by W.H. Harrod
~I Coulda Been a Star
Speaking of hero worship, and if the author has not, it’s about time he did. For the first several years of Heywood’s young existence, he thought his chances of making it to the big time was a given. In his end of the small town where he lived, he was known as a phenom. Basketball talent? Check. Baseball talent? Check. Track team? Check. Football talent? Heywood never played the game and never wanted to. In the country, if you had that much flat land available, you put a tobacco crop on it, and if another human being ever hit you as hard as some of the guys did on the TV, you found a baseball bat, yelled for a few cousins, and went looking for them.
But getting back to the subject at hand: Heywood’s abundance of athleticism. Why Heywood could tell you stories about his personal exploits with circular sports paraphernalia that would cause you to take an envy pill. Everyone in town knew about Heywood’s rock throwing and spear chucking talents which should have already caused the average person to speculate on just how far so much athletic ability ultimately would take the central subject of these stories.
Possibly it would be best to start off slowly and gradually build up, but that’s not going to happen. You’ll be told right up front that Heywood threw a no hit baseball game. That’s right, and that was back when they didn’t send every daddy’s little booger eater to the batter’s box looking like he was a goal tender for a hockey team. Back in Heywood’s day, a batter always had some skin in the game, so to speak. Sure, they had some weird looking wrap-around thin plastic protective device that provided a modicum of protection to the side of a kid’s head but not that much. When nine, ten, and eleven-year-old kids came to the plate when Heywood was pitching, how they responded during the next few minutes went a long way towards determining how they were treated by their class elders during recess periods. It put them at a serious disadvantage later in their school career if they went running and crying to the teacher with their underwear pulled up over their heads. Very few young boys failed to pass the test.
Somehow, possibly due to pressure from the red-faced, bug-eyed parents screaming at them from the sidelines, most kids would suck it up and take a fastball to about any part of their exposed body excepting, of course, their crotch. Heywood could recall very few young lads not eventually cracking a smile once they were safely on first base enjoying the attaboys sent their way by proud parents relieved that another high and inside fastball to the side of their sons’ heads showed few discernible side effects other than some slight disorientation and memory lapses.
But back to the main topic: Heywood’s no hitter. As a result of it, Heywood got his first taste of what it might be like if he ever made it to the big time. A very nice fan, the owner of the local milk-producing plant, happened to witness Heywood’s pitching jewel and rewarded him with an invitation to come by the plant and take home all the ice cream he wanted. This was almost more than Heywood’s young heart could take. Never in his life could he have ever imagined another human being offering him all the ice cream he could eat, much less carry home. All forms of possible troubling scenarios came to mind. What if he got robbed on the way home? Other kids had witnessed the offer and were sure to spread the word. Why, he would be a sitting duck. No telling what a crazed bunch of adolescent ice cream addicts might do. Heywood could see the headlines in the local paper. “Young pitching celebrity beaten and robbed of ice cream.” “Vandals steal ice cream from local hero.” “Sheriff raising posse to chase down ice cream robbery gang.”
No, Heywood needed to come up with another plan, and he did. It was rather simplistic, but he recalled hearing some very smart person, the local barber, say that “something in the hand is worth a whole bunch of something someplace else,” or something like that.
It was a simple plan. Heywood would sell shares to a couple of guys he knew would have some ready cash available. Then they would all meet at a secret place, at a secret time and sneak away to the dairy. Once there, they would commence to eat approximately half of the total amount given to Heywood and then take the rest of the ice cream, divided into equal shares, and run faster than lightening to get to their homes before the ice cream melted or they were found out about and ambushed. It was a risky plan, but Heywood was desperate to get his hands on all that ice cream before his parents found out about his good fortune and blew the whole deal out of the water.
Things went real smooth during the first part of the plan. They were three brothers in arms against all those less deserving sorts who would never know the feeling of wonderment that goes along with having a whole gallon of your favorite ice cream placed before you without an interfering adult around. They made relatively quick work of three individual gallon containers as they had even remembered to bring along large spoons.
