My favorite basketball gymnasium and I go back a long way. I lived many moments in that place—only a few were spectacular, and one was extremely scary. Over the space of a few years, that gym became a second home to me.
In eighth grade I helped put the roof on the gym. I attended a small school in Alaska and because winter was quickly approaching, we needed to get the roof placed before the snow and cold temperatures made it impossible.
My job was simple: I dipped spikes into wax and then handed them to the upper class guys who were allowed to actually swing the sledges. My construction contribution was pretty much insignificant, yet I felt like a dues-paying union member.
My scariest moment in that gym came one really cold and windy day. I was all bundled up while climbing up the scaffolding.
One hand grabbed the rung; the opposite hand quickly followed it. One foot lifted and was placed on a rung; the opposite foot followed suit.
The problem was my work gloves. As I had been climbing toward the roof. they had gotten wet while gripping the bars. With the temperature dropping, they stiffened and froze. I was halfway up the scaffolding when I reached for the next bar with my left hand, but it slipped off the bar. My right hand was by my side. I started to fall backward. I guess I have pretty quick reflexes because my brain sent my left hand an instant message to please re-grip the frozen bar. My left hand shot forward, grabbed the rung, and my right hand duplicated the feat.
Whew.
I stood there hanging on for dear life for a few minutes before slowly continuing my way up to the roof.
Before the gym was in use, my dad and I spent several nights putting up soundboard around the walls. The soundproofing was above the bleachers and behind each basket. It was fun hanging out with my dad. I think we spent more time together working in the gym than we would ever spend during my entire high school playing career, he as a fan and me as a player. He worked on the North Slope of Alaska as a geologist, and the work required him being gone quite often.
In ninth grade, I was a member of the junior varsity boys’ basketball team. I had worked hard the previous summer to improve my hoops skills and it showed. I had a deadly outside shot and gave the opponents a fit from downtown.
I said hello to the gym quite often that year, as practices were long and the games were thrilling for a kid just hitting high school.
School let out, and I said goodbye to the gym.
The summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I put the pedal to the metal while working on my basketball skills. I dribbled, shot, and rebounded on any and all outdoor courts I could find. In no time at all, I was back in the friendly confines of my favorite gym as a starting guard on the varsity team.
Practices that year were more involved, most specifically between the gym floor and myself. The term “suicide” on our basketball team was feared. A suicide consisted of running from the baseline to the free throw line and bending down and touching the free throw line; then running back to the end line and bending down and touching the end line; and then running off to half-court, touching the half-court line, back to the end line and touching it; and then running to the opposite free throw line, touching it, back to the end line and touching it; and finally racing full speed ahead to the other end line, touching the line, and then running as fast as possible back to the original end line.
What made this drill so wonderful was that the head coach sported a whistle in his mouth. We ran three suicides; if we did not make or break the time he gave us on the third suicide, we had to run three more.
To say the gym and I got acquainted a lot that year would be a severe understatement.
My junior year in high school flew by. To this day, I can’t really remember much of what happened in the classroom, but the gym and I grew ever closer.
Basketball practices became yet more involved than they had been the previous year; there was more touching of lines than I care to remember. And yet, through it all, the gym and I were becoming really close friends. There were several times after practice during that season that I stayed late working on my outside shot and free throws. I had become so proficient at hitting the outside bomb that my nickname was “Radar.” I practiced my free throws because at the end of the game, when our coach needed someone to ice the game, I wanted him to pick me.
The gym was always empty as I put in the extra time.
“Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.”
“Swish.”
Free throw attempt one hundred was complete.
Games were won and lost. The season wrapped up, and again I said goodbye to the gym. I’ll see ya in a few months.
My senior year in high school was exciting and challenging when it came to basketball. A 6’5 kid from San Antonio, Texas, was new on the team, and this guy could play. He had so many incredible post moves, and he worked hard to try and grab every single rebound.
Our practices included more line touching and running laps around the gym. The season also held more wins than I had ever been a part of before, too. My after- practice regimen now included the gym, Jeff, and me—the three amigos. I had moved from shooting guard to point guard, and my job was to get Jeff the ball in the low post. We practiced and practiced me throwing the ball to Jeff, him spinning and softly kissing the ball off the backboard and into the hoop. On other occasions, I would drop him a pass and he would immediately return it to me. I would load up and launch a deep shot.
“Radar!”
I remember running out of the locker room and into the gym as our pep band played the theme from “Hogan’s Heroes”. Other nights, we would hit the gym floor to the tune of the “Gillette Look Sharp” theme. Please don’t ask.
Cheerleaders cheered, and the crowd yelled for the A.C.S. Lions to win the game.
We won several games my senior year. In fact, we won enough at home in my favorite gym to advance in the state tournament where, in Galena, we won the school’s first state boys’ basketball championship.
But my last game in our home gym in 1981 was a tough one for me. I knew before the opening tip that this would be it; that I would never again have the opportunity to practice and play in such an awesome facility.
Many years passed, and I grew up and moved away from Anchorage. I graduated from college, got married, and started raising a family in Tennessee and Michigan.
In 2004, my wife and I took our kids to Alaska to see where their dad had grown up. We visited family and Denali National Park all while having a great time in a rented motor home. We also made one other very special visit: my high school gym at Anchorage Christian Schools. I was eager to show my kids my old stomping grounds.
I opened the gym door and was immediately flooded with memories. The practices, the injuries, soundproofing, working on the roof and nearly dying, wins, losses, and waves from my mom in the crowd. It was as if I could almost hear the ball…bounce, bounce, bounce…as I lined up my free throw attempt. And then, of course, there were the familiar strains of the pep band as they led the team out of the locker room and onto victory.
For years I had told my family stories and events from years gone by. Now I smiled as I retold the memories. We took a few shots. I knew it was time to go, that we had other plans and places to be.
Here it is yet another eleven years later and the memories are still strong. Next year, who knows? Maybe I’ll get an invite from the school for a 35- year reunion of the first team to win a state basketball championship. I know exactly where we can celebrate.
