A full moon was so welcome. The chickens might not have liked it but I could shoot baskets until it was time for me to go to bed.  On the south side of the chicken coop, I had fashioned a back board out of scrap wood and slats taken from our beds.  By taking one or two slats from each bed, no one noticed.  I then mounted the backboard on the roof of the chicken house, which happened to be about ten feet high.   Most of my shots were practiced close to the basket for obvious reasons.  The ground sloped slightly from right to left and inward and with a metal band from a wooden barrel that had been reduced in circumference to about the size of a regulation basketball hoop, it wasn’t that conducive to making long shots.  The three point shot had not been introduced so why not just make the easy ones.

Another reason I didn’t practice long shots was because of how the ball rebounded when my aim wasn’t very good, especially in the dark.  If I missed the backboard, which was smaller than regulation, the ball would end up behind the chicken house in the corral where the milk cows spent their nights.  More than once I had to wash my ball off when it landed on a  fresh meadow muffin.

With winter, snow  often had to be removed and having a sunny southern exposure the ground would dry quite rapidly, even when large drifts would have to be moved so I rarely missed days when I couldn’t play in that area.  My mother always knew where I was, even though she couldn’t see me, the constant banging of the ball on the backboard alerted her to my whereabouts.

Without anyone to play with I made up games and worked on offensive rebounds.  I developed a means of handling rebounds with my fingertips on my right hand which added about four inches to my vertical jump.  Quite often I would control a ball playing against players who were taller than me.  To the best of my knowledge no one ever figured out how that was accomplished. If only someone would have told me to practice using my left hand as well  as the right.

The real reward for those countless hours shooting baskets, mostly in diminishing light, didn’t materialize until my junior and senior years in high school.  Our team qualified for the state tournament in 1947 and I was selected for honorable mention.  In 1948 we qualified again but an appendectomy a few days before the tournament prevented me from being with the team.  However, averaging 19 points per game during the regular season was good enough in the selection committees eyes to name me to the Omaha World Herald “All State” team in my class.

Many times in our lives we all need to stop and count our blessings.  How fortunate I was not to have a TV, computer, I-pad or smart phone during that period of my life.  Times were extremely hard in those years.  Shortly after losing our farm and home, I also lost my father.  Basketball and some very caring people helped guide me through some crucial years.