by Mark Patterson
I still see them. These days, I can’t NOT see them as I am nostalgically compelled to look westward-when frequently headed southward- just after passing mostly-abandoned Clark Field in Newell. The grassy expanse upon which the likes of Chris Enochs, destined to cash in a seven- figure bonus from the Oakland Athletics, and Butch Townley, the oddly diminutive power- pitching legend from Wellsville, first made their bones. The same now-untended sod that local legend says hosted the nascent Pittsburgh Steelers as they clashed leather helmets long before Terry, “Mean Joe,” or Franco had begun to play even Pee Wee ball. Now flea markets occlude line of vision to a rocky infield that hasn’t seen sprinkled lye since that iconic football team last saw a Super-Bowl.
I see ephemeral figures shimmering like mirages in the August sun. Eternal participants in the loosely choreographed, largely improvised, ten-person dance that Naismith devised, purposeful ghosts attired out of time in clingy short-shorts, knee-length tube socks with look-at-me stripes, and in many cases, a canvas pair of pre-historic converse “All Stars.” They sport collar- length 70’s hair and the occasional perm, usually pushed back by some primitive headband that could easily pass for a certain feminine hygiene device.. An accessory less intended to trap sweat than to state: “Serious baller here.”
And those games remain grimly serious, if romaticized more than a bit in my mind’s eye some half-century later. Shuffling across the infamous “slab,” an ill-conceived monstrosity of a roundball court rising several ankle-imperiling inches above surrounding terra firma, mismeasured at a length that made full-court contests more a test of stamina than skill, and bookended by gargantuan sheet-metal backboards more appropriate to the San Quentin prison yard, the psychic imprints of amatuer athletes, some still seen on the streets of Hancock County, some sadly departed, continue to appease their undead basketball Jones.
I see Chester guys like the late Bob Desmond, who would go on to serve with distinction as an Air Force officer, and defense-minded pain-in the-arse- Wally Birch, who tirelessly hounded my dribble, and Grant Street “Newellies” such as Ron McCall, who I can still hear fantacizing in loud voice (and quite imaginative fashion) about the occasional female spectator, while forcefully clearing opponents from under the boards. I see sweet-shooting Steve Craig, a deceptively rotund force to be reckoned with. His son, also a Steve, now owns a lawn service that keeps up my New Manchester yard. I see play-making Marchall Hobbs (one of the afro-dudes), and John Manypenny, the sardonic man-mountain of a future- banker who almost died in the pits of an Oak Glen football game. And, of course, I see the Eckleberry boys, plucky Randy, ever attempting to direct flow-of-play, upbeat and effusive Mark, now retired from the successful family insurance business, and in descending order of age, their bespectacled brother Danny, by far the best player from that clan. Borderline gaunt and genetically quick, they attacked devoid of ego using well-synchronized fast-breaks as near-infallible propellant to the standard 24-bucket threshold of victory-switching ends, of course, upon either makeshift squad scoring 12.
Popular songs from that specific bubble of time, back when I lived for the game, transport my spirit straight to the slab. Cue up Tony Orlando’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” or Neil Sedaka crooning “Laughter in the Rain,” (an impossibly happy tune I remember actuallly emanating from a nearby boom-box as tall, athletic Tom Kiger, a fellow alumni of Wells Jr, and I waited out a summer downpour, ubiquitous Spaldings in the crooks of our arms, underneath a pavillion) and again, I am part of the action, eschewing any effort at defense or rebounding-as was my custom- to lurk foul-line extended in hopes of drilling a jumper from that rarely-defended angle. Having dropped out of school not even a semester into my sophomore year, and faced subsequent stigmatization as a “track rat,” (the humiliating label then applied to any local possessing few options but to gravitate towards the area’s main- attraction), I felt acceptance and found identity only amongst those guys and on that court.
In retrospect, our reign-the Golden Era, as I now see it-our ETHOS of outdoor basketball, went extinct, swept aside and permanently eradicated in a seeming instant. One day we showed up and found that local children and tweeners had almost overnight constructed semi-permanent bike jumps and skateboard ramps to desecrate our 94′ x 50′ temple. Scraped knees and screams for “mommie” rendered obsolete our twisted ankles and self-policing foul calls. And then came the skateboards, followed by thickly-chalked hopscotch grids. Our time had passed, and they ensured it by, if nothing else, spinning threatening bicycle laps barely outside the boundaries of our increasingly less frequent games. Then steadily, appeared the graffiti, spray-painted and startlingly obscene, effectively barring us from re-entering our church-much as a crucific, or bulbs of garlic might keep out an evicted vampire. I suppose it all passed for a youth movement.
But soon enough, those Gen X’ers vanished, too, presumably assimilated into adult life as their successors (Gen Z? I get my alphabet mixed up) shifted THEIR culture (didn’t Darwin coin a term for accelerated evolutionary leaps?) onto the couch to get fat (studies confirm that youth-obesity has more than tripled since the 1970’s) blur their eyes, and condition their (presumably Cheeto-coated) fingers to construct worlds and first-person fire at omnipotent demons rendered in astonishing 8K clarity. Now..some DO play hoops, mind you..on X-BOX, through NBA avatars, that is.
But based on my observation, they rarely venture outdoors-and never so much as set foot on the slab. But that’s ok. In fact, I prefer it. All the better to catch glimpses of our ghosts.
Mark Patterson
