The Court of Appeal

THE OVERLOOK

By Tom Clavin

“The Overlook” can be found at tomclavin.substack.com. If you enjoy the column, please “like” it and let me know what you think by commenting. All support is appreciated. Don’t forget to hit the ‘Subscribe’ button – it’s free!

[There are three reasons why I have dusted off and (slightly) updated this essay: (1) A recent, very enjoyable reunion of the Pacers, (2) The Knicks championship, and (3) Father’s Day this weekend. The essay originally appeared in Promise: A Collection, a memoir of sorts published in 2020, which can be found on Amazon.]

One of the first things I did when I moved out to Sag Harbor many years ago was to find out where the basketball action was, and I was welcomed by newfound friends at evening games in Amagansett and East Hampton gyms. While I was never a particularly good player, I could not imagine not playing ball.

It’s quite a different story now with a balky back and a lot more rings in my tree. I had to retire at the age of 42 because of the back pain. Some years ago, I thought of writing a book with a fairly clever title of The Court of Appeal that would be a chronicle of my ardent connection to basketball and detail my midlife return to the game. That did not happen, and now I am certain it won’t.

Though a wonderful book written by the late Pete Axthelm was titled The City Game, I don’t recall that I played basketball when living in the Bronx (though I did two decades later at the East 68^th Street courts in Manhattan). St. Brendan’s must have had a court, but I remember only the strike-zone boxes chalked on the school’s walls for stickball games and buying Mars-colored “Spaldeens” at the corner stationary store to play curb ball. Fun events in my neighborhood were when the men played streetball. The roster of players was always changing, even in the middle of a game, because in that Irish-Catholic neighborhood many of the men were cops, firemen, and bartenders and they came and went as their shifts began and ended. Sometimes fights broke out, but every game ended with the men sharing quart bottles of Piel’s and Ballantine.

It was when I moved out to Long Island that I got into basketball. We bought a house that was only a block from the school where I went from third through fifth grade. It had a court with metal backboards and rims and chain-link nets. What became one of life’s most enjoyable consistencies was to trot over to the court any day and find some guys playing hoop, and this was as true in 11^th grade as it was in fifth. Basketball was not the only reason but it was a big reason why several of the guys I played with from eight years old on remain my best friends today.

It had to be a relief for the parents of that neighborhood in Deer Park that most of the time they knew where their sons were. There were no cell phones then, of course, so if you wanted to check on your kid or you had to pick him up for a dental appointment or whatever, you drove to Memorial School and shouted a name out the window. “One more basket!” or “Almost done!” was the response. Only when you finally accompanied the shouting with a honking horn did the targeted kid reluctantly leave the game and walk off to a chorus of “Mama’s boy!” This happened to all of us at one time or another, but it was a lot more fun when it was someone else’s turn.

Today, when I drive past a court and it’s covered in ice or snow, no one is playing ball. Winter was no obstacle to us. Our mothers insisted we have coats, gloves, and hats on when we left the house. That was okay because when we got to the court our first job was to break through and sweep away the ice or snow, and when that was done, we were warm enough to strip down to shorts and t-shirts and handle the ball with fingers no longer numb. It was such an exhilarating feeling to be hot and have sweat dripping off my skin and the air was 35 degrees or lower.

Just about everyone acquired nicknames. One guy – who now lives in Wainscott – was Set-Shot because he didn’t move that much, just picked a spot about 20 feet from the basket and if you got him the ball there the result was almost always a swish. Mine was Hondo. Mostly, this was because I tried to emulate John Havlicek with his ceaseless motion making up for marginal talent, but also because of the John Wayne movie I’d seen about a dozen times.

Another reason for a basketball court being so appealing was that it was a good place to hang out. We didn’t necessarily call anyone, we just went to the basketball court at the elementary school, even for years after we graduated from it. Sometimes another kid was there, other times I shot around until another kid I knew showed up. It was a comfortable way to talk while exchanging shots and deciding if we felt like a game of one-on-one. It wasn’t something you could do as well with a football or baseball because to have a decent catch you had to stand far enough apart, forcing you to yell at each other.

Actually, you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy hoop moments with just another friend. I have a very fond memory of a day about 35+ years ago at the outdoor court at the Wainscott School. Back then – and this could still be true – the court was a very popular one for games because the backboards were straight and sturdy, the asphalt wasn’t full of cracks, and when you took a break the ocean was only a couple of minutes away.

That day many years ago was a throwback to Deer Park days. It was June, and my son, Brendan, was six months old. Hondo and Set-Shot had some time to kill. We drove to Wainscott and I placed my son in his car seat at the edge of the court. For a couple of hours friends simply shot around, talking about this and that, marveling at how Brendan stayed awake the whole time with his eyes following the ball.

Certainly one topic of conversation: When a bunch of us who were best friends from that neighborhood in Deer Park were in high school, we were known as the Pacers. This had nothing to do with the NBA team in Indiana. My vague recollection is that we set the pace of games and just plain outlasted better opponents. The Pacers were responsible for one of my most satisfying moments.

We challenged a team from the west side of town for the school championship. They were called the Klean Kut Kids. Yes, they even had that on t-shirts and they were bigger, stronger, and nastier than us and had kicked our butts numerous times before in schoolyard games. The rag-tag Pacers were lambs being led to slaughter for the assembled students’ amusement.

Only minutes before the game, Debbie, the girl I had a crush on, told me the last thing an infatuated high school guy wants to hear (other than “I’m pregnant”): “I just want us to be friends.”

My heart shattered and the pieces fell into my guts like metal shavings. Being the team captain, I couldn’t hide, so I stumbled into the gym, announcements were made, the game began. We killed the Klean Kut Kids. I remember little about the game itself but I remember vividly holding the trophy aloft and thinking that when all else fails, I could count on these guys. Thankfully, that is still true.

Tom Clavin is the bestselling author/co-author of 25 books. The latest one, Vengeance: The Last Stands of Custer, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull, was published last month by St. Martin’s Press. To purchase a copy, please go to your local bookstore or to Bookshop.org, Amazon.com, BN.com, or tomclavin.com.