FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 85

Corrina was an open book, and she couldn’t hide what was going on inside. I let it ride for a while, then said, “Awright, Corrina Belle,” I said, “two things.”

“What are you thinking, Billy Ray?”

“One, look at the last of the sun shinin’ right through those trees.” I pointed. I knew she had been watching it for a while, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anythin’ more beautiful than those oranges, blues, yellows mixin’ together like that – except one thing,” I said, glancing over at her with a smile.

She returned a faint smile in return.

“You said two things?”

“Oh, that’s right. Number two, I think you’d feel a lot better if you’d tell me what is botherin’ you. It’s a plain as … as that sunset there. I’m sure we can figure it out; if we can’t, we’ll go back to the court and shoot for it.”

“Shoot for it?” she said, wrinkling her brow, again without losing any of her natural beauty.

“Oh,” I said, laughing, “it’s a basketball thing, naturally,” then followed it with an explanation of how the boys down at the Y always settled disputes with a shot from the top of the key.

She smiled.

“Billy Ray, you have the best basketball stories. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked basketball almost as much as you do me?”

“Almost,” I said with a smile.

The next pause told me she was about to tell me her thoughts, whether for good or bad.

“Pup,” she said, “I really do love you a lot,” then, in a moment, seemed lost in a restless sea of thoughts.

This was one of those times when you sit and listen, even if you have to wait for all the cows in the world to come home. While she pondered, I picked up the basketball and rubbed it in my hands like Mike Tommy always did. I understood then why he did that. It gave him time to think.

Many times in all the years since, I’d do the same thing whenever the world tumbled in. I’d pick the ball up, find the seams and twirl it in my hands for a while, and rub it as if I were trying to rub the Wilson off of it. If I’d have been Aladdin, I guess I would’ve had all the world at my feet. Or maybe I did anyway. I don’t know if Corrina understood what was happening at the moment – I’m sure she could sense it since she had long before learned to read me like a good book, the “good” something I add in hopes that it were true. 

I turned away from the basketball after a time and turned back toward her. She was biting her bottom lip and trying to keep the tears from welling up into a puddle, but she was unsuccessful, and they came down her face like the gorgeous Anna Ruby Falls. She turned and hugged me with her head on my shoulder. I thought of the song. I dropped the ball and watched it roll out onto the dirt court. When she let go and started wiping her face, I felt for her and tried to ease the tension.

“Hey, if it’s bad, and we can’t agree,” I said, “when we shoot for it, I’ll even make it a layup.”

She managed to pull a smile out of her tears. “Pup,” she said, “you always do that, and I love that. You keep me laughing.” Then – after a pause – and a deep breath – “I love you, you know that … but I’ve been so confused lately. I’m not sure I’m in love with you.”

She said it so fast that I knew if she hadn’t she never would’ve gotten the words to come out. I’m still not sure why she felt she needed to say those words – they seemed a bit incongruent with the rest of the world around us – but, for some reason, she had to test those words to see if they proved true.

I have rehearsed that scene often through all these years, and I am increasingly amazed at how Providence can step in at the most opportune time. After she had dug down in her deep well of courage, the tears started coming again, but Providence stepped in as it had all summer and led me to do at least one smart thing that summer. I knew that it must have seemed that I had barely heard what I just heard when I blurted out,

“Hey, Corrina Belle, let’s talk ‘bout it later,” and I jumped up from the swing excitedly, hurried over to where the grass turned to dirt, grabbed the basketball and spun it on my index finger, and said, “Here, let’s play Horse. We’ll shoot for it to see who goes first.”

She wiped the mascara from her face, smiled, got up slowly, and with a half-smile grabbed the ball out of my hands to shoot for it, saying, “I’ll show you, buddy.”

And that was that.

“And ‘that was that’?” Cheyenne said, as we rolled ahead 50 years. Sometimes the ‘73 story would amaze Cheyenne more than at others.

“Yeah,” I said, “I was confused, too. But ‘that was that’ is the only way I know to describe it.”

“Okay, Popman,” Cheyenne said, trying to stack all the events up in his mind like a kid’s building blocks, “first, she pulls the oldest line in the book and uses it on you...”

