They Don't Make Them Like That Anymore

In the mid 70s, my parents saved up enough money to have our backyard paved and a basketball hoop installed. (We also had vinyl siding installed.)

Prior to that, our backyard was a dirt and rock lot.  There were some massive rocks that jutted out from the turf at weird angles. I still have scars to prove that and at least one trip to the Altoona Hospital ER to show for it. But it was a great place to just play. Straddling our property line with the Shannon's, a large maple tree (with a major exposed root system) at the bottom of the lot provided great shade. This also served as a nice hangout location for eating a treat like a Popsicle or some nickel-and-dime candy from Crilley's on 10th Street.

One ritual that we performed in the backyard (pre-paving) was the distillation of soft dirt. This was a product generated from the process of sifting raw, unrefined, lot dirt through a window screen with (usually broken) frame attached.  The output of the process was a fine-grained top-soil. I am not sure what the purpose of soft dirt was (other than it was, well, soft). It could be combined with water to make a high-quality mud and was fun to run your fingers through, but that was about the extent of its utility.

The backyard also doubled as a baseball diamond for a hybrid we called Nerf Ball - a derivative of Wiffle Ball with a Nerf Ball substituted. Much less opportunity for property damage but Nerf Ball carried its own unique version of physics - the length and speed with which the ball could be hit or thrown seemed to be bizarrely indirectly proportional to the force exerted by the hitter or thrower.

This game's fun, OK? Fun goddamnit. And don't hold the ball so hard, OK? It's an egg. Hold it like an egg. - Crash Davis - Bull Durham

Many countless hours were also spent in the backyard playing imaginary games (against myself) by throwing or batting a variety of balls onto the 1st and 2nd Floor roofs of our house and then hauling ass to see if I could catch it before the ball hit the ground. Occasionally the ball would arc over the house all together out front onto 9th Street (sometimes into oncoming traffic).

Of course, since Mom and Dad's bedroom faced the backyard, some discretion was involved with this endeavor and fine-grained control was developed with both arm and stick. (It was never a good idea to play these imaginary games when Dad was napping.)

But once the hoop went up, all those other capabilities of this multi-function play area were secondary.

The hoop was anchored to a pole buried in cement on the border of the Brook's yard. The placement of the hoop and the geometry of  our lot led to some charming aspects of my backyard haven.

• There were decent sized bushes acting as a barrier between the hoop and the Brooks' yard, but errant shots (by players other than me of course) could veer onto the Brooks' property which caused some friction.
• Those bushes also discouraged you from trying to take an offensive charge underneath the basket, lest you end up flying back-first into the bushes. (This of course predated the NBA semi-circle but served the same general purpose.)
• There was about 18 feet between the goal and edge of the Shannon's yard - perfect for foul shooting but not optimal for practicing top-of-the-key Js.
• The hoop was positioned only about 13 feet or so from the side of the house, so corner jumpers from the left corner were a bit constricted.
• Jutting out from the house were a series of steps into our back porch and the infamous downstairs powder room. These steps protruded right into the playing area (like that Tal's Hill monstrosity in center field in Houston's Minute Maid Park). But we improvised and you learned quickly to be aware of those steps when playing defense. (Sort of like being run off of a screen that is made of cement and wood.)
• Low-hanging electrical wires running from the house forced arc adjustment when chucking it from deep.
• The right side area of the court had much more room but the added challenge of sloping downhill. So 20 foot corner jumpers required more adjustment as you were shooting. Interestingly enough, this was the opposite of the Shellenbarger alley court down the road - there, right corner jumpers were shot with an extreme downhill slope.

Initially the hoop was outfitted with a sweet chain-link net which greatly enhanced my neighborhood street cred quotient. (Well, as much street cred as could be harvested from a geeky kid living in the Fairview neightborhood of Altoona in the 70s.) The chains would make sweet music but could eat up a basketball like nobody's business. Life is all about choices and Mom gave me one - No more chain-link net or no more replacement basketballs. So I gave up the ambiance of those famous playgrounds like the Rucker Park and Venice Beach for a usable basketball that still had some skin on it after a couple of month's use.

For three summers or so, I lived on that patch of asphalt. Hundreds and hundreds of shots a day, morning, noon, or night.

Unfortunately the build quality of the basketball goal systems in those days hadn't evolved to where they are today. (Just compare the system in the pictures above with a middle of the line Lifetime unit like the one that has been sitting in my driveway for the last 10 years.) Advanced features like pneumatic height adjustment and break-away rims weren't even on the drawing boards then.

My hoop (and a part of me) died a painful death one day in 1977.

My next door neighbor Steve Shannon was considerably older than me (by at least 6 or 7 years I believe). I am pretty sure that Steve had had some minor issues with the authorities, but he was always friendly to me and very respectful of my parents - Dad used to always mention that. Steve was also a good sized boy (6'4" or so) with a decent game.
One day, Steve, despite my repeated pleadings to take it easy and not dunk, took it hard to the rack one too many times.


For several weeks, the mangled goal remained attached to the pole - a constant and cruel reminder of what I once had and what had been tragically snatched from me. The goal, lightly coupled at a grotesque 45 degree angle, sneering at me.