Winter ends.

Everything has an end except sausage. Sausage has two ends.

Spring begins. Spring is when everyone looks as if they’ve lost weight after layers of clothing have vanished. Baseball gloves come out of hibernation. The grass will grow and the river will flow. Green is salve to winter-weary eyes.

George Santayana wrote, “To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.”

George was right. I love spring. The world chirps, but with the basketball tournaments, the roundball season ends. My bride and I watch many basketball games. We tend to watch only games in which we know someone involved — coach, parent or player. We watch some college hoops action and countless high school (and younger teams) basketball games. They are both enjoyable and excruciating.

I sat on a bleacher hard enough to crush diamonds and watched my second-grade granddaughter dribble a basketball. She took a shot. The hoop is tall. She is short. These are regulation heights for basketball hoops and second-grade girls. The shot was akin to throwing a rock through the window of an office located on the top floor of the Empire State Building.

I wished for an obedient basketball, a $60 container of air.

Swisheroo, it went through. Nothing but net. She’d twinkled the twine. She’d put the biscuit in the basket. She accepted the made basket as the norm. I stood and cheered loudly. I had a head full of wonder and a heart full of hope.

Each gym houses the same words. Shots weren’t falling. The hoop was on the wrong side of the backboard. He couldn’t make a lay-up if he used a ladder. When you tie up an opponent who has the basketball, your team should get possession. Anything she throws, goes. Michael Jordan didn’t get that many steps. It was a rim runner. The hoop and the harm.

My little granddaughter’s successful shot became permanently etched in my mind. I could act goofy on her behalf because grandchildren help me maintain my immaturity.

Not long after her impressive shot, the varsity game began and my eighth-grade granddaughter took the floor.

The game wasn’t very old before the opposing coach became agitated, as did many spittle-drenched fans, over what they deemed a bad call. “Over and back!” they yelled. They went nuttier than a squirrel’s pantry. The call favored the team I was rooting for, so I called out, “Good call.” I often find myself feeling sorry for referees, but I do believe that short referees call more fouls than tall ones.

The over-and-back rule states that an offensive player with the ball has three points: left foot, right foot and the ball. In order to be considered over, both feet and the ball must pass the midcourt line. After being over, if any point touches or goes back beyond midcourt with possession of the ball, that is a backcourt violation. If an offensive player is bringing the ball upcourt, she could keep one foot in the backcourt and step her other foot over and back across the midcourt line without any violation. The ball may be dribbled on both sides of the line as long as at least one foot remains in the backcourt.

The girl falsely accused of the violation wasn’t related to me. My granddaughter, 171-months old, operated as the point guard. She drove the lane and was fouled by the entire other team. She bounced like a pinball. Referees call only one foul on such plays, so it gives defensive players a free foul each.

It’s an edit-free endeavor.

Her shot rolled off the rim and she was given two free throws. I said a simple prayer. Help. Help. Thank you. Thank you. I wanted her to make the free throws. The other team played superb free throw defense, but she sank both shots. I jumped up and cheered loudly and positively.

Players learn go-to moves. We all have them. We use them in school, business and in relationships. I loved playing. I played too long, until a knee injury, a wobbly ankle, and two torn rotator cuffs said, “Enough!” Now I love watching.

Our clocks spring ahead in the hopes of confusing winter. Shoveling snow in the spring is a combination of hope and despair, but don’t worry. If winter returns, it’s an over-and-back violation.

Just like a basketball, swisheroo, winter has gone through.

Maybe.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.