For sure, they all became a mite plump in the midsections and at least a couple of them took a little longer to get down those last several spoons full of God’s most wondrous creation. But they also knew that their, yet fraught with peril, journey was not finished. They still had to get six additional gallons of ice cream safely home. That meant they would need to become the embodiment of stealth. A mile of enemy territory lay in front of them. Along the way many jealous and, as far as Heywood was concerned, undeserving hangers-on adolescents who suddenly wanted to be his most best pals would be waiting for them.
Maybe they did get away clean to the dairy for an hour of pallet pleasing ice cream chomping, but Heywood knew the enemy would be waiting for them on the trip home. Those greedy little undeserving truants were probably hiding in the bushes with spoons in their pockets.
Heywood later recalled the three of them standing there together, filled with a great resolve to take on the perilous task before them. Maybe they would fail to breech the juvenile rabble’s barriers. Maybe they would be run to ground. Maybe the way-layers would wrench from Heywood and his companions’ dying fingers the six gallons of super delicious ice cream, earned by them for having to put up with lazy adults placing the burden of redemption for their own past athletic humiliations and failures upon the shoulders of their poor children.
The three brave youngsters had a mile of enemy territory before them. Huddled up to prepare themselves for the perilous task ahead, they were just about to get to the part where they squeezed hands real hard before letting go and yelling, “Go team!” but they never got the chance. One of the envious youngsters left out of the venture had fessed up to his parents. Those parents called the parents of one of the kids who had joined Heywood in his quest to take ownership of the remaining gallons of ice cream. One of those parents’ car came screeching to a stop right in front of the group before they could break huddle and head off towards the horizon on a dead run. Within seconds, Heywood and his buddies, absent the ice cream which had been yanked from their grasps, sat in the backseat of a station wagon heading for what turned out to be a horrible conclusion to their little ice cream caper. Even worse, they began to feel the pangs of stomach aches that would persist for hours.
Things got worse when Heywood got home. Those doggone telephones. It was a good thing he ate the first gallon before he got home because he sure never got to partake of the remaining two gallons.
Did Heywood learn a lesson from all this? Yes, he did. He decided that the next time he got hold of that much ice cream he would take a big washtub along with him and after he had eaten his fill, he would spoon it all into the tub. Then he would sit down in said tub and take an ice cream bath in that part of the delicious frozen dessert he could not ingest right then and there. As it was probably mentioned earlier, ain’t nobody ever claimed that Heywood was particularly smart, but more importantly, they, for sure, never accused him of being stupid - that being a feller who looks inside a gift horse’s mouth. Furthermore, the whole idea of looking inside a horse’s mouth to get a gift didn’t make any sense to Heywood.
A follow up to the preceding most unfortunate experience, if one could believe Heywood’s continued bad luck, would involve another unfortunat
e event relating to his erratic fastball. Heywood avowed his innocence relating to one fat kid taking one of his famous fastballs to the forehead. Heywood later said that until the last moment that he remained on this earth, he would deny that he intentionally threw at the kid’s head. The public rancor directed his way following this most unfortunate incident had a whole lot to do with Heywood giving up on his promising career as a pitching ace at any number of higher level organizations. Heywood swore the guy was begging for exactly for what he got.
Heywood played for a little league team in a small town. In small towns it takes about every kid who can run a base path without falling on his face constantly to get anything close to a six or eight team league together. Therefore, not every gap tooth, I sure hope he doesn’t get too excited and pee in his pants again while he’s on the field lad is going to have sufficient athletic ability to play the game without some risk of him getting hurt because of being slow and clumsy. It really had less to do with throwing the ball, catching the ball, hitting the ball, fielding the ball, than it did with having the common sense to duck when a high and inside fastball is coming straight at one’s head.
