Saturdays in February

Snow falling and wind blowing reminds me of why as a kid I loved Saturdays in February. Take a trip down memory lane with me, back to the days when only snow days from school and basketball mattered.

As a kid, I loved Saturdays in February. After football season, when snow days from school and basketball were the only things I cared about. Outside, the grays of northern Ohio could make anyone dreary. But to step inside a warm gym on a cold Saturday - to hear the sneaker squeaks and whistles, the pop of passes hitting open hands, and the pat-pat of leather against hardwood - was to let a symphony of sport play music for my soul.

Snow lived on the ground by this point in winter. The sidewalks, either too icy or too full of puddles, less walkways than traps. Instead, I walked on the road, using paths cut by passing cars through the snow to make my five-block trek. The almost-afternoon sun shone on my red cheeks. It might be there to say hello today, but it wasn’t keeping anyone warm.

I started running whenever I got close to the gym. Past the parking lot stuffed with the yellow buses and vans that brought the other teams to the games. Around the big Catholic Church whose holy water I signed the cross with every Monday and Friday for school mass. A few parents would be outside, burning heaters and shivering, sharing smokes with the Nun from the high school who was known to have a taste for nicotine - just a venial sin, she liked to say with a wink.

I paid $3.00 to enter, but could be wrong. This was CYO Hoops, after all, so it could be I paid for Dominos and Snickers with the quarters and singles I borrowed from Dad’s office. I want to say I sipped on Swiss-Miss hot chocolate from a Styrofoam cup, but I probably just drank from the water fountain with the two old dial knobs on its side.

One of my favorite things about memories is they’re unreliable.

When moments happen, we see them how we imagine them, or how we want them to be. Then, we remember them that way. I couldn’t tell you who made a basket or missed a free throw. And I can’t picture any loose ball scrambles or fast breaks.

But I can remember how I felt watching, and that lets me add the color to the pencil-sketch outlined in my memory.

The ball rolls out of bounds, softly smacking a tan wall. A kid from our school stands behind the baseline and under the basket at the far end of the court. Behind him there’s a big stage and designs of crimson and silver zig-zag on the court. He smacks the ball. Players start running in barely choreographed motion.

Winter coats and hats might pay the price of admission outside, but inside the heat is at full blast. Sweat beads dribble from both players and fans alike. A few parents on the other side rattle wooden bleachers. A pass comes in, and a shot goes up. On our side we wait for a round ball to drop through a nylon net and hope the big scoreboard changes with it.

This moment probably never happened, which is why I remember perfectly like it did.

I played my fourth grade games at the YMCA. The next year I’d move up to the big, school court and finally see how my game stacked up against other players from other towns. For now, I could only watch the older kids. They were taller and stronger, though usually not faster, and I’d drop Reese’s Pieces into my mouth from a cardboard box while picturing my moves playing out in their game.

Stop and pop, before the big man can get his hand up. Make that kid go left and you’ll win. Talk a little trash to that one. He looks upsettable, and his pineapple cut deserves it. Could I get to the basket with a cross-over? Sure gonna try.

Thinking about it made me nervous. It made me excited. Made me want to practice. After hours inside, I’d race home and clear the snow in our driveway. Dad had added spotlights over the hoop so I could play into the night, and I’d stay out there as long as my red, frigid hands let me.

Driveway cracks and puddles became defenders. I’d rock the ball right to left at the top of the key, the bright lights shining down while my breaths faded off into the night underneath them. Two bounces to the left and shoot. Then, two to the right. Jump-stopping on ice an adventure worth enduring. I’d stay outside and shoot until I made a hundred.

Inside, we had a tiny hoop in our basement. My imagination never stopped, and on this court I played out dreams of imagined championships in an endless loop. I’d play until my arms got too heavy to shoot and my legs too tired to jump.

I’d play and play and play, until I’d squeezed all the hoops I could from this Saturday in February.

Friends, tell me a story about a Saturday you remember. I hope you smile while doing it.

We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.