FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 95

The scene of the raging waters of the Jordan, the sermon Preacher Harvey preached to overflowing crowds across the country on many sweltering summer nights, and, naturally, the serene arm-in-arm crossing of that stormy bridge with Corrina – they all passed through my mind again as I looked out over the muddy water of the Chattahoochee beating against its banks, its swift current taking brush and small trees and weeds down the river with it.

My daydreams had taken me all the way to Pee Wee’s driveway, the gravel snapping me back to the present. The rain had all but stopped by then, so, as we slid out of the truck, Pee Wee asked if I wanted him to introduce me to the great game of basketball.

“It’s a crash course,” he said, “and I’ll do all for free, Pup, if you can spare the time.”

I’d never turned down a chance to play one-on-one, so I told him that he was about to bite off more than he could chew – and I knew just the man who would help him do that very thing. We laughed and headed toward the outdoor court that had been beaten down to a hard red clay but looked that evening like a glassy ice rink at the circle of his driveway right in front of their back door.

His wife Dixie came out to greet Pee Wee and say hey to me. Pee Wee told her he’d be in for supper in a bit but that he had to teach a class before he did that.

“I’m sure Billy Ray doesn’t need to have you pushing and shoving on him, Joseph Clyde,” she snapped kindly, and I smiled at hearing his full name.

I told her I’d be all right, but just to be aware that when he comes back in he’ll be half the man you see right here.

“You’ll have to choose between Joseph and Clyde from then on, Dixie,” I said, “he won’t be big enough to answer to both names.”

She laughed one of the sweetest laughs, and I thought she could go right up there on the shelf with Mama, Corrina, Mrs. McClain, and Miss Billie.

The summer of ’73 had some sweet ladies gracing it, but there was nothing sweet about what was about to take place on that slippery red-dirt basketball court.

“All right, Joe Clyde,” I said, getting my mind back on the game at hand, “get ready to give up half your name.”

Pee Wee went into the old woodshed by the court and found a good basketball. He grabbed it, then walked over to the back of the barn and told Doocy he’d pay him if he’d straighten up that place while he “took care of the Pup here.” Doocy never turned down a job from Pee Wee, and said, “Sho ‘nough, Pee Wee, but don’t go hurtin’ my Pups none if’n yuh don’t wanna answer to t’Breeze.”

“Can’t make that promise, Doocy,” Pee Wee snapped, “You see that woodshed here, don’t you? You know what’s going to happen behind there before the Pup and I are done?”

Doocy just grunted as if he didn’t want to hear it, then went for the last word.

“Hm,” Doocy said, “all t’Breeze’s gotta says is whut thet good book says – Don’t yuh be countin’ ‘em eggs in t’basket ‘fore they hatch, Pee Wee, thet’s whut t’good book say.”

I told Corrina later, “It’s been 50 years since that day, and Pee Wee and I still haven’t found that in the ‘good book.’”

The rain didn’t stop long. It started to sprinkle, then drizzle, and the next thing you knew the bottom dropped out, and we were finding shelter in the woodshed.

We stood in the shelter only as long as we had to, but we used that time to boast about what was about to happen as soon as the rain died down. The first let-up, and we were back to fisticuffing on the court again.

Doocy was right about the eggs in the basket, even if we haven’t found that scripture yet. You can’t count ‘em too early. Pee Wee learned that. I surprised him in the first game and beat him 24-20. Then it started raining again, starting slowly so we hardly noticed at first, but by the time he had won the second game 24-16 the rain would blind us when we looked up to get a rebound.

We were too engrossed in the game by then to stop for anything less than a flood.

The third game brought wicked bolts of lightning and rim-rattling thunder, but there would be no quitting until a champion had been crowned.

The red-clay court made the game resemble more of a mud bath than basketball – slipping and sliding away, feet going out from under you repeatedly, ending in sudden thuds on your rear.

The lightning got so low that we thought it might strike one of my arching rainbow shots. I thought one did, and when the shot rolled off the rim, I argued with Pee Wee that it would’ve gone in if the lightning hadn’t hit it. But it was no use since I lacked physical evidence, and the scratch on the ball right below “Spaulding” wasn’t definitive enough to submit to the court.

In the middle of the third game, we had to take a couple of electrical time-outs under the woodshed, but we finally conceded that if we got struck by lightning, it must be our time to go. We agreed that whichever of us got struck would be the instant winner, no questions asked.

“But if it’s me,” I said, “you’ll have to be the one to tell Mama – and Corrina, too.”

Pee Wee laughed and promised he would.

The game see-sawed back and forth, and although we were as tired as the old man in the sea – our backs cramping and our hands raw – we held nothing back. Eventually, by sheer brutal strength and a stout 6’2” frame – perhaps even a home-court advantage with that slightly crooked rim – Pee Wee finally prevailed 34-30.

Dixie came to the door just as we finished, shaking her head in disbelief and telling us to come in, that she had towels on the floor for us. We laughed and fist-pumped as we headed for the back door.

“Now that’s what I call a ‘rainy night in Georgia,’” I said as we stepped dripping wet into the door.

“Oh yeah,” said Pee Wee, “and what made it rain even harder were all those tears rolling down your face when you got beat.”

“That’s good,” I said, grinning, “real good.”

And I thought – it was one of the best rainy nights in Georgia I ever saw.

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.