‘Tis the season for basketball ~ March 27, 1997

David Heiller

The sounds of basketball cut through the chilly air two nights ago. Α slightly deflated ball dribbled on the dirt court, which also doubles as our driveway.

The ball banged on the rim. Α yell of satisfaction from one boy cut the air as the ball eased over it and through the net. The other boy grumbled a response, took the ball and dribbled and shouted and shot.

Basketball in March in Minnesota has its own season, just like spring, summer, fall, and winter. It’s a lot shorter, but it is still a power to be reckoned with. Especially this year. This year is special.

I watched my son and his friend for a few minutes on Sunday night, playing in the light of the pole barn. Α full moon was rising to add a touch of class. There was even a comet in the northwest riding shotgun over the scene.

“Life will never get better than that,” I thought to myself. You’re 13. Well, that’s not so easy. But with a basketball in your hand and a week’s worth of Easter vacation beckoning like a fast break, you can’t complain.

So you pretend you’re Sam Jacobson, and the clock is winding down against Kentucky, and you get the pass, and you go up for a jump shot and let the ball go with no time on the clock, and it swishes.

David had a unique version of one-on-one that they played nearly everyday.

Oops. It clanked off the rim. It didn’t go in. No problem. You were fouled! Two shots, and you’re down by one point. In goes the first one. It’s all tied up, folks. In goes the second. The Gophers win the national title! Α few sound effects are in order now. Listen to that crowd roar!

I don’t know if that’s what goes through my son’s mind as he plays outside on these March days and nights. But I’ve got a hunch it is, if he’s like his old man and about three million other guys.

When I was his age, we had a basketball season that always seemed to coincide with the high school tournament. It wasn’t organized. We didn’t have coaches, or crazy practice schedules, or 100-mile bus rides. A bunch of kids from town would gather and we’d find a cement driveway that had a basket against the garage, and we’d play.

We weren’t very good. I’m sure a big city team would have cleaned our clocks. But we thought we were good, and that was what mattered. We played fair. We called our own fouls, and were basically honest.

The night games at the school ground with my brother Danny were the most fun for me. The ground under the two baskets was bare, due to the fact that the two baskets represented first base and third base during the baseball season. Baseball in Brownsville far exceeded basketball’s comet-like moment in the sun.

In March, that ground would turn pretty muddy. It was like playing on a dirty sponge. We’d come home with dirt ground into our hands and arms and sleeves and jeans. Mom never complained.

David in about '66

But at night the ground would harden up. Then it was like a real court, although not always very smooth. That didn’t matter. We could dribble on it, and it evened up the odds a bit, since Danny was three years older and could outplay me on cement.

Playing alone was fun too. You could make up your own scenario, be any star you wanted to be. Someone from Edina or Duluth East, whoever was strarring in that year’s state tournament. Or even a Minnesota Gopher. And you always won. I never lost one game at the school grounds when I played by myself.

One night, playing with my brother, my foot curled over when I stepped on a clump of frozen mud. A needle of pain went through my foot, and I screamed and fell down. Danny, being a true big brother, stole the ball and made the basket while I lay on the ground in agony.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did both. Then he helped me home. Mom took me to the doctor the next day, and an X-ray showed a broken bone right where I knew it would. Thus ended the 1966 basketball season.

David's alma mater, the Minnesota Gophers

Basketball season is special because of memories like that, and because I get to watch history repeat itself these days when my son plays outside on March nights.

This year it is special also because of the Minnesota Gophers. I don’t know if they will win the national tale this Saturday and Monday. But listening to them on the radio all year, and watching them in the NCAA tournament, has been a real treat. It has brought excitement to our family much like the Twins did in 1987 and 1991.

Go Gophers. Win or lose, we owe you a big thank you.