A Basketball Story by Eric Woodring

As far back as I can remember, I have always loved basketball. Everything from the sound of the ball bouncing at an uneven tempo, to the bird-like chirping of hi-top sneakers on an aged wooden court. From the musky, thick smell of sweat in an un-airconditioned gymnasium, to the way I would occasionally get nauseated following a eight game afternoon during the dog days of summer. I loved it all, even more so when I was younger. I lived and breathed basketball. So when the opportunity arose for me, at the age of thirteen, to become a ball-boy for the University Of Louisville Mens' Basketball team, I jumped at the chance.

A little back story first.

My parents were divorced when I was five, so I was living with my mother Judi, and my younger brother Sean, in an apartment in Eastern Jefferson County. It was the middle of August in 1982 and I was spending the remaining few days of summer vacation with my friends. During the week we would ride our bikes down to the creek near my house and catch crawdads, or, on special days, we would secretly ride our bikes the ten miles to Oxmoor Mall and try, in our barely adolescent way, to meet girls. But, like clockwork, during the late afternoons you could usually find us at the nearest available basketball goal playing unlimited games of twenty-one until our mothers would yell out our names, in that sing-song way that only mothers can do, to let us know that the games were over and it was time to come home, eat dinner and call it a night. Only to wake up and do it all over again the next day.

When the weekends would arrive, I would usually get in touch with my "Big Brother", Dick. He/We were part of the volunteer program for young boys and girls without a mother or father called "Big Brothers and Big Sisters". I would call him and we would make plans to do something. I can't remember what he did for a living exactly, but I do know it had something to do with the University Of Louisville in some capacity so, occasionally, he would get tickets to their basketball games, which I enjoyed immensely. Other times we would go fishing in Shelby County or, we would go see a movie at the old Showcase Cinemas on Bardstown Road. He was a great influence in my life.

One day, as summer was coming to an end and school had re-started, my mother came home from her job as a secretary and asked me to to sit down on the couch next to her. At first I thought I was in trouble, which was usually the case when she asked me to sit down next to her. But then she asked me if I would be interested in becoming a ball-boy for THE Louisville Cardinals Basketball team.

I couldn't believe it!!

I jumped up and down and hugged my mother as I kept repeating over and over, "How?", and "No Way!" She finally calmed me down enough to tell me that she had had a conversation with Dick about it earlier that day. He had heard through the grapevine at the University that they were needing a few ball-boys for the upcoming season and he had thought of me.

There was only one catch.

I had to write a letter to then Head Coach Denny Crum and explain to him why I should be the one to get the job. I was crestfallen. I didn't have the first clue what to write about. I didn't even know what a ball-boy did. All I knew was that it involved cleaning up sweat in Freedom Hall and, being able to regularly hang out with the college players that my friends and I had so often imitated on our own basketball courts. That was good enough for me. That night in bed, my mind was racing non-stop. I had no clue what I was going to write to Coach Crum, but I knew it had to be pretty damn good in order to stand out from the other hundreds of applicants.

The next morning at the bus stop, I told my friends of my problem. They weren't any help, although my best friend, Mike, offered to write the letter for me so that I could get the job and maybe get him some free tickets. I got the impression that they all would have liked to have had the problem themselves. By the time I got home later that afternoon, I had thought better of Mike's idea and decided to write the letter myself. I don't recall much of what I wrote, but I'm sure it involved a tremendous amount of begging and pleading, in addition to my impressive knowledge of the teams history.

After about two or three weeks of sleepless nights tossing and turning, and restless days spent running back and forth to the mailbox in anticipation, I finally got a reply. I clutched the letter in my hand as if it were some sacred, ancient scroll and went inside to read it. I remember being too nervous to read it myself at first, so I handed it to my seven-year old brother to read for me. That turned out to be a bad idea because he was only in second grade at the time, so I snatched it back from him and read it myself. The only recollection I have from the contents of that letter is the first word..."Congratulations!"

