CRACKERBOX LITTLE GYMS

Some of my fondest memories of being a teenager centered on trips with my mother to tiny out-of-the way towns to watch my oldest brother play basketball.  He was a “born athlete” and exceptional at any sport he ever attempted. I can remember one town especially—Westboro, Wisconsin.  It was about 45 miles from my hometown, and at that time, our own high school had fewer than 200 students.  I’m sure that Westboro was about half that size, but none of that mattered.  The competition was still intense.  Because there were only three rows of bleachers and only on one side, we were always in the midst of the action.  It’s lucky that cellphones hadn’t appeared yet because one needed to be aware of the action at all times; a stray ball or player could easily wind up in your lap. 

I remember the drive home one wintry evening being no less intense.  My mother, who didn’t like to drive, and even less so at night, had her hands tightly wrapped on the steering wheel as we slowly made our way home through a blinding snowstorm.  As much as she hated those moments, she would never have missed a game.  She grew up with five brothers and she thrived on competition.  So did I, but I had to be content with following my brother’s exploits and two hours a week of GAA (Girl’s Athletic Association) activities.  I loved basketball, and it was my only opportunity to play anything remotely competitive.  Now I’m excited that my granddaughter has countless opportunities to compete in almost any sport or activity.  My mother, at age 87 often said, “Time marches on.”  Indeed it does, and I don’t want to be left behind.