HANDS OF BRICK by Peter Nolan Smith

Hockey and baseball have long been New England's two favorite sports, since they offered outdoor entertainment to young boys in the seaons of good sledding and bad sledding. Our gods played in Fenway Park and the Boston Garden, but one night a radio announcer's raspy voice introduced the world of basketball and Johnny Most sunk his hook deep.

I loved the Celtics, but my lack of offense skill prevented my playing even on the schoolyard, until I hit New York City to discover that my defense was my forte. After that revelation I became a fixture in Tompkins Square Park. My teammates called me 'The Brick' for my horrid shooting and ferocious defense against taller player.

I played all the time and on the court forgot everything about the world other than playing ball.

I still shoot baskets at the DeKalb playground and the ball feels good in my hands, although its hitting the rim like a brick outnumbers my 'all-net' shots by an incalculable number.

These three stories tell about my basketball jones and the people with whom I played.

They are my friends forever.

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