Throw enough mud on the wall...
A scorching afternoon, an empty playground, a stubborn rim, and a grandfather's wisdom & vodka tonic. Every miss is a step closer to a make. Keep shooting, because sooner or later, a shot will go in.
Grandpa carried a multicolored lawn chair popular around the time of Teen Wolf in one hand, a vodka tonic dressed with a lime in the other, and wore a smile that said I’m retired and giddy because I have nothing else to do today.
I was ten and rolled a rubber basketball between my hands.
It was hotter than bacon on a skillet outside, and as Grandpa squinted into the sun then eyed the ice cubes in his drink, I knew none of us would last too long at the playground.
Our steps crunched the brown-yellow grass of the baseball field where I learned to catch lightning bugs as much as pop-ups on summer nights. We passed the metallic, blue-grey merry-go-round with bars too hot to touch and walked under large maple trees on our way to the basketball court. The trees stood still in the sun. The wind didn’t move either.
The blacktop court had long, narrow cracks for free throw lines and a pot-hole at half-court. The rims, two thick circles of iron forged in some cauldron of basketball hating fury, sucked. But, on the rare occasion a shot went in, the chain nets that dropped from them played some pretty sweet music.
Grandpa took his seat under the half shade of the trees while I went to work.
A missed foul shot. An errant layup. Three straight misses from the elbow. Three more from behind the makeshift three-point line. Shot after shot. Miss after miss. I stacked bricks and sprinted after big ricochets off rims more unforgiving than Clint Eastwood around the playground.
Dirt coated my hands. The late-afternoon sun burned the back of my neck. My chest heaved. My lungs panted. A shot smacked front iron and bounced into my face. Nothing, it seemed, would drop in.
I glanced over my shoulder at Grandpa. He raised his glass, still smiling.
“Sooner or later one’ll go in.” His hearty laugh broke the rhythm of bad jump shots and long rebounds. “Just keep shooting.”
He took a long sip.
“Besides, if the rim isn’t helping you, don’t use it,” Grandpa grinned and arched his eyebrows.
I turned and eyed the rim. Sized up my nemesis. Imagined the sweet sound of rubber rattling those chain nets. Pictured a made bucket or two.
Finally, one dropped in.
Then, the next.
A third made beautiful music with the chains.
A smile spread across my face as I gathered the basketball. It was time to go.
“You know,” Grandpa started on our walk back to his house. “You throw enough mud on the wall and some of it will stick. Come on, let’s go eat that take and bake pizza and fix me another cocktail.”
Friends- I wrote this story for myself. As a reminder to never stop throwing mud at the wall.
We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.