2002 - University of Washington Bone and Joint Sources

the rims were much smaller than
regulation and they were tilted
asymmetrically. The ball return was
facilitated by netting which extended
from the underside of the backboards
to a rail at the shooting platform. That
rail was high enough that the shot had
to be taken from at least eighteen feet
away from the basket. Finally the balls
were rubber, worn smooth and very
warped. The two balls which were in use
at the concession were dissimilar in
weight and configuration and the sleazy
guy who was running the game
alternately interchanged the balls to
each shooter to keep him from
becoming familiar with any single ball.
In short, the game was very heavily
stacked against the shooter. The
possibility of anyone, at any level,
hitting three straight, let alone twelve
in a row, was remote.
Prior to dad’s chance to shoot, we
watched four or five other fruitless
contestants pay their money, miss all
their shots, complain about the unfair
conditions and leave. Finally, dad’s time
came and, after I proudly stepped up
and paid the entry fee of twenty-five
cents, he stepped up on the platform.
For a short time he moved the ball
around between his large hands looking
for the best way to hold the warped orb.
He then took several practice throws
without releasing the ball and found
that he would have to stand back a little
farther to shoot his low-release shot. He
lifted the ball above his head and
shrugged his shoulders to remove any
tension. Finally, he was ready.
I watched with confident
expectation as the familiar rolling
motion sent the first shot toward the
high, tilted basket. It rattled around the
rim and , aided by the strong backspin,
dropped through. The next two shots
were perfect and, when asked if we
wanted to accept a prize from the lowest
row or go on, there was never a
hesitation. The next three shots went
through without touching the rim.
Same decision. Shot seven was perfect
and, then, much to my disbelief and
horror, he missed. Dad turned and
looked at me with an expression of
disappointment. “Sorry Chum,” he said.
“Hey pop,” I replied “don’t worry
about it. I’ve got another twenty-five
cents.” With that, I gave the sleazy
proprietor my last quarter, patted my
dad on the back and returned to my
spot behind the platform. By then there
was quite a crowd around the
concession; much to the delight of the
ball man who was quite certain that his
expensive top prize was safe. In
retrospect the crowd, which would
cheer his every shot, must have added
considerably to the already formidable
pressure on dad.
Again he began his machinery-like
shooting motion. Three, six, nine in a
row. At each level I simply nodded to
the man that dad wished to keep on
shooting. Ten, eleven: As I remember it
they were all perfect. The eleventh
basket brought a tremendous cheer
from the now considerable gallery.
Then, there was a hush. The concession
man dropped the ball at dad’s feet in
an effort to break his concentration.
Dad picked it up without changing
expressions, looked for the best place
to place his hands, took a deep breath
and sent, it on its way. The only sound
was that of the ball settling in the center
of the nets. There was a tumultuous
cheer by those behind us. I leaped to
the platform to hug dad and together
we accepted the basketball from the top
row. The ball-man conceded that it was
the only ball he’d lost that year.
I don’t think I appreciated how great
my dad’s state fair performance was for
many years. He’s gone now and it
remains as a treasured memory. My dad
could really shoot the basketball!
4 2002 ORTHOPAEDIC RESEARCH REPORT