On Saturday, November 27, 1982, I entered Freedom Hall for the first time as a ball-boy. I arrived early for that evenings game, entering through an entrance I never really noticed before. I was ushered into the Cardinal's locker room, my heart beating in a nervous staccato. There, I was introduced to the other six or seven ball-boys (one of which was future NBA star Allan Houston, who was two or three years younger than myself). We were then introduced to Mr. Aames, one of Coach Crum's assistants, who then proceeded to hand out that nights assignments. My job for the night was a two-parter. During the first half of the game I would hand out towels and gatorade. During the second half I was going to be sitting under one of the goals with Allan. We were in charge of keeping the court at our end clean and sweat free, while another pair of ball-boys did the same at the other end of the court. Mr. Aames then passed out our uniforms: White pants with a red t-shirt that said "CARDINAL BALL-BOY" on the front and back.

I was in heaven.

Fifteen minutes later, we were on the court. The same court I had seen on TV and as a spectator in the stands a hundred times. But this time was different. I had arrived at Freedom Hall two hours before tip-off, so the crowd had not yet arrived. My immediate impression was just how expansive the arena was from a floor perspective. The empty seats seemed to stretch for miles. Our voices, carried into some dark recess, sounded hollow and removed. The court itself looked as long as an airport runway. There were a few players on the floor who were doing pre-game stretches in preparation for the game. We were told earlier not to bother them while they warmed up, but I just could not resist. Danny Mitchell was the player's name. I tried to play it off and act cool, but I know my nervousness was obvious. Danny was a second string forward for the Cards and although he was not one of the players that we imitated in our own games, it was still an amazing thrill for me. I remember being shocked at how tall he was in real life. The top of his head seemed to scrape the arenas ceiling. After a few minutes of what I'm sure was nothing but thirteen year old gibberish, Danny asked me to rebound his practice shots. "No Problem!", I remember saying enthusiastically. This lasted for about ten minutes. Then Danny asked me something unexpected. He wanted to know if I wanted to play a game to ten by ones, meaning each basket counts as one point. First of us to reach ten points wins. I said I would as long as I wouldn't get in trouble. He laughed and said I wouldn't.

By this time, a couple of hundred fans had shown up and were in their seats, including my mother and brother. Dick, who had brought me to the game, had been in his seat the whole time. I can still recall the shrill that was my mother's voice, finding its way through the cacophony of other noises, calling out my name. I kept giving her the evil eye from a hundred feet away, hoping that she would stop. Danny, sensing my discomfort, asked me if the person was yelling for me. I lied and said I had no idea who she was or what she was yelling out. Talk about nerves.

As we began our little game, Danny told me he would give me a seven point head start. Fair enough. That meant I would only have to make three baskets compared to his ten. Before long, Danny had scored six baskets in a row. I had only scored one, which meant that I was leading by two points, with only two more to go for the (impossible) win.

As the game was proceeding, I was keenly aware of cheers and claps each time I made one of my few baskets. It wasn't just my family either. It seemed like most of the people in the arena were watching us, including the other players and coaches.

Danny quickly scored two more baskets, tying the score at eight. I then got lucky when he slipped and lost the ball. I picked it up and quickly put it in the basket, to a growing amount of cheers.

Only one to go.

Danny took a shot from about fifteen feet away and missed it. I got the rebound, which he quickly stole back and he took another jump shot. He missed that one as well.

Now, I'm sure Danny was, up until that point, mainly just playing around with me because the next two or three shots I took were quickly blocked to the floor. He beat me to one of the last loose balls and, confidently stepping up to the top of the key, let one fly.

He missed! The ball landed right in my hands!

Now, I don't know why I did what I did next. Perhaps it was the memory flash of playing ball with Mike, Tony, Jesse in our own pick-up games, but instead of automatically shooting the ball as I had on the previous shots, I faked like I was going to shoot. Danny bought it and flew by me from behind.

I took the shot.

I can still remember my mother's voice over all the others, cheering for me as the ball hit the rim and rolled around before finally dropping in. I looked over at Danny, who was walking toward me with a child-like grin on his face, and just smiled. Fully freaking out at this point.

"Good Game", he said as he extended his hand.

No, Danny.

It's a GREAT game.