Heywood said he could still recall looking over to the coach as one goofy kid waddled up to the plate. He must have had a death wish or, maybe, it was the unfortunate parents who had the wish. Heywood didn’t know, but he did know they kept sending the poor kid back out to the plate. The kid never did come close to hitting a ball, even a foul ball, yet there he came walking up to the plate with a bandage on his chin from a game earlier in the week. Plus he always crowded the plate.
What was Heywood to do? Heywood was well-known as a fastball thrower. He couldn’t throw a curve well enough to use it in a close game. All he could do was come with the heat and hope for the best. Heywood looked over to the coach expecting him to understand his precarious situation. If he somehow got a fastball up and inside, anywhere close to the local minister’s son’s head, Heywood would be run out of town on a rail. Heywood hoped the coach would have him walk the kid so they could go for the double play. With this slow poke on first base anything on the ground would result in an almost automatic double play getting them out of the inning.
Instead the coach signaled for him to pitch to the kid. Heywood was so surprised that he started to walk off the mound in the coach’s direction until being waved back. That was it, he had his orders. Pitch to the kid. Heywood was tempted to turn to the glowering throng sitting in the stands to see if they also knew that he was being ordered to deliver another of his erratic fastballs in the direction of the crowd favorite’s chin.
Heywood must have stood there lost in his own thoughts for some time because it was his coach’s loud shrill voice that brought him back to the present. He recalled giving coach one last mournful look before he followed his orders, which was, to throw one of his increasingly erratic fastballs towards the plate while praying that the defenseless young lad would have the sense to back away if Heywood’s smoke came too close.
It was with much reluctance and trepidation that Heywood ultimately released the ball from his fingertips, not at all certain the right trajectory would be achieved. Not once did he open his eyes to see if he was going to be the hero or the foil of this small town drama. The split second it actually took for the ball to complete its journey seemed to last forever, and then it was over and Heywood knew his fate.
Sometime later after Heywood was safely away from all the screeching turmoil that ensued once his high and inside fastball made contact with the forever slow-footed batter’s chin, Heywood cursed the fates that had caused the parents of the poor kid to force the league to allow him to play. The kid should have stuck with raising mice or maybe even those icky little bugs he carried around in his pocket.
Heywood thought about that unfortunate kid often over the succeeding years after the kid moved away and no one heard anything about him or his family. Heywood even worried about him - that is until he found out much later that the kid grew up and became a successful businessman and bought his own candy manufacturing company. Just imagine having your own office in the same building that manufactures one of the basic food groups – chocolate. Nobody ever said life was fair. Heywood did recall a guy saying one time that it was a piece of cake. That was right before that same guy got run over by a semi hauling bakery goods to supermarkets.
Possibly Heywood should have devoted his full attention to another sport in which more than one individual said he showed some real talent. It still required the use of a ball, of course, only this ball was much bigger and had to be inflated. That’s right, a basketball.
Upon reflection all these many years later, Heywood freely admitted that he wasn’t that good a ball handler, nor was he especially good at defense and, likewise, rebounding. Nor would an unbiased observer ever accuse him of being a hustler on the court. Finally, he would have to admit he had a real hard time remembering most of the plays. He didn’t necessarily regard that as being his problem as he usually only got the ball when he was expected to shoot the ball. That’s basically all he wanted to do anyway.
No floor burns for Heywood. He couldn’t see himself down on the floor getting his knees and elbows skinned up in hopes of maybe coming up with the basketball. He needed better odds than that to give up his precious skin.
Heywood especially enjoyed the latter part of games where all the hustlers had been going at it for two or three quarters. That’s when the pickings got good. Get a guy guarding you so tired that he pretty much stays back on his heels and Heywood would show you a spot up shooter who could have a field day. All one needed to do was employ a few head fakes and then boom, a long two pointer. That’s right, only two points for swishing a twenty-five footer. It would be many more years before kids got their just rewards for launching a bomb from somewhere downtown. But still, the crowds loved it.
