Tuesday, April 12, 2011

The Hoop on the Barn

The basketball hoop hung on the end of the barn. My horse stood beneath the hoop while I saddled her. Brenda and I played in the corncrib across from it. We rode our tricycles beneath it and parked our bikes there as well. Dad parked the milk truck there and often the trailer. The basketball hoop hung on the end of the barn.

I vaguely remember my sister, June, tossing a ball up at the basket. Basketball was never my forte, especially when it came to dribbling a ball on gravel.

Neff Road is basketball country. Everyone in the county supported their high school teams. The FM Jets were the best.

"Blue and white, fight, fight. Blue and white, fight, fight. Yaaaaaay blue. Yaaaaaay white. Yaaaaaay team, fight, fight."

The FM teams were often state champions. These farm boys fought there way to the top. Tough, strong and smart. They grew up with baskets hoops on the barn and a basketball in their hands. They came from a long lineage of players. The years changed, but the names of the boys on the teams remained the same.

Basketball. Basketball hoop. Dad didn't have his boys. Perhaps the hoop would have seen more action. But still, we had basketball in our hearts.

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