When a boy, I wanted to be a great basketball player.  I was tall and rapidly growing taller, but I was lanky and uncoordinated.  My father played varsity ball and from what I gathered in listening to his friends, he was quite good.  At young age, and not possessing much in way of physical talent, I had no concept as to how hard I needed to work to become a good ball player.  I didn’t start to take the game seriously until the approach of sophomore year, at which point, I sought court near and far.

Still not good by any standard I hold, I was beginning to understand the effort required to improve.  A friend told me where pickup game could be had that wasn’t far from home.  The location was referred to simply as 25^th Street—an asphalt patch located directly behind fire station.  Off to side there was a small pavilion and a drinking fountain, which was turned on in warmer months.  The backboards were perforated metal and didn’t kick like wood or glass which required adjustment when playing the bank shot.

On sunny summer evenings it wasn’t uncommon to find court surrounded by gaggle three rows deep.  When first I arrived on scene, I didn’t know the rules and finding a patient soul to explain wasn’t easy, but with time I learned the ropes.  First you had to call winners and do so loud enough that others took note.  Calling winners meant you had the right to play the winning team.  On busy nights there might be seven or eight winners called ahead, and on those nights you were lucky to play at all.  As such, arriving early was important.  Another key was finding guys willing to play with you.  If you didn’t have skills, good players would turn you down, because losing meant sitting.

Another lesson learned when waiting turn on sideline was to not assume role of referee.  Once, early in my acclimation to the customs of 25^th street, I saw two men striving to save ball from going out of bounds.  Of course, the one responsible for knocking ball out forfeited it to opposing team.  I saw who last touched the leather sphere and said so.  I was greeted with jeers from several, “you think you’re the f’n ref…keep your damn mouth shut.”  Needless to say, I never again pretended to wear striped shirt.

Most, if not all who visited had nicknames, and I was christened Breu, which was short for Breuer.  Randy Breuer was an NBA center.  He was a tall thin white guy who played center for several teams during his career.  He was decent, but not flashy and didn’t have great springs.  The moniker took hold and that was my name as far as the 25^th Street crowd was concerned.  Although most wouldn’t consider this a compliment, it was also a sign I was beginning to be accepted as a regular and I made the best of it.

Occasionally conflict came to near blows for hard foul, bad call, or dis that went too far.  I distinctly remember a Saturday afternoon when young newcomer called a grizzled veteran a son of a bitch.  The older gent was ready to fight the younger.  “Did I hear you call me a son of a bitch?” he said as he dropped ball and approached the offending youngster.  “You don’t know me well enough to call me a son of a bitch and you too young” he barked, while further closing gap.  The senior player had a reputation as a fierce scrapper.  Though I was taking a chance, I thought some humor might diffuse escalation and allow game to begin anew.  So, I said, “Grear, am I allowed to call you a son of a bitch?”  He stopped his movement toward foe. turned to me, first staring, then responding, “I’m good with that.  You just old enough to call me a son of a bitch.”  He began laughing as did others and if a few minutes we were running again.

25^th Street was a melting pot or sorts.  It drew from every neighborhood, it drew non-players, it drew ex-players, it drew high school students, it drew college students, and once it even drew an NBA player down from Cleveland.  All nationalities, colors, and genders were represented, though the population was predominantly male.  Personalities ranged from kind and thoughtful to brutal and hateful and this spectrum crossed all lines—racial, age, and levels of affluence.  In my experience it was like any population, the vast majority were upright folk.

I grew up in significant ways, on that patch of blacktop.  Being younger than most, several took me under wing, helped me greatly improve my game, and led me away from trouble.  Every so often I was on team that played as team and won out, only stopping when sun ceased to provided illumination.

I no longer live in that town, but on summer day I’ll occasionally pass court where I now live and remember those magic warm evenings when our eclectic group gathered to forget about life’s concerns for a few hours.  Though I don’t often reminisce about those times, when I do, I think about the fellas who mentored me and sincerely hope life has bestowed many a blessing on them and theirs.