As Heywood recalled, sometimes the biggest problem he had was staying awake. If he wasn’t in the game, where was he to get his motivation? To this day Heywood couldn’t remember how many games they won or lost. He knew they won some, and they lost some. Sometimes they got trophies, and sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the coach acted as if he might wait for Heywood out behind the gym to hit him with a rock, and sometimes he acted as if Heywood was his own son. That might have been a trick as the coach was single and only fifteen years older than Heywood.
There was this one game where Heywood was bombing away from way, way downtown. If he took one step back, he committed an over and back violation. The weirdest part of it was that the offensive plays started with Heywood making great defensive plays.
Heywood did not usually play defense. But during one game the cards laid out so that he had to take advantage of several ball handling lapses by the opposing team. Actually, it was the same non-ball handling ball handler on the opposing team who kept giving it up. Heywood wasn’t even guarding the guy. Three times in a row he ran the same dumb play in Heywood’s direction. All Heywood had to do each time was reach in, grab the ball, and head down court on a fast break.
The readers are probably asking, what’s so interesting about stealing the ball and going down court for an easy lay in? Therein resides the source for another tale of woe. You see, Heywood was a long range bomber. That’s why he played the game. Not to run down the court and jump up and lay the ball in the basket. What fun was that? Fans in the stand don’t get excited over layups. They like the bombs, and as it so happened, so did Heywood.
Getting back to the story, it should not be a surprise that Heywood did not pass the ball he stole to his teammates - even one who had broken away on a fast break and awaited a pass so he could lay the ball in the basket for an easy two points. No, Heywood did something much more exciting. He sprinted down court with the ball until he had gone not more than two steps beyond the center court line. That’s about as far as Heywood felt he needed to go. Then Heywood did what he usually did when he got the ball, he shot it. Just as expected, the ball went through the rim
without touching anything but net. The fans went wild. Heywood felt ten feet tall.
Then, as Heywood turned around to get back on defense, the coach yelled telling him he’d made a great play, but next time that happened, hit the man running ahead for the easy layup. Heywood just smiled at him and resumed his defensive position as before.
Wouldn’t you know it? That same guy who coughed the ball up to Heywood only seconds before came at him again. Heywood simply reached in and filched the ball exactly as he did a minute earlier. He started back down the court with the same adrenalin pumping as it did only a minute before. And wouldn’t you know it, the same teammate headed down the floor expecting the ball so he could complete the two point conversion.
For a second Heywood gave a fleeting glance in his teammate’s direction, but he had other plans. Just as before, he took two steps over the center line and launched another long range bomb. And just like before, the ball hit nothing but net. Even his teammates were slapping him on the back telling Heywood how great the shot was.
As he headed back down court Heywood’s coach commended him on his hustle before admonishing him to give the ball up to the teammate streaking down the floor if a similar play happened again. Heywood assured him he would and regained his usual defensive stance as the same hard-headed ball handler again came his way.
“Surely not,” Heywood said as the guy headed down memory lane with Heywood standing there wide-eyed in disbelief. All Heywood did was simply reach in and take the ball away. Then, just like before, he started for the other end of the court. And like before, the same teammate was there ahead of him streaking for the goal awaiting the ball, thereby practically guaranteeing an easy two point play.
Heywood remembered what the coach had said to him twice before, “Pass the doggone ball.”
Heywood realized that mere parts of a second passed while he resolved the issue in his mind. Pass the ball like a good teammate or do what came naturally and throw up another forty foot jump shot. In his defense, something happened before he had time to give an answer. He shot the ball. Again it hit nothing but net.
The crowd rewarded Heywood’s noble effort. But when he turned to see what the coach thought regarding what he’d personally come to think of as an impressive display of long range bombing talent, he scarcely recognized the guy. The coach had smoke coming out of his ears. Needlessly to say, Heywood’s participation in the rest of the game was over. He was unceremoniously sat down at the farthest end of the bench where the nonathletic kids whose parents gave generously to the athletic fund sat.
