The Promise Land is West of Vicco
john clare
The boy next door continually kicked the football in the air. Over and above the privacy fence into the Florida blue sky. I do not think he possessed Tebow's spirit, for with every errant kick, expletive's went up with it, veiled in order to keep granny from chiding. Cursing in encryption.
I was once this boy. In the summer of the sixties, my three teen-age uncles from Homewood, Mississippi would board the Trailway's at Stokes Grocery to arrive at the Gulf Station in Sopchoppy. They would spend the summer with us.
It was my Uncle William Clark who took a special interest in me. Since he was a child, he too had caught the ball spirit and he was doing all he knew to pass it along to me. Never mind that I knew nothing of this gospel steeped in Miss State Bulldog theology. He was on the recruiting trail as this Uncle Rico-like fanatic would tell me over and over, go long! Go long! And the ball would soar over the mountains into Mr Laird's yard. He would come out scolding in his stern German accent, threatening to burn the ball. A regular Furher!
Coming from Vicco, Kentucky where I was taken home soon after being born in my mothers home of Bluefield, West Virginia, while I hadn't a clue, I lived close enough to the Mecca, Lexington and Adolph Rupp's Wildcats to have Caewood Ledford's smooth voice convert me.
The spirit of the round ball surfaced soon after we moved from Sopchoppy to Monticello. I had never made a hoop that I know of, but I had my father build me a basket and goal. And so the shooting began. Like myriads of boys in the homeland around Vicco, I too spent all my time around the dirt court.
It was in the blue blood Caywood gave me announcing those January games with Dampier and Rily swishing them in.
It was with joy we moved to Asbury College in Wilmore, Kentucky, only a few miles from Memorial Gym on the Kentucky campus. Soon after my Uncle William arrived to live out back with Brother Billy. They were now in college and they took me to my only Kentucky basketball game against the Bulldogs. Sadly to me my hero's lost and I was not consoled, even with William taking me afterwards to the State locker to meet one of his friends, Chuck Wade, who helped defeat Pat and Louie!
But I was hooked. Not a Bulldog as William hoped, but a Wildcat.
After two short years we returned to Florida. In Williston I again spent all my time on the court by the house. I played on the high school teams but never really excelled, though being blessed with the spirit, not the flesh. White man syndrome. Too stiff, too short, too slow. No jumping ability. But it did not quench the inner boy who always remained. Out on the court alone, his team in his head, Caywood in his head announcing, the crowd in his head cheering. And he Louie would dribble up the asphalt court. And he Louie would pass to Riley. And he Rily would work it in to Thad. Thad would toss it back to Louie at the top of the key who would swish it. String music Caywood would announce. The crowd went wild. Chuck Wade and State never beat UK again, in my mind.
Photo with my goal from Monticello.
