The boys of winter: A basketball metaphor

They came from as far as Napa and Palo Alto and Petaluma to Live Oak Park in north Berkeley on a recent Saturday afternoon. Of the 47 men who'd been tracked down, 27 arrived. Sixteen even played, albeit some only briefly and none exceedingly well.

Our ranks included a car wash owner, a construction supervisor, a contractor, a dentist, a teacher, a flea market dealer, handyman, two journalists, a juice bar collective member, a landscape architect, five lawyers, a librarian, an emergency room physician, a pizzeria owner, a public relations man, three therapists and several guys whose occupations have remained unknown to me for 40 years.

The oldest among us was 79 and the youngest 54. A half-dozen still played basketball regularly in parks and gyms.

Oral memories

I made my debut in the Live Oak pick-up three-on-three game in the early '70s. I stopped in '96. But the Live Oak game went on for...

"When'd we stop?" Danny asked. "Late '90s?"

"Sounds right," I said. We sat on the mini-grandstand, watching the afternoon's first game.

"No way," Hal said. "It went until five or six years ago."

"You're nuts," Danny said. "I quit in '96 or '97, and it ended soon after that."

"If you stopped," Hal said, "how do you know how much longer I played?"

"I drove by," Danny said.

"We were in the gym then," Hal said, "and the door was closed."

"We'll ask Andy," Lou said. "Andy'll know."

"'98," Andy said when he came off the court.

"Somebody should've told Hal," Lou said. "He played another ten years."

"No wonder I scored all those baskets," Hal said. "With no one guarding me."

Blacks vs. whites

There were two games at Live Oak. "A" Court's was 90 percent black, and "B" Court's"“ our game "“ 90 percent white. (We had three Asians to their one. Hispanics split equally.) Several of us possessed skills worthy of "A" Court, but none if us wanted the accompanying baggage. "A" Court fouls were hard and mean. "A" Court arguments were loud and nasty. "A" Courters sometimes went to their cars for guns.

The other difference was that "A" Court operated on an unfettered Darwinian ethic, while we had imposed Marxist institutional controls. In both games, winners stayed on; but "A" Courters waited, one at a time, to play, and the next guy up could pick two losers to join him. Survival of the fittest.

We "B" Courters, by contrast, had a sign-up sheet. The losers' names went on the bottom, and the top three played next. If the winners had established a "Dynasty," winning three games straight, they could be broken up into new teams chosen from the six available players. The greatest good for the greatest number.

No last names

Our game passed through two phases. Early on, you could play with someone every Saturday for years and know nothing about him beyond his first name. (We had a Big Dave, Little Dave, Construction Dave, Hook Shot Dave, and Bring 'Em Back Dave.)

But in the early '80s, guys started going out afterwards for coffee, gelato, a hot dog from the deli's cart. Invitations came to parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs. Sometimes guys came for a funeral.

The game became so important that, in the rainy season, we moved to a court near Oakland, beneath a freeway, which provided shelter. When drips and drainage made even that court a problem, we chipped in to rent a church gym. At first we used it winters only, but enough of us preferred its ease on our knees "“ and its privacy"“ that we stayed inside year-round.

Painful memories

My relationship with basketball had always been troubled.

Of the three sports I played growing up in Philadelphia, it was my worst. Every school had its tall, uncoordinated kid with glasses, and that was my role at Friends Central. I clanged lay-ups off rims and dribbled off my toes. Opposing fans jeered. Their laughs stayed with me.

By the time I reached Live Oak, I could rebound and set picks. Notwithstanding "B' Court's egalitarian philosophy, I understood that my team's best chance meant the shooters shot and the rebounders rebounded.

Calling it quits

I had hoped to end my career on a colorful torn Achilles tendon, like Wilt Chamberlain; instead what did it was the muted realization that I could no longer compete. Injuries and relocations had removed most of those with whom I had once comfortably matched up. By the time I realized it, I was the second oldest running, and one day I told my wife I was through. Adele was happy to have my company on Saturday afternoons.

Thereafter I maintained minimal contact with anyone from "B" Court. One attorney and I had lunch. Both journalists and I had coffee. When I ran into others, the conversations rarely ran beyond "You still playing, Bob?" "No. You?"

Then one of our regulars returned after 20 years in Israel. His closest pal arranged a get-together at a Berkeley bar. About a dozen guys attended.

"What about a game?" the émigré said.

"If you play, I will leave you," Adele said when she heard our reunion plans.

I remembered what my cardiologist had said about contact sports. "So will Dr. M," I said.

Meds and suicides

I arrived promptly at 1. People were on court shooting or the sideline chatting. Folding chairs leaned against the fence. A card table offered beer, bread, cheese. Dr. Artie's shot missed everything. "Rotator cuff," he explained, declining to try another.

As more guys arrived, I watched myself interact. If approached, I was receptive, but I initiated few conversations. Too many years of deliberate fouls and bad calls still rankled. I had, I noted, not attained "forgiveness."

I talked with another lawyer about a mutual acquaintance who'd committed suicide. I discussed medical marijuana with Big Steve, who'd undergone three back surgeries. "How often is it prescribed?" Dr. Artie asked.

"When I listen to the Grateful Dead," Steve said.

Cancer and divorce

I counted three artificial hips among the group. Prostate cancer had been around. Guys spoke of divorces, premature passings, Mike the Bruiser's lost eye, whatever-happened-to-that-guy-who... I, who used to claim title to "Most Offensive Rebounds"; now I held more stents than everyone combined.

"Isn't he dead?" Hal asked about the fellow with the ball.

"I don't think so," I said, taking a good look.

"He always played like that," Danny said.

"We'll ask Andy," Lou said. "Andy'll know."

Joy of competition

Shots banged off the rim. Spins and scoops left balls farther from the basket than when they had been released.

Some guys still played sour-faced and striving, still with the slight push and hip check designed for the unfair edge. More played with joy and in celebration at this affirmation of the worth of so many afternoons in each other's company. The physical loss did not surprise or dismay us; the emotional gains enriched and warmed us.

The game was still going on when I left. Next day, an e-mail arrived from the Israeli, proposing we play again and concluding, "Stay healthy." There seemed no reason not to attempt both.