Heywood learned a lesson that day. Don’t bother stealing the ball from an opponent. You won’t be the one who gets to shoot it. Some opportunistic laggard hanging around in the backcourt will get all the glory for having done nothing but catch the ball that someone else went to the trouble to steal then run back to the other end and lay it in to the applause of all the fans. That’s not the way Heywood rolled.
This stroll down memory lane concludes with one last basketball tale that ends on a positive note. Heywood’s recollection of the event brought a smile to his face. He’d been forgiven for the sins recently recounted in the previous story. He’d learned his lesson and passed the ball at every opportunity. It actually got to the point where the coach was yelling at Heywood for not taking the shot. But isn’t that the way adults always act? One day they tell a kid this and the next day they are telling him something else. Kids don’t do things like that. Kids will do the same thing every time regardless of the consequences. There is no right or wrong to a kid. There’s just doing. Kids live in the moment.
This particular game was at his team’s biggest rival’s gym in a small town five miles away. Naturally the rivalry was fierce. Bragging rights were everything. Both towns would abide any loss excepting to their biggest rival. Whoever lost that game were pariahs in the community until they avenged the shame by winning the next game. If the loss came at the end of the season, life wasn’t all that pleasant for many months.
That’s why Heywood and his teammates in this one particular game were jubilant over the fact that they were ahead by over twenty points and the game had only seconds to go. Heywood was enjoying himself as he’d put up some real good numbers and the coach was even giving him noogies during timeouts. He seemed to have forgotten all about Heywood’s selfish long range shooting display that ended up with Heywood in the doghouse. It also might have had something to do with the season coming to an end and the coach not having to deal with a bunch of teenagers again until the next year.
Heywood’s team was up big and as the game was in the bag, the coach had signaled for the team to back off the defensive intensity. As long as they shot from outside, let them go for it. Most of the time the ball clanged off the backboard and the team took their time going back down the court before someone attempted a long shot. Coach had told them not to drive for the basket as it would create contact which would give the opponents an opportunity to swing some elbows or maybe even commit a flagrant foul which would most likely start a brawl. One thing everyone knew was that when it came to brawls, the home court always wins.
Sometimes, when that happened, even the adults from both schools made it out on the floor to do some pushing and shoving. Rarely did a fist get thrown, excepting if a really hard foul had taken place or a tournament appearance was at risk. That wasn’t the case in this game. Absolutely nothing was at stake. The game had already been won.
The last few seconds of the game is what this story is all about. It went like this: The opponents had finally hit one of the dozen long shots they had attempted as Heywood and his teammates mostly stood around waiting for the ball to clang off the backboard into one of their hands. Only seconds were left on the clock and who do you think got the ball on the inbound pass? Heywood.
He was standing right under the opponent’s goal with the ball in his hands and his team members yelling for him to shoot it. So he did. He didn’t even put much effort in to it. What chance did a guy really have at making a ninety foot shot? Heywood didn’t even wait to see what happened as he started for the bench to get his stuff before heading for the safety of the locker room.
Before he got but a few steps, a roar went up from the crowd. The doggone ball had swished the net. Everyone forgot who they were supposed to be rooting for because the entire gym full of fans erupted in applause. The shot had no outcome on the game so the other team, the ones who would want to take scalps if the game had been a nail biter, joined in the celebration of the lucky shot the likes of which they most probably would never see again.
Heywood was mobbed by his teammates as if he had won the game even though they were up by twenty points. That was all right by Heywood. The coach also came out and gave Heywood a big hug. The hug did end kind of awkwardly as both soon remembered they really didn’t like each other that much. Maybe that’s the moral of this tale. You really don’t have to like each other for it to work. But according to coach, you do have to, “Pass the damn ball.”
