hoop in our driveway.

The original was an eight-foot tall version with a wooden backboard and wood supports. Bill, my older brother, wore that one out by the time I was 11.

One spring day, Dad asked our neighbor, Tiny, and me to help him set up a new one. It was a steel 10-footer, coated in Rust-Oleum royal blue. I was excited — mixing the concrete, holding the support pole in place, occasionally checking the level — to be doing big time construction stuff. 

My dad loved the permanence of concrete. He liked to see his name in it. At the base of the support, we etched our names in the wet cement: Dad, Tiny, Rich.

It’s been the best basketball hoop in our neighborhood in Merrillville, Indiana, ever since. Everybody played on it. You could stop by practically any time. The side door on the garage was usually unlocked, so if you dropped by after dinner, you could reach in, flip the outside light on, and play. 

We loved that hoop. 

Bill turned himself into a damn good basketball player on that court. Another kid in the neighborhood who played there when he was in junior high ended up starting on the varsity as a sophomore in high school. The rest of us? We just played. 

Even Tiny, not necessarily an athlete, made the court’s most memorable shot. One of the neighborhood guys bet him $100 that he couldn’t make a hook shot from the end of the driveway, which was about 50 feet from the basket. Gave him 50 shots. Tiny sank the third attempt and would tell you about it for the next 40 years. 

There was magic in that hoop.

In the space where the basket support connected to the backboard and rim was a little nook where a robin made its nest every spring and reared its hatchlings. I like to think that members of the same family came back year after year, because those robins learned pretty quickly that when the screen door banged shut, usually someone was on their way to play basketball. Slam! And you’d see a robin fly away from that nest. It was a part of every game. 

On weekdays we’d shoot around in the morning until the school bus stopped at the end of our driveway. We’d see the flashing lights, toss the ball underneath the picnic table, and run to the bus. After school, we’d get off the bus, pick up the ball, and start playing again. Our neighborhood was a great place to grow up, and our driveway court was a big part of that.

Even after I graduated from college and moved out of Indiana to work in other places, I still looked forward to coming home and getting up a few shots or having the pleasure of hanging a new net. 

As my dad got older that hoop began to play a new role in my life. Ten years ago, my wife, Lydia, and I moved back to Indiana and were able to visit him more regularly. As my son, Jake, was growing up, he and I would shoot there together, and Dad, a former high school basketball coach, would give him some pointers. Bill gave Jake lessons there from time to time. And our daughter, Cora, now 10, played on that court, too.

When my dad’s health started to decline, eventually leading to dementia, it hit me that every one of these visits were numbered, like the seconds ticking away on an invisible scoreboard. You can’t escape the fact that parents get old and good health doesn’t last.

But I still looked forward to pulling into our driveway, parking underneath that hoop, and knowing I was home. Even after Dad’s dementia got worse and we had to arrange for care elsewhere, I still looked for it when I was close to the neighborhood. That pole, backboard, and hoop we’d set up together became my pillar of strength. I always felt good when I saw it.

Dad moved into assisted living far away from our old neighborhood, the first time in 51 years that he lived anywhere else, and we had to get the house ready to sell. I knew there weren’t many visits to my childhood home left. I wouldn’t have a connection to my hometown beyond my memories. I’d be feeling this constant stream of emotions, trying to hold everything together as dementia gripped my father: Suddenly, the strongest guy I’ve ever known, isn’t. Thinking of him makes me lose my breath, start to quiver, sends a stream of tears down my cheeks. I’m stammering, looking for something, anything, to hold onto, and I think of that hoop. I can see him there, keep my emotions in check, do what needs to be done.

After Dad’s funeral, we invited close friends to gather at the house one more time. We stood on the back porch in the shadow of the hoop, told some stories, raised our glasses and toasted him with smiles all around.

The last few visits to the house were tougher, punctuated by that unmoored feeling you get when you first lose a parent. There were things to sell, plenty to donate, trinkets to share with friends and family, decisions to make about what could go and the things would stay with the house, including a juke box in the basement that seemingly weighed tons – it wasn’t going anywhere. Soon most of what made that house distinctly ours would be gone. We were emptying the house of his life, and so much that made him proud.

We were feeling that emptiness as we cleared the house for the last time before it sold. Then Cora and I ambled down the stairs and grabbed the basketball to get at least one more shot up. As we stepped outside to the court, the door slammed shut. Of course, the robin flew off as I took a couple of dribbles toward the basket and flipped a lay-up in off the backboard. I collected the ball, pivoted, and passed it to Cora.

“Okay, it’s your turn,” I said with the ball in the air, knowing we might be there for a bit. Cora’s a swimmer now, doesn’t play basketball often, and she’s not the fan of the game my brother and I were as kids. We were going to shoot until she made one, though. You can’t leave on a miss.

Cora caught the ball, took a dribble, and launched a jumper. As the ball slowly arced toward the basket, I watched with the same kind of feeling you get as a potential game-winner floats through the air—the world goes silent for a moment.

It swished right through. I cradled the ball and gave her a high five. Her smile was electric. I was so happy I forgot to cry. I’m sure the robin was happy too.

The magic was back.

I don’t know if the new owners will appreciate that hoop or even keep it, and it may be decades before Cora fully understands the significance of that shot . . . for me and my dad. The moment might have lasted 10 seconds, but she gave us a gift I’ll never forget. That shot let us walk away smiling again.