“Basketball is back!!” (Jackie Saia photo)
We’re hours away.
The sport which matters the most, to me at least, begins anew Monday afternoon.
We’re not supposed to play favorites, but, face it, basketball should always be the king (and queen) when it comes to high school athletics.
No disrespect to all the spikers, and booters, and harriers, and duffers, and athletes who patrol gridirons and diamonds.
You work hard, you play hard, and you often produce thrilling games, magnificent moments, and lasting memories.
But, you’re just not basketball.
And you’re talking to a guy who spent a chunk of his childhood dunking on my bedroom net while listening to radio broadcasts as the Portland Trailblazers meandered through the Billy Ray Bates and Peter Verhoeven years.
Radio? It was a thing. Go look it up on Wikipedia, you punks!
Anyways.
Basketball is dunks (maybe not all that often at Wolf games, but still…), behind the back passes, and three-balls tumblin’ through the nets after being fired up from the parking lot.
It’s Makana Stone grabbing a rebound with one hand, firing a full-court outlet pass, then sprinting to the other end to snatch an offensive rebound and slap home the bucket — all on the same play.
It’s Kacie Kiel burying a trey from the corner on the final play to make Sequim (yes, the whole town) cry salty tears.
It’s Maddie Strasburg banking home consecutive half-court shots at the third-quarter buzzer from the same exact spot on the floor, with the games played 17 days apart.
It’s Ethan Spark pursuing a loose ball and blowing up his bench with a gleeful grin, teammates and water containers bouncing off the walls.
It’s Wiley Hesselgrave staring a hole through his rival’s souls.
It’s Julia Myers unleashing her Elbows o’ Death, daring private school whiners to wander through her paint at their own peril.
And it’s Julia Felici scoring her only high school bucket … on an absolutely-flawless hook shot which would have made Kareem smile in approval.
Monday afternoon, a whole new season begins.
Covid restrictions still linger, but, unlike last year, the schedules are full, and playoff action is once again a possibility.
Hawthorne Wolfe, my own next gen, small town version of Pete Maravich, is gunning for the big boys on the CHS scoring chart, while Brad Sherman’s squad has realistic dreams of competing for a league title.
On the girls side of things, Megan Smith, whose nickname could have been “Buckets” during her own days in a Wolf uniform, moves into the head coaching position with a team which features a solid collection of talented young stars on the rise.
The presents are under the trees, ready to be unwrapped.
A three-ball to win a game and make Wolf fans storm the floor?
History, of the personal or team variety?
Or merely the beauty of a pick set perfectly by a hustling role player, a small moment of sublime excellence in the grand flow of life on the hardwood?
We shall see.
Because no matter how it plays out, we’re headed into the best time of the year.
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