“Yeah, but, remember,” I interrupted, “it wasn’t the oldest line in the book in 1973. I think she is the one who invented it.”

“Still, she uses that line, and you pretend you didn’t even hear it and just kind of go about your business as usual?” Cheyenne said, “That’s like getting fired then showing up the next day like nothing happened.”

“You have to look at the whole picture. The poor dark-haired girl had a lot on her, and I think it jus’ got too much at one time, and she had to create a little space.”

Cheyenne didn’t buy it completely.

“Let me ask you this,” he said, “do you think the blue truck had anything to do with it?”

“You mean the blue ‘71 Ford pickup she and I never even once talked about?”

“Yeah, that one.”

I couldn’t resist a laugh: “Yeah, son, I think it probably had quite a bit to do with it. That fella seemed to think he had some kind of hold on her. I imagined he was some kind of school ‘acquaintance,’” I said, “but I never asked, not to this day. I know that he put a great deal of pressure on her. I could see it sometimes in Corrina right at first when we got together; but then, she would relax and let it go and be her normal vivacious self.”

“But you never brought it up?”

“No. I think, in my mind, if I didn’t bring it up, I could convince her it wasn’t real. I did that a lot, you know. I will tell you, I didn’t do a lot of smart things that summer – ask anybody, Pee Wee, Doocy, Red, they’ll all tell you – but I think it was one of the best things I did. I jus’ pretended he didn’t exist, that I never saw a blue Ford truck pull up on the job site, and that I didn’t beat him to a pulp without throwin’ a punch.”

Cheyenne shook his head, amazed.

“So then, after she broke up with you but didn’t really, what did you do?”

“You mean that evenin’? Well, we played ‘Horse,’ I let her beat me, of course, and she laughed and celebrated by huggin’ me. After her eyes dried up, we walked up the back steps to the porch, the blooms from the lilac bush still filling the air with the sweetest fragrance. We went in the house through the back door that opened up to the kitchen, and we got refills on our lemonade, then Corrina led me into the living room where I got the chance to talk to Mr. and Mrs. McClain a minute. I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Mr. McClain ‘bout the Statler Brothers, so we talked ‘bout the songs and all.

“We had one of the best talks we’d ever had. His favorite Statler song was ‘Bed of Roses,’ but it wasn’t on that album. He told me he would look for me a copy. While we talked, I glanced over at Mrs. McClain and noticed her lookin’ at the smeared mascara on Corrina’s face, but she never said anythin’ – not then, at least. I’m sure she and Corrina had a good long talk after I left. Before leaving, I told them how much I appreciated them and hugged Mrs. McClain and shook Mr. McClain’s hand and said I’d be lookin’ forward to hearing that song. Corrina walked me to the Nova, and when we were halfway down the brick walk, she grabbed ahold of my hand lightly and swung our hands. When we got to the red car, she gave me the biggest smile she could muster and another hug and said, ‘Pup, we’ll see you tomorrow.’”

“That’s it?” Cheyenne said, still searching.

“That was it.” I said, matter-of-factly. Then I remembered, “Oh, and as I drove off, she hollered out, ‘Love ya,’ and I smiled and waved again and drove home.”

“‘Love ya?” Cheyenne said incredulously.

“Yeah, ‘love ya.’”

“And you didn’t think any of that strange, Popman?”

“Oh, it was different, I can’t deny it. But, Cheyenne, there’s somethin’ you’re failin’ to consider,” I said with a grin.

“I’m sure there is.”

“You’re forgettin’ that this was no ordinary summer, and anythin’ was possible this summer.”

“The Summer of ‘73,” he said.

“That’s right – the one and only.”

Coach Steven Ray Bowen served as a teacher and basketball coach at Red Oak High from 1998-2012 and recently spent two years teaching and coaching at Ferris. He and his wife Marilyn (the “amazin’ blonde”) served many years with the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl/Ovilla Roads, but now spend time evangelizing in several states in addition to Coach’s work as a writer and author, including the writing of the ongoing novel/memoir here in the Press. Call or text (972) 824-5197, or email coachbowen1984@gmail.com, or see frontporchgospel.com.