CAGER

Standing at the imaginary foul line,

shooting foul shots at the hoop in my driveway.

300, 400, 450, 3 or 4 days a week in the summer,

by myself.

I wasn’t interested in basketball as a game,

5 on 5, full court, on a team.

No team would have me and I didn’t want them.

I just liked shooting foul shots in the mid-afternoon during the summer break from school.

Girls….forget about girls.

I was making 72% of my foul shots during the dog days of  July, 1974,

and decided to put more time in and reach my goal of 80% by the time school started.

I’d keep a running tab in my head of shots made per 100 attempts,

then write that number down in a small notebook, take a long swig of Coke,

and shoot the next 100.

Word got around that I was taking a lot of foul shots that summer,

and a small gallery would form.

Neighborhood kids-Bennie the Lip(cleft palate),

Jimmie Mack 13 years old and weighing in at 250,

Handjob Marcy with the terrible acne.

My people, my mirrors.

They would come by and chat, take a few shots, help me count,

move on to other, summertime activities.

I’d wear them down.

The heat and the boredom would beckon them indoors, to a pool, somewhere else.

I didn’t mind the heat, had found a rhythm, and was quite simply,

very good at making foul shots.

Very little movement, other than a slight bending and pushing at the knees,

snap of the wrist.

Hand centered on the ball anchored just above my right eyebrow,

Swish, 7.6 out of ten.

The summer before, I’d invented a game hitting rocks with a miniature souvenir Phillies bat,

over our back fence into a vacant lot, using markers for hits and outs.

I’d play nine inning games batting for both teams and often play doubleheaders.

But I was older now and had no time or interest in such a childish pursuit.

Foul shots were real tangible accomplishments.

They went in, they didn’t go in.

No flights of fancy and wild imaginary late inning heroics.

I either put the ball in the hole or didn’t,

and by late August I was shooting the lights out.

I was running in 14, 15 shots in a row, but couldn’t quite crack 80%,

over a 100 shot trial.

The Sunday before the start of my sophomore year at Cherry Hill High School West,

I got out to the driveway at 9:00 AM and began shooting.

By noon I’d logged 1200 shots, the last 100 checking in at 77%.

A fairly large crowd had formed, and kids were retrieving the ball for me,

so I didn’t have to move my feet. There was some cheering.

They were with me.

By 2:30 I was at 82% and the crowd dispersed.

I decided to go 100 more then call it a summer.

On shot number 47, I was at 91% and my father pulled partially into the driveway.

“You were doing this when I left this morning.”

“Yeah.”

He stood in front of me, raised his hand and said,” Shoot over me.”

I shot and missed the entire rim.

“In real competition you’re guarded. You don’t get clear looks at the basket.”

“Dad, I’m up to 91%….thru my last 47 shots that is.”

“Lee….you’re not gonna make the NBA. Do something reasonable with your time.”

He walked inside and I did not shoot the remaining 53 foul shots.

I didn’t even like basketball, really, but my father had gone to some expense,

and trouble, to put in the pole and backboard in the driveway of his trophy house.

That winter my father would force me to take piano lessons, and I became a musician,

just to teach him a lesson.


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