On January 1, 1960, when the sixties became a decade, I was ten years old. I was unaware of how fast the decade would mature or how fast I would grow up. Before the decade was over I would be married, become a father, and been wounded in Vietnam
The sixties started as innocuous as it did for most midwestern boys. I carried a newspaper route in the morning, belonged to a Boy Scout Troop and was annoyed that I shared a bedroom with my little brother. I enjoyed school, but not math class, and was beginning to “tall up” as my grandpa called it. Girls were not yet on my radar, but basketball was and I played whenever and wherever I could find a goal. I sang in the youth choir at Church and practiced being Elvis Presley in the mirror in bedroom, playing the radio as loud as it would play, until my Mother yelled up the stairway that the neighbors were complaining. I was never sure that was entirely accurate. In short, I lived a pretty idyllic life.
My bicycle was my conduit to the outside world. I would fly down the alley’s behind the houses on my street pretending to be Roy Rogers astride his horse Trigger. Trash cans were bad guys and were routinely dispatched with my imaginary six gun. There were no boundaries for me, I was only limited by endurance and daylight. In 1960, a ten year old was safe to roam to his heart’s content. Safe to explore the trash bins behind Murphy’s Supermarket. Safe to poke around the junk behind Brammer’s Texaco Gas station. Safe to slide through a hole in the fence at the fairgrounds, to watch the horses being trained. I guess, carefree would describe the environment of my pre teen years. I never thought about how fast things could change or how those changes would affect me for years to come.
I was always pretty content to spend my days alone but I did have a few close friends, that were always available should I be in need of a companion. If you like to play basketball a companion is a necessity. Playing alone is just practice, but when playing with someone, it becomes a game.
Roy, lived about five blocks from my house and had a great basketball court. It came equipped with a new goal that was attached to a bank board above the garage door and even had a net on the rim. The building was out by the alley and had a night light attached to a nearby phone pole. No matter what time of day, Roy was always “shooting baskets”. He and I spent many summer time hours solving the problems of the world while playing HORSE or practicing our free throws. Most of our discussions were about music or school or making the basketball team next year. Over the course of a couple of years, we became pretty close friends, we were the same age, went to the same school, but he was Catholic, so we went to different churches. Our time under that basketball goal was something that I looked forward to almost every day. I was there so often that my Mom would call Roy’s mom on the phone to remind me to come home for supper. We were on the alley basket ball court so often that other guys in the neighborhood would come by on their bikes to shoot the breeze. His house and that court had become a vital part of my life.
One hot summer day while were perfecting our jump shots, Roy mentioned that he would be gone for a couple of weeks. He explained that his Father was taking the family to Port Canaveral Beach Florida for a vacation. He assured me that access to the court was not a problem, his ball would be right inside the garage door , in case mine went flat. While he was gone, I kept the court swept off and practiced my hook shot, but it was not the same. I came to realize that I missed my friend and could not wait for his return, so that we could return my life to normal. I rode by the house every day to see if they had returned.
Finally, one Sunday afternoon, I turned into the alley on my bike and there was Roy “shooting baskets”. I told him it was about time he returned, kidded him about his tan and our lives took up where we had left it. Except, something seemed to be bothering him. With typical 12 year old diplomacy I demanded to know what was wrong with him. He stopped shooting the ball and turned to me and said, “we are moving to Florida”. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. I didn’t have the life experience to understand the gravity of what he was saying. “My Dad got a job working at the Cape Canaveral Space Center, and are moving there before school starts next month.” I just kept shooting my ball, I didn’t know what to say. Latter that night, while laying in bed trying process what had happened, I began to realize that my life was about to change.
Everyone in the neighborhood was happy for Roy and his family. He was moving to Florida and he was going to be living on the beach. They put a For Sale sign in the front yard and Roy’s Mom asked us not to play basketball out by the alley any more, in case someone would like to stop by and see the house. We saw each other a few times in the next few weeks but he was pretty busy packing and helping his family get ready for the move. The house sold and a moving day was established and Roy and I made plans to meet up and say goodbye. On the appointed day , I grabbed my basketball and jumped on my bike determined to get our last “few shots” in. Roy was waiting for me out on the basketball court, where a moving van was parked under the rim. We talked a little and passed the ball back and forth and he promised to write a letter once he got settled. I promised to write back and ask my parents if we could ever visit Florida. I got on my bike and headed into my future. I don’t remember if we ever wrote to each other, but I would occasionally ride by the house and noticed that the basketball goal had moved to Florida too.
I drove by the old house the other day while I was back in town. I turned down the alley and parked in front of the garage. The buildings are still there and for a moment I let my mind drift back to when I was growing up in the sixties.